this is really fucking long, I'm not that pretentious it just got like this, feel free not to read it or whatever..ps it's not even a poem really

I think about Rapunzel and the haphazard approach she took to allow company to get to her.
I don’t brush my hair very often, but I still think it would be easier to cut it off from my head if I needed a rope handy. And why didn’t she climb down?
Maybe it was different. Afterall, nobody’s asking to climb up to me, and nobody is relying on the roots of my hair, except maybe myself.
But in a mess of tangles, would it even be safe for someone to want to approach me?
And would there be any point or fairness to put so much of my effort into into pulling a friend up to myself when they will just find me here ridden with tangles and unable to make a ladder from silk?
Could I not just yell ‘In this tower, without a risky descent, you may just all lose me.’?
But would I ever be heard? And would it ever be worth it to take that risky descent and climb down?
And when Rapunzel’s hair was cut off, if she hadn’t been tossed out into the woods,do you think she’d ever have the courage to get out of that mess? Would she have climbed down herself or lingered around throwing chunks of hair out her window just so people would remember her existence?
I don’t think I could ever rely on safety that grew from the hair on my head, something that is so frailly rooted inside of me.
So if I am to be forever stuck in my tower, I’d hope that you’d wait, as I stick my hands through tufts of my own hair, and tug them into ropes.
Pull the strands bleached numb and invisible into a braid that’s meshed with the security and permanence of black locks, ones that have already absorbed the insecurity of false-light and hope.
And I hope you’d keep waiting as I found it in me to admit they aren’t just dark, but truthfully inconvenient, almost annoying, still lamenting over every fucking loss.
And I’d explain how it hurts when they’re pulled tightly together by trying to move forward and pull someone close.
How when the black strands are mingled with the emotionally bleached
I just get all strung up in knots, and I can’t just keep brushing them over and off.
Because although I want someone to reach me, I’d rather climb down to meet them, than have them think I’d put all my faith into something so aesthetic as hair to keep them close, or risk them getting tricked and tossed out into thorns and becoming blind like Prince Charming.
So wait my friends, wait until I have the courage to demand it all be cut off
Wait till I can show you that I can weave specks of brightness in an otherwise bleak evening, into something that I can trust.
Because what I need is a twilight advocacy for thoughts that are honest.
What I need is something more than the chains that connect us by a false sense of security, the ones that were only sustained by the expected and routine.
What I need is something that doesn’t make me believe that without trying, I can always trust people would want to climb up.
So you can cut this braid off , make me bald, and while you’re at it, hand me the rope that’s left from it.
I’ll use it to dangerously rock-climb out of this place.

Now, I’m not saying I’m some fucking Rapunzel, but I am beginning to look out at the world with her eyes.And maybe it won’t be long until I’m screaming till my throat bleeds, “In this tower you’re going to lose me" And the witch will be the one who finds me with the scissors, and she’ll be the one pleading to have the permission to take them from my hands.
She'll grab them from me knowing that I’m more at a loss, and less likely to be saved, if I’m freed from the weight of my hair with the option of jumping down myself.
She'll take them from me.
Knowing that I'm worse off having to rely on someone to want to climb up.
Knowing I'll be forever waiting in my room to feel a tug.

Destroyer

I want to drink myself into oblivion

Just Checking In

The future makes my palms sweat
and my jaw quiver

and I wish I had the courage to do something
that would stop me from having any future at all

let us go then

Keep yourself amused at all costs.

Exhale the north wind and spill through a cracked door,
and if you're running on empty,
maybe it's worth just running away.
It's not such a bad thing
to try and makes your eye dilate while toppling over mountains
you once flew over but missed
hidden in a cloud.


because some things should last forever,
and the ones that don't won't kill you
but will leave you deepened by a space reserved for something new
or familiar
like the way my shoes feel
when I tread carefully to the ocean,
peering inside shells
to explore the limits of this sight.

Year of the Dance

...and everything is happening at once and for a second it seems like you're helplessly overwhelmed, but then you're standing in your living room, dancing to Patti Smith in your underwear and even though you're completely alone it doesn't seem to matter, all you care about is the pivot.

Step , swing, pivot, repeat.

We don't want to live lives that are better than those of our fathers, we just want to live with the opportunities to fail they've taken from us. It's why we smoke and swear and fuck like we don't know better, it's why we fall back on the step, swing, pivot, repeat while we listen to songs they used to know.

Swivel, swing, stomp, clap.

You're moving too quickly to care about the applications you haven't finished and the ones you chose not to start; too quickly to notice that you're not as aerodynamic as you used to be and you're stirring up a whirlwind of cat hair; far too quickly to notice the horses coming in from all directions.

Horses, horses, horses, horses.

Choke.

We give it time, but nearly everyone I know is depressed.
And some days the air is so dry none of us can swallow.
The more I grow nostalgic for this toxicity, the quicker my lungs harden into coral- and the best joke of all?
How I used to want to take up smoking to have a reason to be alone.

because a leaf depends on falling

just as I'm breaking it down






...proverbially
because so much depends on who we feel that we are
a bittersweet love for sickness
internal dialogue advocating for fuck-ups
puts down progress
like 'Holy Shit i'm eighteen'
and almost as old as we've ever expected ourselves to get
reaching my last habitual second
connected to a cross reference
pre-purchased souvenirs manifest against this minor inconvenience
let me stay distracted till moss grows over a dormitory
that read E.E. cummings [l(a] , but with instant meaning
that may be
(de[e])ceased
until unnecessary pontification
and please, I insist.

The Boy's Got Girl Problems

What's a girl to do when the punchline makes her cry
and she isn't the prettiest girl in town anymore
and nobody will ever love her droopy neck
and she feels like she isn't going anywhere with her life
and she can't talk to the prom king because she's scared
that he'll leave her with a split skirt in the back of a car
chubby thighs splayed like a turkey,
with cranberry sauce on the tablecloth
so he can prove it to his friends about later,
substituting her name for someone with softer features
and a sense of humor about this kind of thing?

What's a girl to do when she isn't even a girl?

My Too Oftenly Accepted Asshole Commentary

and I wish the word had not become a stimulant to some grand idea of liberation.
You're fooling yourself if you think it empowers everyone.
My better half truly wishes I could stop cringing every time I'm at a party or somewhere that doesn't involve my immediate group of friends
where these overly bohemian types who have learned to embrace this weird ideology of femininity (the one foreign to my dominant-asshole-nature), enter the room- tossing out the word 'love' like it's synonymous with 'know' in a constant state of giggle-fits and smiles.
"I love you"
When did this become hip? And when did you even know me?
and that's when I want this definition of femininity to just fuck off and stop making everything so pornographic.
and I'd take all the cynical bastards in the world over these people.
You can't get stabbed in the back when there is nobody behind you rubbing yours.

I've Made a Huge Mistake (And not the One You're Thinking Of!)

We can't spend our whole lives dreaming
but lately that's the only time I've been lucid.
When it comes to you, dreaming is all I can do
because when I'm standing the blood rushes
and it seems like a stupid idea to kiss you under a meteor shower
and it seems stupid to say that I shouldn't have ran when I did
but when I'm dreaming
the lies I've told are exposed
and I know better than to tell them again.

A stupid Poem
for
A stupid Mistake.

-and I don't know why I keep dwelling on everything and acting like if I had the chance I'd change things between us I would because the reality of the situation is that in six months I'll be gone and the perverse asymmetry of everything will be made apparent when you burn while I shiver.

it seems unnatural to begin sentences anywhere but the middle now because there is no use trying to relate how all of this got started, we just have to sit down and try and put the story together from what we've got.


This Week's Theme:
"Smooth Moves"