Desperation

Devastated and then resurrected.
A pitiful cycle rides him over and over again.
You seem so uninterested, but it's all he has to go on.
Shuffle your schedule, but repeat your playlist, when will he realize what's going on?
Relying on others for cooperation and confessions.
Crying on the shoulders of men who laugh at his ignorance.
The veins of his thoughts run with you and you're always in the recess of his mind.
Hold your breath and make a wish.
Don't ruin your innocence.
Morse code for the deaf lets him breathe easier.
Blind replies keep him smiling.

Do your nights grow dull?
He doesn't scream, he doesn't yell, but he wishes he could.

If love is blind, he tripped over his walking stick and knocked him into you.
What do you think?

It's not there, but it's close enough.

Delay

Delay

Lap

Delay

Stop.

It's close enough. For him. For me.

References

It's killing me to the point where I can't think straight.
I'm tiring of random things.
I can't sleep in the same direction.

I stopped writing for you a long time ago.
I started writing for myself.
Now I write for you guys.
I know it makes you happy, in some squishy way.
I'm not sure why.

My partner in crime helps me and replies to my letters.
My list of rays keeps me upbeat to the point where I freak out the people sitting beside me.
Allison never lets me fall behind.
Virginia makes me stay fresh.
As for Parkway North? It's not dead, just hibernating.

I know this blog isn't the same ol' same ol' (You have to say it twice, I don't know why).
These aren't confessions. These don't add to any story or overall novel. They barely pass the time. I can say anything I want. Who knows what character I am?

I can be anyone I want.
You can be anyone you want.

I need to stop throwing around the word love.
When I say it, you know I mean it. If it's too much, then it is.

Now that I have this junk out of the way, how about a story?

Dear Postman, don't lose this one

Dear Partner in Crime,

It's been a while since we've waited for closing time I know. I also know that, for the most part, I'll be the one waiting now. For how long, I don't know. My kickstand of a leg is getting sore now. Used to, I didn't mind. After all, it was just us, the cold and the brick wall behind us. But you don't have to wait anymore, and I'm glad. I really am. Capturing what you've always wanted, achieving your goal, it's what we all want. I'm glad you haven't changed either. You're still fun loving and all this fame hasn't gone to your head. Me, on the other hand, am losing it.

I can't think straight. It's when your mom tells you to wait a couple of minutes for the cookies to cool down and you want one, oh so bad, but you can't have one. Except I don't know when the time's up. It's pissing me off.

The way I'm left out of the master plan. The way I don't know where everything is. It's my own fault really. I didn't get the memo last time. Little did I know that there is no plan. You've let go of the future, I should too.

Maybe I'm happy doing what I'm doing. Robbing houses can be fun. Lately, though, I've been robbing my own house. I'm too busy to leave and get out there. I'm too busy listening to stories about what's going on. I'm too busy waiting for those cookies to cool down. It's okay though. You're still my partner in crime.

No one else is waiting right now.

You're still setting it up, I understand. Houses in Malibu don't exactly build themselves, I understand. Satisfaction doesn't come everyday, I understand.

I want my own house now though. I want my own sense of satisfaction. I'm tired of chasing coattails. I'm tired of waiting for the owner to close up and drawing up schemes. Blueprints. Ideas. Distractions. Decoys. I'm tired of it seeming so easy but then having it fail on me.
I am.

I'm sending myself into a spiraling confession, a shadowing depression. One that only I can climb out of. Your world is how you make it, so make it good.

I'm happy for you. I love you, man.
Be happy with your jewel. Your diamond. Your crowning moment.

Meanwhile, I'll wait for the cookies to cool down. Hopefully they'll be as sweet and delightful as I imagined them.

Remember, don't give up. I won't if you won't.

- The guy on the corner

P.S. Digging the haircut.

Candy Ants

And then we'd sit down on a blanket. Red and white checkered of course.
And then they'd show up. Completely unexpected of course.
I'd offer them a cookie. Chocolate chip of course.
We'd eat them all. And laugh of course.
We'd sit there all afternoon and into the evening. We'd watch the sunset of course.

Dream situation for the dream kids. Grass completely green with nothing to go wrong. Just the four of us. One makeshift family in a way. In this world, we can giggle our way through college. We can talk nonstop for hours. We'd all get tired and crawl up next to each other. I can feel my eyes drooping forever.

The colors would be bold and the dishes would be clean. Then we could run around and play freeze tag. The More the Merrier, but we have just enough for now. Injuries would heal in a heartbeat and less. Heartbeats would heard for miles. Miles would go on for never. For never would be how long we'd spend playing in our bold colored dream.

We could build a tree house. It'd be big and have secret compartments and everything. We could play card games or monopoly. We could draw, write, sing. In this world, anyone can do whatever they want.

Pressurized and Decomposed

Standing out in the luke warm air is a refreshing taste of the sewer glass. He banged his head against the brick wall as he leaned up with his back against it. Drama. Too much drama. Not enough. Not as many breakdowns as a soap opera, but enough. Blown sneakers and broken hearts were left out on the pavement. Was it the way she looked up and gave that jealous look? Was it the way the blue always fit his thoughts and her style? If there wasn't anything left afterwards, why go in the first place? Cops across the street started to stare, but he didn't care. Not anymore. He sang so the commuters could hear. Fancy dresses let them attended one musical and run into another. He wanted to shoot himself for his animation and complications and frustrations. Now that his temperature hit the roof after she stepped off the curb, he wanted to hit the deck. The revolving doors were worse than russian roulette at this point as the theatre let out. Seven o'clock was the best time for this to happen of course. After traffic, after sunset, but before the cold set in. Maybe he would settle. Maybe settle wasn't the right word. Think of all the fucked up ideas he had before. Think of all the fucked up ideas he had with children in his hands. He wasn't lonely, but he wasn't the only one. He didn't know where he was, but he was there before. That same feeling of being left and not being heard. The brick wall cramped his style but he was used to that. What style? That silent style? Now his soul is itchy from all the imaginary kisses she blew him. Why was he searching for his soulmate in the hallways of sobriety. Who knows where they would be in a few days, weeks, months, years? It was connection but not true hope. His dreams change and reappear and disappear. The morning gives him hope but maybe it's not just him. The evening kills him but maybe it's not just him. No it's just him. Premidnight strolls around and he's left again. His fossil of a last impression probably just killed it. Ill-equipped with no advice except his own and his partner in crime, they wait. He waits.

Dumpster Grime

Once upon a time, the magic was gone.

He set his drink down on the counter and leaned over the sink. Saliva had built up from his sweet drink. He spat right down the middle of the drain. Bad day? Friends were being left. His socks slipped across the linoleum floor as he walked out, occasionally sticking to the soda stains. His head hung low and his broad shoulders seemed to provide too much room for the world. It wasn't that there was too much weight, it was a tipped scale. His shoulder slammed into the edge of his bedroom door. His hand instinctively grabbed his arm even before his brain realized there was pain. Bad day? He was tired of being run over and letting the girls go. There was the initial burst of energy. The kind of energy that left internet conversations running hours with minutes in between the pages. Why did he always reach for more? Why did he always keep pestering himself and pressuring himself? His abstract ideas screwed himself over in the end. Endless talks about nothing in particular doesn't provide relationship material. Should he give up? The energy stops abruptly. One day, one sentence, one word could make the relationship stutter. Bad day? His desk chair was rusty, the back ripped in two. The wheels were squeaky, the floor uneven. His head hung low as he sat down. She was there but was he? Did he finally scare her away? Did she get tired of his endless antics? Was there too much stepping or did his awkward smile appear one too many times? That doesn't exactly provide relationship material. Trying to convince himself otherwise, he pursued. Despite putting himself down, they picked him up. They told him how much she liked him too and how cool he acted. His words seemed to roll off of everyone's tongues. A slick mouth will get you anywhere. Shirt untucked, he slept on the keyboard in a wave of letters. His jacket was hung on the back of his door and the door cracked closed. The bed didn't let him sleep so well anymore. He always went back to her in his mind. She was so much prettier in person. Now was his chance, but should he let it slip? Was it really worth letting her go just because there was nothing. To be honest, she probably didn't see a future. Why put people through that horror. Too many tears have been shed over meaningless things. Spilled milk was no laughing matter but she always laughed at it. To be honest, he was ready for her.
Maybe today was that day when the brakes were set. Maybe when she left without saying goodbye. Maybe when she groaned at their ridiculous inside jokes. Bad day? He woke up to her calling him on the computer. Beeps showered his dream and he wanted to answer. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe it was his imagination. Either way he wasn't feeling too well and he wished she'd pick up on it. Meanwhile the names changed and the memories remained. Subtle changes challenged him now. After he struggled through the big choices and chances, the details shadowed through. Maybe he should say good night. What did she mean by I love you? Why did she say it like that? Does she love pizza or people? Either way he enjoyed those three words from her mouth. If he didn't act now, would he regret it or would it be the best choice? He sweated through his shirt and he peeled off his sticky socks. Maybe he strived for too much attention. Maybe he strived too hard to be the best. Maybe he acted badly. Bad day? Still, would he stick by her side through the morning and until the day began? It all depends on if it would matter. He would wait for her response. He had to admit, she was too good for him and he would be nothing better than the friend of a friend. It was a strange feeling not yet fitted into his pie chart of feelings. Maybe it was the charts. Maybe it was the logic. Maybe it was the transitions, Maybe it was the hollow feeling. There was too much space between them even at their closest. There was nothing like vacation days. There was nothing like hanging by his dumpster mind. Leaning on the slime and letting his socks get sticky. There was nothing like being someone to talk to.

What does he do now? Tell me.