*sighs* I can see it already: I'm going to be sleeping in the rain tonight.

Seeing these colors go from yellow-brown to dark blue
Creates these colored thoughts in my head,
Words painted in vivid hues,
And imagery lying wait in my subconscious,
Awaiting the opening of the channels
Through which these waters flow.
Things like sunsets are symbols
All on their own:
They have no tangible translation,
But they mean something,
Something known, but unexpressable,
Or possibly just waiting to become known.
Will I ever know what my sunsets mean?
Will I ever understand the precise meaning
Of cars outlined by the setting sun and shadows
Before they disappear over a hill?
Is there ever really a precise meaning for such symbols,
For cannot symbols, in other words, metaphors,
Mean different things to different view points, different people?
Will I ever know what my sunsets mean?

i always wanted those
walks on the beach,
holding hands and smiling at each other.
those
funny little moments where
you're happy and in love and innocent.
that first kiss,
so careful, and nervous, and new.
dancing around in circles
and knowing it's all ok
cuz you're just kids having fun.
those giggly kisses
in the photobooth
at the mall.
why...
can't this stuff happen for me?
i...
can't?
won't?
don't?
believe it's all one person's fault...
bu i dont know, and lots of people seem to.
the blame game's not important.
i just want my innocence
and he won't give it back.

Then the skinny owl flew at her and she falls. Only mildly shocked, she stands up and dusts herself off. When she looks around, she sees Superman looking at her. He moves closer and she smiles and tousles his hair. She knew him, but she didn't know he was really Superman.
"Guess what" he says.
"What?" she asks, a bewildered expression on her face.
"I love you."

Grrr. My throat is so swollen it's like swallowing razors everytime I swallow. And I can't get to the doctor because we have a huge deductible. Grrr.

I would hate to be rich and own the world
I would hate to be powerful and control the world
I would hate to be bitter and hate the world
I would hate to be suicidal and leave the world
I would hate to be scared and cling to the world
I would hate to be naive and trust the world

I would love to be rich with happiness
I would love to be powerful with words
I would love to fight bitterness with love
I would love to keep suicide at bay
I would love to be scared of fear itself
I would love to be mature and trust you.

When I go to sleep tonight, I'll get there by imagining us spooning, you with your arm draped over me, and I with my arm gently holding a baby. Don't ask me why I see it this way, just know that I do.

You’re off to save the world again,
Flying high, faster than a speeding bullet
To stop the bad guys from taking over,
To save the citizens from peril.
They see you as indestructible,
They see you as so powerful,
But they’ll never see you
The way that I do.
You’re off to risk your life again,
Being superhuman, defying science
To stop the world from falling apart,
To give the people a bit of hope.
They see you as a symbol,
They see you as their hero,
But they’ll never see you
The way that I do.
For all your indestructibility,
I see your vulnerability.
For all your power,
I see your weakness.
For all your symbolism,
I see your reality.
For all your heroics,
I see your mistakes.
For all your Super,
I see the Man.
You save my world
By defeating evil.
You save me
By letting me know and save you.

To Superman,
Love,
Lois

This pure, uncolored illumination
that comes only from one source
and cannot ever be artificially made;
this unparalleled beautifully blinding light,
whose source, were you to cast your eyes upon Its face,
would take all of you and consume you
and leave you uncaring of your fate,
as long as you are allowed to be consumed forever.
This animated beam.
How can you dare –
for I know full well you do –
to cover this Light,
to so subvert It
that It is unrecognizable
except by the barest hint of Its old self?
And then again, one must question,
is it truly possible to so disguise and corrupt such a holy and pure thing?
In other words, perhaps your “light” –
for it is a pitiful excuse for the actual thing –
is merely artificial and lacking any potential for power at all,
for goodness knows, if it has power,
it does nothing with it.
I think,
the Light, the only true one,
had you so frightened when you first saw It,
that you knew you had to have It,
to become Its,
but you didn’t want to give all,
so you placed a part of It in a box;
a part of It behind a shade,
so that It wouldn’t overpower you.
But, returning to my ‘fore thoughts,
perhaps in attempting to shave some off,
you lost the whole,
or really, never had it because you wouldn’t accept it.
So really, your fake “light”
is merely an illusion.
The sad thing is that with it,
you accomplish a doubly detrimental purpose:
you drive those who truly seek It
away from the true Light,
and you draw those who know not
to your hollow, artificial light.
When will you foolish cowards learn
that the Light isn’t comfortable?

The Light of Stained Glass Windows

She looks at her fingertips in rapt amazement. She turns her hands palm down, and studies them. So small, but so full of "manipulative" power. She's thinking of how you would move, how your muscles would clench, how your body would tighten. She gave you hints on how to overcome this power, telling you to just relax, but you replied, "I can't." She thrilled at that statement. She loved how you loved it, this light, light touch that could make you writhe. As your breath went ragged, so did hers. As your muscles tensed, she trembled.
She remembers how both of you discovered your hands, gently running fingers over palms, fingertips, holding gently, then letting go to explore further. It was as though you had never seen hands before, like this was a new discovery. She loved it.
She loved your arms and your chest, the tight hardness of them, like a rock covered in skin and shirt. This was how a man should be, she thought. This was the desired contrast, softness against hardness.
When you looked up at her, she knew what you wanted, but she hesitated, whether teasingly, or simple hesitancy, she doesn't know. When you nibbled her fingers, she couldn't contain the soft outlet of breath. And when she finally bent over your face to meet your lips, she wanted to bury her hands in your hair and have you hold her forever.

Hmm...if life were a runway, I'd walk down it oblivious to all the flashing cameras, then shock the judges by pulling all my friends up there with me. Cuz what would I be without them?

*coughs* All my chain-messaging friends: leave now, or be offended, unless, of course, you're not easily offended. With that, I shall commence my rant.

Mommy,
Daddy did something to me.
He made me loose my virginity,
he came into my room,
without knocking on the door,
he picked me up and threw me on the
floor.

He pulled down my undies,
he ripped open my shirt,
he pushed his thing in so hard that it
hurt.

But that wasn't all,
that wasn't the end,
he started to hit me,
and that's just where it begins.

He beat me so bad that I started to
cry,
Oh tell me LORD why I didn't die!

When he was done,
he walked out the door,
he didn't even pick me from off the
floor

this girl died two years later from a std. she haunts all those who dont pass this message on. at 2:30 am she will personally kill you. if u repost this bullitien she will only cry to you in your dream. please for your sake, repost, for hers as well. repost as,
fuck all dads like this

Things like that really tick me off. Maybe this chic begain as a real person. Maybe she was a symbol. But I tell you what, she's not gonna write a nice little A-B scheme poem about it. And "she haunts all those who dont pass this message on"? I'm sure these people meant well, but there are far better ways to get people to become aware to incestual (yes, I made that one up) rape than sending out a bulletin and telling people to repost it or they'll be haunted. Personally, and maybe I'm just a bit easily offended on the subject, I think it's mocking the real problem that exists. You want a poem about real sexual abuse from a parent? I can easily procure one; the question is, will you read it?

*yawn* Wow, I love multi-tasking. Listening to my LAUNCHCast, using MSN instant messenger to talk to V-Man, and writing a diary. Presently I'm listening to Daft Punk, and they sound pretty good so far. I'm in school too, so even more kudos. Tool now, I didn't get to ratr the other song. Grr. Oh well.

*yawn* I was bored...and now, if you're bored, I will give you this little nugget of amusement:
http://www.crush007.com/v2/predict/1162675407fzp

Time seemed to slow as she watched this boy with his careful movements. It was very cold weather, and yet she stood there, watching him meticulously put her wristband on, perfectly straight. She thought "I'm cared for." And then time sped back up and she was off for a night on the fair.

Fairs are not good for the emotional health of the reluctantly single.

Grr-Arg. I hate it when good things make me sad. I really do. And I hate it when I should be happy, yet I want to cry. How do I get myself into these little stony crevices?

We could you know. We'll have to tone it down a wee bit in public, I wouldn't want to be the subject of so much green gas. *sigh* I don't like it when you leave all weekend. It's normally harder to call you. And calling's all I've got. Until next weekend. But I live in fear that it'll fall through and my excitement will go pfffttt, just like that. Oh well. I'll see you someday, my man-lovely bassist.