And I know nothing of either.

Some nights, I feel lost in a sea of love letters. They're addressed to all of my closest friends, but none of them are mine. I'm just the messenger. The waypoint. I give the people what they want and they thank me with hugs and "I love you"s; none of them feel as real as I need them to when I need them to.

I'm not the type to get angry, but if I were, I'd be infuriated by the feeling. As it stands, I'm not motivated enough to hold grudges. I don't cry as often as I need to, I'm too harsh on myself, and I still treat my scars as if they are something of which to be ashamed. There's no real point to this blog post. But writing it made me feel better.

In short, nothing, no matter how inane, is for nothing. I love you, person reading this. I hope you're having an amazing day or night :-)

Lost.

I.

She called me beautiful.

I don't think it's because she's in awe of me.

I think it's because she doesn't find me attractive

but refuses to hurt my feelings by saying so

so she sticks to a word that can be as ambiguous

as a deep breath before your first kiss.

II.

There used to be a graying tower

where their cottage by the sea sits now.

They're waiting for the day the ship finally comes in,

the tears tearing its hull to bit after it's realized

the crew's families stopped on them years ago.

III.

I used to love her,

but I learned a long time ago

that some things simply don't translate.

La Douleur Exquise

doesn't mean anything to her tongue but

I'm not good enough

is all I have

and it doesn't ever mean all that I need it to.

IV.

This language is beautiful,

but there are so many words confused in their meaning

and they're never what I need them to be

when I need them to be.

Some days, I wonder if I'll ever be good enough.

I'm going through changes. . .

The day I found out "<3" had been added to the Oxford

My grandmother used to tell me

"It's the little things that matter."

As I grew older

I became fascinated with the cracks in the sidewalks

and the lines in my palms,

the tick-tock of a clock or a revolver moving closer to midnight

and the click-clack of the woman's high heels on the street corner.

When I was 4, I was diagnosed with ADHD.

The doctor said I may never know words

and 20 years from now,

as I thumb through the dictionary with my own son

I'll have to say that the man who spent 10 years in school

and 10 becoming disillusioned

was right.

"<3 - noun; a sacrifice you weren't prepared for; an evolution you were not ready to face."

Natural selection doesn't happen in booms and snaps;

it's the tick-tocks,

the seconds you never notice until they've walked away from you,

that you cursed for moving too slowly,

leaving nothing in their wake but letters signed

<3

<3

xoxo

;)

I'm honestly not as bothered by this as the poem would make it sound. I am disturbed by it, yes (only because I can't help but compare it to the artist formerly known as Prince and that worries me greatly) but as a dear friend said "it's cool to see how language has changed over the course of history." Granted, neither < or 3 is a letter. On that grounds, I do wonder where the line will be drawn. But I'm interested to see how things will change.

What has been the strangest change you have seen in your lifetime? Anything at all, hit me! :)

Love.

Write more tomorrow.

A recurring theme in my life is trying to make sense of people, and my repeated failure to do so. This could simply be because I'm tackling something way too big for me, but it could be that I'm approaching it wrong.

Not that many people know, but I have kept a journal for years now. I stumbled upon an entry the other day that read:

"I'm not sure how it happened. But Everything changed tonight. Didn't win the iPod but this is just the beginning. I feel free. Write more tomorrow."

I did write tomorrow but it was largely irrelevant. The point I want to hone in on there is the first two sentences. Not sure how it happened: unsure of what it was about that night (my first slam and the first time I really started believing I was on the level of people in my current performance group, EROT) and unsure about my life after that point. Now I can't imagine it going any other way. It reminds me of this video (let's be real, you knew there'd be a video):





I like that the "write more tomorrow" sentiment applies for other people. This poem is so very relevant to where I am right now. Trying to find the biggest number I can think of, but certainly keeping in mind that no matter how big I can conceive, I am still capable of infinity. We all are.

Love.

I suppose the butterflies in my stomach
are yours now.
I'll give them to you
as soon as I binge on her photographs
purge until our smiles match
and they fly away, to resurrect in the eyes
of someone with a hope ever being that close to her.
Butterflies play in the sunflower's of royal gardens.
I'm meant for moths but they never live as long
and they hurt coming up but I smiled all the way through.
There is nothing logical about love.
It stutters when you look her in the face,
when she chats with you on Facebook about the guy she has eyes for.
I suppose this vocal tick
be
be
be
belongs to you now, too.