i have come to the conclusion that you and i and everyone else are nothing but waves,
undulating disturbances in the vastness of existence's still canvas,
creating sounds that bump and mingle into a cacophany of meaninglessness.
blindly we fling ourselves into this space of endless sounds,
where the laws of physics dictate our interactions and our downfalls.
there are infinities of waves of different velocities and amplitudes
and we see them,
but they are white noise.
they pass us by.
how rare it is to encounter another wave that vibrates at a frequency
that matches your own. together, you resonate as one and amplify
into something
i have yet to fall asleep in a boy's arms,
not for lack of intimacy but for a lack of security
as though each touch disturbs my solitude,
rendering my nerves too tremulous to succumb to melatonin's sedation
alarm system ringing through my bloodstream
i yearn to feel safe, to be so comfortable with someone
that i can trust him with silent flesh and defenseless limbs,
entangled in the folds of slumber,
no thumbs exposing my naked forehead from beneath my bangs,
no intrusive hands scanning the topography of brastrap to waist to hipbone,
a tactile x-ray taking my measurements not to dress,
but to undress without undressing,
no, onl
i want to be gone, to dissipate into the breeze like a breath of dandelion seeds
a thousand infinitesimal possibilities scattered beyond the realm of perception
caressing mortal souls, yet elusive to their searching grasp
floating tranquilly until the wind settles, and i am at home in the world,
free in the open embrace of forgotten nothingness at last.
limits to infinity. by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
limits to infinity.
Some friendships end abruptlymaybe over a love interest, maybe over money, maybe over personal ambition. There might be drama, complete with some exchange of screaming and crying and hysterical reminders of past promises. It's true. Breakups are often ugly.
Not us, though.
One of my favorite authors, John Green, liked to talk about numbers and infinity and how some infinities were bigger than others. Take 0.1, for instance. Then suppose you follow it with 0.11, then 0.111, 0.1111 and so on until you have an infinity of ones. But this isn't as big as the infinity of twos, with 0.2, 0.22, 0.222, 0.2222, and all the rest, each number add
prolapsus disci invertebralis. by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
prolapsus disci invertebralis.
my mother is forty-eight years old and dying. not in a gunshot-wound-to-the-chest sort of way or the slow but certainly terminal cancer sort of way. it's a slightly less fatal but much more gradual sort of way, one that takes the form of a herniated disc that pinches nerves in her back when she sits. it's the sort of way that requires surgery because the physical therapy sessions aren't mitigating the pain, at least not enough. she tries to keep doing mom things like preparing food and doing the laundry, but most of the time i see her, she's either making a fetus of herself in the cushioning of our living room couch or slowly hauling her body
i am volatile, jumping up and jerking down with the temperature
until pressure can no longer be contained
and the toxic stress explodes into silver droplets splattered across the floor,
a mess that no one wants to approach
for fear that too much exposure will make one go mad.
call me unique as any flake of snow
whose crystal structure is "one of a kind"
yet vanishes once on the ground below
where man to these intricacies is blind.
my common snowflake's dwarfed by the great hail--
all hail to zuckerbergs, einsteins, and kings
whose forceful impacts are of larger scale
than any lasting name my toil brings.
yet when earth's season of mankind is done,
oblivion to the legacy we sought!
our presence will melt underneath the sun,
our history's snowscape rendered all for naught.
so with souls transient as the morning frost,
let's seek infinity before it's lost.
mister technicolor dreamcoat. by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
mister technicolor dreamcoat.
i liked you because you were like einstein
one of those wide-eyed people who never stopped thinking with the curiosity of a child.
you wanted to be one of those superheroes who combated the villainous rod blagojeviches of the world
saving our country, saving integrity, saving babies.
but upon examining your slicked-back coif and 2 a.m. escapades
into the regular vulgarities of distraction,
i miss your capacity for tenacity and decide that
you, my friend, are not the young man i used to idolize.
burning bruises, burning beds. by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
burning bruises, burning beds.
the worst anger to feel isn't the hot fiery metal that glows yellow-white
and spits curses all over the floor like stray sparks of heat, uncontainable.
no, the worst is formed after emotion has colled into calm, structured iron,
molded to a bitter, metallic sharpness that rests dormant until planned revenge employs it,
striking the world in a series of calculated stabs and blows like a fencing foil
only darling, this is no game, because when it's game over,
somebody's going to get bruised so badly that they will be too tired to get up and walk.
maybe they'll heal. maybe they won't.
maybe they will feel the burn, and lash up and o
for the love of my sister by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
for the love of my sister
Hello? I picked up the phone.
Hey, it's Cheryl. Wanna hang out on Friday?
Sure, come over aft-
Trista?
Yeah? I glanced up to see my older sister, who was standing a few feet away from me before telling Cheryl, My house after school, then. Well, I have to go now see you tomorrow! Now, what's up, Mikki?
Aspen and I have decided to come out.
Seventeen-year-old Mikki was a lesbian, a fact I'd sensed long before she confessed to me two years ago. Poor Mom was continually worrying over her lack of interest in boys; even when three different guys asked h
Fame, That Cruel Mistress by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
Fame, That Cruel Mistress
Yes, go and bathe in her shining smiles
Let yourself bask in her welcoming arms,
Revel in the radiance of her adoration
You deserve everything you get
But look around and see what you've done
Think of the sacrifices you've made to get her,
Think of all the joys you've denied yourself,
Think of all the loved ones you've let down.
Remember their eyes,
The pain and disappointment,
Remember and feel the sting
It's her slap to your face,
Mocking your shameful pride
Scorning your utmost weakness.
Yes, you deserve everything you get.
friendship in watercolor by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
friendship in watercolor
strange to think that one day, we're sitting
side by side under the midmorning sun,
absently twirling grass blades between our fingers
in the pattern of conch shells and windmill turns
and the next day, you're exactly twelve thousand,
four hundred fifty and a half miles away in a place i've never seen
and i can only imagine you walking in the water-filled streets
while i meander aimlessly at home between friend to so-called friend,
appearing everywhere and belonging nowhere.
it's a form of wanderlust, a result of my futile attempt
to make your absence take up less space
in this pop-up world of paper wishes and glass dreams
falling and not speaking by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
falling and not speaking
when we were ten wed make bets to see who could go the entire school day without talking. i was the only one who was able to do it.
when we were eleven i almost fell for a boy for the very first time, only that i was too afraid because slipping and losing ones balance and getting hurt are what generally constitute a fall.
when we were twelve the first of us decided to take the jump, and before long, i followed suit. i was too caught up in the thrill to think about the pain of the impact upon crashing.
when we were thirteen wed long since stopped our childish pursuits of silence. we shrugged it off, saying it was impossibl
dear god,
you must be made of stone.
no loving, compassionate being
could simply let everything happen,
regardless of whether it's
good or bad, right or wrong,
for the best or not. then again,
you're not human.
dear god,
you've gifted me with the ways
of words, of music, of life.
why does it seem it is breaking hearts
that i am best at?
dear god,
there are a lot of things i no longer
believe in - santa claus, the tooth fairy,
faith, unconditional love,
and maybe even you.
they make absolutely no sense to me.
dear god,
if you're really there,
turn me into a bird so i can fly away
from here and leave behind all the guil
empty promises break my heart, especially the ones you make
honey-words that bring fleeting hope and lasting sorrow
yet i can't seem to stop committing myself to such plights
maybe because i thought you were braver and of more good than i ever could be.
i've learned by now that i was impossibly wrong.
boy, i know better than eyes filled with unspoken "i-loved-you"s
brimming with drowning truths and sympathies only i can save
but that's as hopeless as scooping the moon from the lake's surface
i can't fucking think straight whenever i'm around you
and afterwards my freight-train thoughts outrun the pace of my panicked-sparrow heartbeat
flickering movie projector by crazysingergirl, literature
Literature
flickering movie projector
i used to write beautiful things (or at least i tried)
i'd get flashes, images ingrained into the canvas of my mind
pictures that could only be washed away by trying to paint them into something real.
but now my flash drive is full of abandoned text documents
(because crumpled balls of paper are so unprogressive and cliched)
all i have left is a scrapbook of thoughts made of overused paper
bits and snapshots that don't quite fit together
so many ideas murmuring with potential
so many pictures laid to waste in splattered documents of nothing beautiful.
happy new year
[and four].
time for another year
they call it second-semester senior, but right now i'm busier than i've ever been before
living more than i've ever lived before.
i wonder whether college essays have sucked out too much of my marrow
or whether i'm just too happy to write.
sex is supposed to be an enjoyable act between two people who love each other, but for prostitutes that joy is stripped away by separating act from pleasure and mechanizing it, grinding it down to tricks and profits
school seems to be a systematic pimp and after prostituting my words out for so long,
i have to wonder if they've finally got me,
killed my passion and creativity at last.
i'm looking for that spark of love i knew so well i swear
I just noticed your DeviantID, and I have to say that you are gorgeous, and so is your camera, and most importantly, that your dear is pretty much ecactly the same as mine.