I found some old writings.

WOW! i just bought an external floppy drive, i didnt have a floppy, so for the past two years ive been finding all these old disks and had no idea what was on them.... my old writings! *whew* i thought they were lost.

Here, go ahead, take a look at a few.

youre in there some place
lost inside my head
dangling by wires
just beyond what i forget
like some marionette
pulling and jerking
tangled in the light
behind my eye lids
i left you in there somewhere
without meaning to
and now you dance
for me
lost inside my head
like a man of straw
without any bones or brain
a mass of confused strands
stuffed inside a bag
flopping about aimlessly
i'd let you out
if i knew how to find you
there where its dark
and loud
lost inside my head
---------------------------------------------
glass eyes
a mockery of the words
that sound so hard, so calloused
like hands at the end of a long hard day
trying to not say what they mean
and iam a moth, drawn closer
by the fire that seems to be there
?'want to come closer?'
no thank you
?'i wont burn you'
would you deny what causes you
to flicker and jump
unstable, except breathing
could you stop what is in your nature
even if you had to?
and your glass eyes
and my fluttering
in the dark
its not the promise of light, you know
its the warmth
because no one knows
how cold it is inside
------------------------------------------
oh wow... i forgot about this one...... its a bit lengthy, dont choke.

so he's drunk at the piano again, a right hand reaching for one more glass, while the left is playing out the top half of a Christmas song, out of tune, hammers scraping against the strings. he says he cant see the sun anymore when he closes his eyes, where have I been he asks, looking daggers at my feet as if he could see the places i have been; like boots I borrowed from him so long ago and forgot to return. he says ?'when I close my eyes is just dark'. distraught iam sure, but darkness behind a persons eyes seems pretty normal to me. his hand grows tight around a tumbler of rum and coke, as though he could strangle the life out of it, he looks at me with a face older than i last remember and closes his eyes like he's proving his point to me. ?'you're not in there anymore... no one is', alcohol comes falling from his eyes, tears only the numbness of drinking can bring. and still he's plucking out some perverted form of a carol, except now the glass is against his forehead, supporting his weight from falling to the floor. its been years since i held his troubled head against my chest and assured him that things will not always be this way. i used to believe it then. but now, he smells of drinks and tears and bad breath from no food since the pizza him and a friend ordered a night before. iam trying to remember why we never talk, why we went our own ways. remembering when i forgot the distance between me and him, and the way his eyes looked at me like i was a light too terrible to see. when did he become so faceless in my dreams? then i realize its not him crying, reaching out for someone to hold him together. its me. and this is not so long ago, its now. something i had forgotten and remembered while on the floor, ignoring the holidays with much too much red and green joy... drunk on my own tears, curled up in five blankets, living another night in the coldest room in the house. and every day i cant help but hear my head echo, ?'i didnt know how to love you, you never did believe me' his voice, over and over. all to the tune of august in bethany. i wake up then i undress, its always the same. except there is no stack of his clothes in my bottom drawer, no collection of his cologne on the dresser by my bed, no pictures of us on the nightstand. there hasnt been for years and years, and everyone says, its over he's gone, no more, you two will never work out. i know i know! and iam glad for it! like i some how think he will ever change for the better, i know its never going to work out. i dont love him anymore. i cant, its dead to me. but he haunts me. still. all these years later, with no one else to take his place. his smell, his taste, his eyes right here, inside me along with him chanting ?'youre worth it, youre worth it.' but i cant move. i cant try. who can learn to trust again, to believe again, to love again, anyone would think it impossible if they could enter these scenes inside my head. am i ruined yet? is there anything left worth having? i tried. i sold my trust and confidence to a boy in a mans body, with no soul, all that i knew i had left. for what? for sweet memories of good times and amazing romance, or a few months of hell where i had no voice and was plagued by his demons until they finally threw me away, chewed up and spit out. he's like a bird in a cage, chirping love songs to his reflection in a plastic mirror. i know what he's thinking, i can feel it on his skin. he touched my arm once, like human contact was some how a little less exciting than the places he was from. and some how men think its okay to leave these here, my skin is like grafiti, a name here, writen with eyes, a message here, marked with finger tips. they didnt come close, they didnt try to get to me. they didnt have to, they took me with them, in bits and pieces.

enter next phase. here sits another. a sick interest i have gained for the dead, looking at me like a child, looking at me like someone who might be amazed by my girlish hand-me-down features. all of them with those eyes. the things people have in common. blue eyes with a glimmer i cant determine is imagined or real. it seems too good to be true. i want to be weary, and careful, and distant, just like every time before. but instead iam inside my head, begging, hoping, hanging. a careful maze of secrets i dont care to share, information iam not yet willing to part with. does he know what he wants. brown eyes and long rides and girls who just dont quite fit in, and does he like making out. iam lost on the side of the road, its another sunday night, and ive been followed here again. and iam singing songs i crave trying to forget how another kiss was like the last- torture- cold against my skin, dead and dying and peeling my face away. a white line, a yellow line, a city slowly eating the hopes of ten thousand people. one hand against a headlight, squinting to see if anyone would notice one small motorist long lost on the shoulder of the highway. no not yet. no blood, no fire, no half naked people in need of quick company. its so dry in here, i swear, its baking my skin like clay in a field lacking rain for a year. they say ?'its not you, you were so perfect, a dream.' they say, ?'its me, i screwed up, i just didnt know how to love you.' i really dont care. secret is, i quit trying. they've gone and f**ked things up again, just like they always do. they always do. always. and walk out the door. i wanted to mail them all these bottles of resentment ive got stored away in the basement. it used to be a factory down there, oh the production of masses. i wouldnt even sell it to them for sarcasm, they could have had it for free, courtesy of me. it has to be me, the same thing happens every time. theres a glitch in this step. i want to tell him, "look, go this way, i promise everything will work out, just walk over here." but i dont, instead i pour another glass of tea and look out the window and wonder why all of them have such dirty hands, because i have just quit trying.

So this is the part where i wake up in bed next to some man i just met a week ago. we're both wearing clothes, we're both sour and groggy, we're both wondering what happened to respecting whats proper iam sure. what happened to the time of coming to terms with a person being human. he says to me, ?'how do i walk?' and i lie, as always, and say, "like a person." what do you tell a person you just met two weeks ago? i feel like i could scream. everything except what matters the most, i might just be amazing... and he might just be dead. and then there is a house, his but not his. and carpet and steps and a stove with no oven. i like the plants and the floor and the way it smells like someone lives there, how its simple. but there are things there that i can taste, like when his friends have been over, or when father and son time has passed. all these things that seem to have gone unsaid, like places a mind wonders to when its dark and quiet and one is alone, again, maybe inside more than out. something sad and sorry. misty like a rainy afternoon. stories i know, but i dont want to know, i dont want to hear about, things i want to hash out in my mind and be troubled over on my own- thank you very much. if i keep one piece out then the puzzle is never complete and nothing is lost, nothing is gained and the dead can learn how to live. right? perhaps, but its like the living is slowly choking on the dying in this world, in this place, in me.

*sigh* oh the days when chaos was so simple. but then again, i suupose later i will see these days with the same light.