This House.
This household is full; yet empty.
This household is whole; yet broken.
This house is fake. Laughter is plastic, and the smiles are self-generated. When one smiles, they are signifying the fact that they are in pleasurable company. But where I am now, smiles means absolutely nothing. Where is the love in this empty household? There is tense, bitter laughing, but no warm, welcome smiling. When I talk to people here, they loosely look away without a glance.
I remember when I was younger, happier in the house, and I used to sing as I skipped through the narrow, wooden hallways. My parents would smile, because they knew I was in a happy mood. But as I got older, the singing seemed to stop. I lost all my reasons to sing. I want a reason to sing once more. I want a reason to stand up and belt out lyrics from the pit of my stomach. But this family is nothing to sing about. Problems are solved with bottles, pills, and blades. Where is the safety? When will secrets and silence be replaced with warm, familiar smiles? Maybe if I move forward, and keep my head up. Maybe if I choose to sing again. But I don’t see any of that happening in the near future. I want a better ending. I want a superbowl, a wedding, a sunrise, a broken cycle.
The Planet Was Born Today.
My name is nothing new.
My name is nothing.
My name is.
My name.
My.
My name is nothing to focus on. The east coast of USA is where I was born, and am currently being raised. Street lights are what guide me on my midnight walks around this familiar suburbia. Scribbling in journals bores me, and I find writing online, and expressing myself through artwork and photos much more interesting. Although I reach out by writing online, opposed to a book, I value my privacy. You may ask me questions, and I will answer them, but only to a point. If you are honest with me, I assure the same in return.
More often than not, I will keep my thoughts to myself. Maybe this is how my thoughts will be shared? At no point will I ask that you understand anything that you read here.
Currently, I am dating a boy who seems to make every day just a little bit better. Texting and talking to him is the best part of each and every one of my boring, bland days. Love is a funny thing for me. Ever since I was little, I have never truly believed in love. What is love? It seems to vary. It is said from a boyfriend in the most sympathetic departure. It is said to the new infants coming into the world, and to the frail elders saying good bye for the last time. It is said to different degrees- “love ya”, “I love you”, “ily”. Which one is for real? Will someone ever say that they love me? I want to know what that feels like.
