Half Circle

I woke up this morning after a restless night to a feeling that can roughly be described as empty. Not empty like I've experienced in the past, really empty. Devoid of emotion. So I sat down to write, just as I have many times before when I'm confused, lost, heavy-hearted, or otherwise in turmoil. I spent the better part of 2 hours writing almost nothing and another 1 painting nothing. So I went read through what I had written and was nothing less than disgust with myself.

All these things that were "bothering me" - mere bits of depthless bitching smeared with raging self-pity. Embarrassed, ashamed. Who am I to snivel about things when I should consider myself lucky to have everything I do? For a moment I stared at the selfish words that just screamed poor little me. I was surprised and angry and quick to dismiss my shallow angst.

What's wrong?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
 
Writing has always proved to help me sort through my thoughts, sift through the mess, and find an answer. Why then is it different today? Why, after my emotionless outburst is my answer still I don't know?
 
I am missing something. I don't know what yet, but something. I don't feel complete. I fight with a lingering sense that I need something more. Something? What the fuck is something? Meaning? Satisfaction? Someone to love?
 
It's occurred to me that I've found love, at least once, and ran from it.
 
I feel like I have a lot to say to certain people right now, but I'm unsure of exactly what I want to say, or how to say it. For someone who is so naturally good at dancing with words, it's unsettling to be at such a severe loss for it. I'm confronted by the lyrics I've come to love as much as I've come to fear.
 
There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss.
 
I'm afraid to admit that despite my façade, I'm having a hard time forgetting regret.

Westie said to me: mama please sleep. Others will say relaxxxxxx...

Skewed endlessly against

Funhouse mirrors read like non fiction

cracked versions of external disguises


from sensory overloads
to lies told

A different person, in a different place

well tailored, 
immaculately groomed
Within her own perception
she is-

covering  all reflective surfaces

to turn within
again and again,
to spin

until sparkles regress into pavement

the minds eyes
watching wildly pushing towards fears
like a Cyclops vicious

until blinded

あなた、愛しています



how could this be you?

Spinning top

just as you are

with flaws, imperfections

frustrations involve

spinning tops

on the hard wood floor

so close to an open door

fall through the cracks

like forgotten faces



eyes look around

in every direction

except on me

where they ought to be

spilling hearts
like a open wound

from my side



I love you still

even if you don't mention

the fit of my dress

the cut of my hair

or the way it sweeps
over my eyes

focused on you