I don't want to be that guy, and care and have to settle. I don't want to be that guy who gives and doesn’t get back. Yes its going to hurt, and it’s gonna suck and hurt till I get over it, but I don't want to be that again, once is enough. I don't want to give and not get back. So maybe I have to let go even though I don't want to. Maybe saving myself is the best choice. If I'm not worth it, then I'm not worth it. Ultimately, there is nothing you can do about that. It’s just hard for someone to say ‘I'm sorry, you’re just not worth it,’ but I think it flows right out when it’s showed.
I notice these things, I’ve always have. So I've been showed I’m not worth it, and yes it sucks, but it’s better to realize it now than later. Somewhere along the line, I realized I deserved something, and that was such a long time ago, but maybe, someday, it will pay off. Someday they won’t sleep through it… That someday, I’ll be worth it to someone and that day I will make it worth it to them.
Today is the greatest day of my life.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Prose
So I wrote this prose poem, and claimed it was the only one I’ve written, but like guys tend to do. I lied. Ok, technically I just forgot about them, anyway here they are. This is my first one, it’s not very good, but it is mine.
Flowers are starting to dress the garden. I can see them between the space in the curtain. The birds whistle and it’s almost annoying. The ceiling cries a slow tear at a time, and when I sleep, she steals my pillow.
She used to love my bed, embraced it with her body, its sullen surface would caress her to sleep. She used to love my bed. Now, her own suffices.
The sun dropped a little, its minions now march through the windows, my eyes deepen and the light subsided. Music adorns her ears; the flowers fade as I turn from the window. The bed molds itself to my shape, I have my pillow, and l lay on it before it goes to her. Its feathers whisper to me, they tell me to sleep. I smile. The pillow is mine, but she can have it anytime she wishes.
This is the second one. It’s about a certain girl used to know. The last sentence was supposed to say "I wouldn't have." It's not there, but I definitely wouldn’t have.
I noticed you were around him, when there was no one around. When the sun hid in the horizon and the moon took its place, you left with him, and I wished it was me.
Last night you were at the bar, but I didn’t see you until much later. You were wearing those capris you always wear, and for the second time, you were with him. The music blared through the room; the dimmed lights didn’t hide you as well as they would have hidden another. You sat in the corner and exchanged whatevers with him. Later, he sat, and you danced like I know you could. Your knees buckled, your hips swayed and swooped, and your hands rose as if asking for rain. A little gloom overcame me, and you were gone.
Timed passed and I noticed you standing next to him. The wall covered him as if my eyes and the wall conspired to keep you, just for me. At times a smile would leak through your mouth; your eyes would contract and glow along with your smile. He sat, and drank while you danced. You laughing and smiling as your curves synchronized to the beat. He didn’t share your smile, and he let you dance alone.
Flowers are starting to dress the garden. I can see them between the space in the curtain. The birds whistle and it’s almost annoying. The ceiling cries a slow tear at a time, and when I sleep, she steals my pillow.
She used to love my bed, embraced it with her body, its sullen surface would caress her to sleep. She used to love my bed. Now, her own suffices.
The sun dropped a little, its minions now march through the windows, my eyes deepen and the light subsided. Music adorns her ears; the flowers fade as I turn from the window. The bed molds itself to my shape, I have my pillow, and l lay on it before it goes to her. Its feathers whisper to me, they tell me to sleep. I smile. The pillow is mine, but she can have it anytime she wishes.
This is the second one. It’s about a certain girl used to know. The last sentence was supposed to say "I wouldn't have." It's not there, but I definitely wouldn’t have.
I noticed you were around him, when there was no one around. When the sun hid in the horizon and the moon took its place, you left with him, and I wished it was me.
Last night you were at the bar, but I didn’t see you until much later. You were wearing those capris you always wear, and for the second time, you were with him. The music blared through the room; the dimmed lights didn’t hide you as well as they would have hidden another. You sat in the corner and exchanged whatevers with him. Later, he sat, and you danced like I know you could. Your knees buckled, your hips swayed and swooped, and your hands rose as if asking for rain. A little gloom overcame me, and you were gone.
Timed passed and I noticed you standing next to him. The wall covered him as if my eyes and the wall conspired to keep you, just for me. At times a smile would leak through your mouth; your eyes would contract and glow along with your smile. He sat, and drank while you danced. You laughing and smiling as your curves synchronized to the beat. He didn’t share your smile, and he let you dance alone.
My blog died. :-( so here i am. unknown.
i miss you mujer
eres cesped, palida, eres fuego,
soy.
amidst the mist of my mind
you are sight
you are flight
si me graduo
and teach by the beach
sere tuyo
andare with my suit y mis guaraches
y aunque nunca fui tuyo tuyo
you made me mine mine mine
i miss you like a good dream
como un comal.
soy un sexto
tu ausencia chicano me hace
pero chilango quiero ser
and me, I am neither
I just am.
Nobody has loved he
With the fervor and ardor
that he would another
no body
loved this body
no body, tried to
understand the beauty of distance
the greatness of space
nobody asked, no body asked
so nobody knew
so marched along he
to a place found within
care not why no body cared
felt enough for all the nots that nobody did.
She walks one step at a time like breathing.
Her throat raspy like crushed ice.
Her endless eyes, tired of sameness
Her throat raspy like crushed ice.
Her endless eyes, tired of sameness
wished for ballads, bachatas.
Sick (like the color green) of recycled air
wants potpourri, mountain spring water,
gusts of wind.
Her hair, shaped like wrinkles
was my tangled web.
“One day” she says
“I will live the life I plan
and leave the life I live.
One day I will tell life what I want
and life
will stop giving me orders.”
Vicky, who does so bad at going unnoticed.
Who sways like a song
left to right, right to left
right past me.
Sick (like the color green) of recycled air
wants potpourri, mountain spring water,
gusts of wind.
Her hair, shaped like wrinkles
was my tangled web.
“One day” she says
“I will live the life I plan
and leave the life I live.
One day I will tell life what I want
and life
will stop giving me orders.”
Vicky, who does so bad at going unnoticed.
Who sways like a song
left to right, right to left
right past me.
Vicky, who made a house of room corners
and never once dreamed of me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)