The Love of Robots

Well, at least she was honest with me.

I wrote this certain poem for a certain someone a while ago when I thought things were alright. Apparently, that was all in my head. It seems like a lot is in my head.

It's really funny looking back at how I felt and how disproportional it is to how I feel now. At least I get to drop out of the play. There's no use in that anymore.

Well, those pills are in the bathroom drawer somewhere. Better go find them.


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I wove this canvas. I crushed these berries to make paint. The wounds won't scar from when I picked the thorn bush for them. It was only a scrape at the time. Now it's infected and spreading.

The image is in my head. Everyone's encouraging me to bring it to life. They know what it will look like. It this is no abstract painting. They're waiting. I'm waitng.

I've sat in front of this spread for two months. The background is grey and neutral. It still lacks the primary colors.

I never learned to paint them. I don't like figuring things out on my own.

But I want it to be perfect. I won't settle for anything less.

I guess when you leave something for too long, eventually it rots.

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ae

new poem, shot at unconventional poetry

i've never read ee cummings, but this kind of how i imagine his stuff would look like.

Blogspot does a terrible job of aligning this. read it here, and open it under WordPad or NotePad so it will be properly aligned



ae

my sad little journal/blog/friend who listens.

she plays with my eyes from a distance. running, running around. keeping my attention. dressed brightly with the sun lighting up her smile and her eyes in that unmistakable way.

it was only a phase.

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i constructed this canvas. i found the colors to make these paints. the image is in my head. everyone's been encouraging me to bring it to life. they have a good idea as well of what it will look like. it's so perfect. put it up for the world to see. they're waiting. you're waiting.

i've been standing in front of this spread for three months. i outlined the background and created the structure, but i can't bring myself to fill it in with the primary colors.

but i wanna. i fucking wanna.

i just cant figure out what technique to paint this portrait with. i want it to be perfect. and i won't settle for anything less.

i guess when you leave something for too long, eventually it rots.

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i'm feeling pushed aside. pushed aside by another artist whose going to finish this painting. pushed aside by their four point oh and their metaphoric catch phrases and their cool uncool flannels.

blow me, i did that first.

it sucks to be pushed aside by someone you admire so much. since day one and since the velvet underground and nico came up.

go to the fucking east coast with your pretentiousness. you and all your fucking friends. i'm fucking sick of looking at you and fucking sick of think about you.

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purple is a great color. apparently it's my power color.

you always recognize me approaching you when you catch glimpse of my purple circas when you're getting your books. apparently purple reminds you of me.

want to know what purple reminds me of?

it reminds me of what you wore that night. and how happy i was that night and how happy you were that night. and that that regret i felt from when i walked through the door until i passed out in someones basement. and that slightly confused and slightly discouraged feeling you felt that split second before you went back to your friends.

thats how i hope you felt.

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thank god it's you has to act and not me. with you around, i'm already acting. not good enough to get an oscar, obviously. this time i get to stand around and look pretty and you get to do the acting. oh, and that east coast esque artists gets to show me how bad i am.

it's funny how metaphoric my life and the high school drama department really are.

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and there's no blame for how your love did slowly fade
and now it's gone, it's like it wasnt there at all
and here i rest where disappointment and regret collide
lying awake at night
-ben gibbard

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i wish i could make words like i made riffs and i wish i could make riffs the way i make words. and i wish i could show you this. and i wish that i wasnt compulsive and i wish that i wasnt wrong. and i wish that i was ben gibbard on days like this. and i wish that i didn't feel the need to write all of this.

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i'm running out of things to say.

may i correct myself: i'm running out of things to bitch about.

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some old lady's singing. over that, some sad young man plays a bittersweet guitar arrangment. the skips and scratches of the vinyl soothingly proceeds as the bass progresses. a calm vocal expression of emotion recites.

he blinks, and his tears hit the floor.

loudly.

that sad riff keeps playing, and still he moves on.

this is not mine.

this is the moment.

i am the angry sun.

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play practice is going to kill me tonight.

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