frosty_gurl02
01-14-2004, 09:50 PM
I want to start a fire, whether it be in my heart, or someone else’s. A passion to thaw ice-covered veins, as blood freezes and clings to my bones on cold days, such as this. As the wind whips me around some vexatious street corner, I marvel at the snow and how it sparkles.
I'm going to the grocery store to buy green apples and exotic fruit I will never eat only because it makes me feel healthy. I'm feeling majestic, despite the insufficient funds I carry to purchase the luxurious items I desire. And there's the boy who traces blue flowers with his gloved fingertips as graffiti blooms, stomped off the bottom of boots and running shoes.
I throw it all together in one huge pile and light it with a single match.
I heard on the news that through the power of MRI, they will be able to tell whether it is medication or therapy that depression sufferers need. I’m holding on selfishly to my own negativity, I don’t want to let go. It’s the fear of driving, of losing control and not trusting the actions of those around me.
It’s the excitement I feel upon entering a bookstore. Words stretched along the glossy spines like tree branches reaching for the sunlight. The skinny fingers of an eager child, nodding her head, the petals of her brain waiting for pollination. She tells me that I’m pretty as I leaf through some random copy of some random book, which I reluctantly place back on the shelf before telling her I am not the one.
To all the people who never saw me for who I really am, I may be volatile, but I am just as sensitive. I hide behind this game of frozen charades, waiting for the grievances to move out of the way, so the flames can lick my face instead.
I'm going to the grocery store to buy green apples and exotic fruit I will never eat only because it makes me feel healthy. I'm feeling majestic, despite the insufficient funds I carry to purchase the luxurious items I desire. And there's the boy who traces blue flowers with his gloved fingertips as graffiti blooms, stomped off the bottom of boots and running shoes.
I throw it all together in one huge pile and light it with a single match.
I heard on the news that through the power of MRI, they will be able to tell whether it is medication or therapy that depression sufferers need. I’m holding on selfishly to my own negativity, I don’t want to let go. It’s the fear of driving, of losing control and not trusting the actions of those around me.
It’s the excitement I feel upon entering a bookstore. Words stretched along the glossy spines like tree branches reaching for the sunlight. The skinny fingers of an eager child, nodding her head, the petals of her brain waiting for pollination. She tells me that I’m pretty as I leaf through some random copy of some random book, which I reluctantly place back on the shelf before telling her I am not the one.
To all the people who never saw me for who I really am, I may be volatile, but I am just as sensitive. I hide behind this game of frozen charades, waiting for the grievances to move out of the way, so the flames can lick my face instead.