Looking for motivation to make myself draw,
And all I can get from other people is
“Just do it”.
Which, of course, is right. They’re right.
……But I’m so lazy >_>
I suppose I’ll have to designate time to draw, whether I feel like it or not.
What do you do to motivate yourself?
I am the hollowed shadow of your shattered grace,
The post-op straight line through the middle of your face,
I am the slow, purposeful saunter and the nurses keeping pace.
When I was younger, I wanted to be a prostitute.
I’ve always thought that there was something tragically beautiful about the broken among us,
The ones who choose to walk a different path.
I know it isn’t socially acceptable to think that way. But in some ways, I think prostitutes are much more honest than the rest of us.
They make no lofty claims,
Never pretend to be something they aren’t.
People think nobody wants to be a prostitute, and they pity them,
But in some ways, I think it must be a simpler, more straight-forward way of living.
The last terror in Pandora’s jar was hope.
Tethered together with false humility, forced to weather it because you think you’ll be better for it, that they won’t hate you for it, but just wait, wait and the day’ll come when you can’t make eye contact, lash out and can’t deal because you half-way can’t fight back.
And what then? What do you do when you reach a point that’s neither beginning or end and you wish with everything you could go back and do it again, or never do it all,
You see you yourself breaking, slowly starting to stall, falling into the promises given easily then, when it was all whispers and wind with orange blossoms and friends, hanging back and severing the love that was given, for jealous hatred and sin.
Come to think of it,
the only people I’ve ever really liked or respected as human beings were professors.
………………….Pretty much, yeah.
After the books, the food, the walks with books and chalk,
After the recordings and the instruments,
The phone calls and virtual realities,
Eventually the silence sets in.
The house talks back, faint echoes of the subconscious.
I hear your footsteps in the hallway,
See the sun setting and think,
What a waste of a day.
The itch comes, too. The need for more, but stranded
Stranded for petrol…..
Picking up the closest thing just to keep hands busy,
Hands full.. But they aren’t. An empty week or an empty hour,
We are starved and empty and waiting for anything,
Starved and restless.
Oh,
my gosh..
Just finished Dance with Dragons,
And I don’t… even…. Like, I don’t know what to do with myself now.
I’m sitting on the floor eating bacon bits.
I’ve (metaphorically) fallen and I can’t get up.
….
When I was younger I was always a little jealous of
The really pretty girls whose mothers let them get their belly buttons pierced
Or maybe they just did it anyway.
I was a little jealous of the ones who posted kissy pictures on their myspace(s),
And left each other cute messages for everyone to see.
Now all my friends are getting married.
Mostly the quiet ones, or the slutty ones. Not the pretty ones, though.
The smart ones and the good, kind ones are mostly dead or on drugs.
Their love lives are fucked up like mine.
I didn’t marry a pilot, I didn’t go to the prom with the brown eyed kid,
No one came to rescue me.
Now, when I think about the girls with pretty Myspace pictures, I feel like there are spiders crawling on me,
But I check and there never are,
It’s just me.
