Words poured out of me today like there was absolutely nothing at all that could stop them. i walked down the street and noticed my lips moving silently, mouthing phrases that i had no recollection of building in my head. I was scared someone would pass by and think i was talking to myself, so i bout a 99 cent memo pad and settled for looking insanely anti-social and disturbed as opposed to insanely...well, insane.

I'm sweating now as I sit in the corner of a back parking lot where a quarter gets you fifteen minutes of freedom. the cinderblock walls around me remind me of home-- but not the one I live in-- the one that made me me again. It's hard to explain why I write what I do. I don't think it's normal for one to be so amused by a pen in one's hand, but I can't say I mind my amusement at all. As the ink leaks onto the paper, the tempo of words in my head falters, the rhythm is dispersed. there is a beat to my thoughts, a constant drumming of wordless emotions and ideas, but when force them to become tangible, the rhythm becomes unrecognizable. I may not be a songwriter, but damned if I'm not half decent at writing what i feel. Actually, that's a boastful lie... I'm probably about one eigth decent at writing what i feel. but that's something at least, isn't it?

I guess I look odd here, sitting in my corner, but it feels just right. if i can't be with the ones who understand me, why be with anyone at all? Loneliness is so different from being alone.

prev % next