tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60857999104288958952024-03-13T15:39:03.032-07:00The Wednesday ChroniclesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-7511270366294171062010-02-16T16:05:00.000-08:002010-02-16T16:07:51.970-08:00Well, well welllllllllWhat do we have here?<br />Hope?<br />Well guess what? I'm not afraid of you. Dance away.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-30359843459985716102010-02-14T09:00:00.001-08:002010-02-14T09:00:03.138-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/S3cGzo-Wn5I/AAAAAAAAAcQ/sJx3AQN-bm0/s1600-h/20090206151023.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/S3cGzo-Wn5I/AAAAAAAAAcQ/sJx3AQN-bm0/s400/20090206151023.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437822559315206034" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.weheartit.com"><span style="font-size:78%;">we heart it</span></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I'm not yours<br />You're Not Mine<br />Be My Anti-Valentine<br /></span><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-50224183968621369292010-02-13T07:02:00.000-08:002010-02-13T07:14:04.589-08:00When It's over<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_60c4S28IlrQ/S3a_aEenS9I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/GR0CvBDdWOs/s1600-h/540735_old_poster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_60c4S28IlrQ/S3a_aEenS9I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/GR0CvBDdWOs/s320/540735_old_poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437744054696102866" border="0" /></a><br />In a second or a day or fifty years from now, it will be over. Choose your own "it." <span style="font-style: italic;">It</span> doesn't matter. The over part is what's interesting.<br /><br />Peeled and rotten. A moldering book in a second hand bin. Even fame will wash your real self away. So don't struggle to hold on to all that pride and competition. Let it go.<br /><br />I like walking through ruined cities. To stand in parking lot places where there was once a thriving night club. It brings the hope down to size.<br /><br />It reminds me that my thrilling today is someone else's asphalt tomorrow.<br /><br />I like fizzy champagne like Marilyn Monroe. Who was really Norma Jean... who left herself at the door for her moment of wonder, and didn't look back.<br /><br />Me too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-66815441265703098902010-01-23T14:49:00.001-08:002010-01-23T14:53:05.143-08:00Can I be Frank?Or Mary, or Jane? Or Maryjane?<br /><br />Anyone but now or here or how.<br /><br />I don't like sorrow. And it's all I know, and there is no reason really.<br /><br />Even from the ancient days when I was very young the world made me ache.<br /><br />Simplicity is my own tragedy. A full moon. A stark bird. A winter sunset. Sorrow in my bones.<br /><br />Perhaps I am a piece of it and not supposed to be a person at all.<br /><br />Maybe I'm just missing.<br /><br />Can I be the leaves and the sun and the moon and the laughing and the squeaking swings?<br /><br />Can I be many? I don't like one.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-87418140800921657442010-01-12T15:32:00.000-08:002010-01-12T15:39:10.366-08:00And then...She died.<br /><br />And while she died she listened to the world that happened all around her.<br /><br />And she was glad she'd died. Because the world was just fine and didn't need her after all.<br /><br />Is anything really necessary? Or are we all just one moment from a passing thought?<br /><br />She died and was a passing thought.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-9413905517220481272010-01-05T09:24:00.000-08:002010-01-05T09:26:40.877-08:00Bleak and back to blackFreaking dark.<br />How did I get here?<br />I can't feel my toes.<br />I remember flying.<br />I was special. Just like everyone else.<br />It doesn't matter now. Anyhow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-75650799107626951462009-12-16T08:43:00.000-08:002009-12-16T08:51:24.755-08:00Happy Holidays to you tooooooooooo! @#$%^&*<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/rage" target="_blank"><img style="width: 228px; height: 534px;" src="http://i281.photobucket.com/albums/kk227/HazardousOperations/TheMenILove/RageInHeavenR46INS.jpg" alt="Rage In Heaven R46 Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Happy Holidays you Freaking FREAK blond lady who almost killed me and my kids this morning. Yeah YOU who drove the FREAKING PINK PT Cruiser. Custom? F you.<br /><br />Happy Holidays to YOU you F head who yelled at ME after you almost ran me over in the parking lot. Get it? YOU almost ran ME over. Shut up your face.<br /><br />Happy Holidays to all the people on cable news. Get off my tv. Really. And don't tell me I can change the channel.. I can't because your banal chatter seeps into all other forms of media and I can't get away from you.<br /><br />Happy Holidays to YOU my lovely extended family. I say this in response to what will surely come. Can't we all just get along? Must there be tantrums? Can I offer you a Valium or must I crush them up this year and add them to the Prosecco?<br /><br />And Finally a great bit ol' shout out to my work place. Happy Freaking Holidays. Thanks for the no raise, the making me work on my birthday, and the ever present pink slip threat. I triple dog dare you.<br /><br />Phew. I feel better.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-18430514331728178022009-12-09T19:10:00.001-08:002009-12-09T19:13:40.193-08:00RawCutting is a secret thing.<br />It is done in the bathroom<br />with the door locked.<br />It is done with a key,<br />a piece of metal,<br />a razor blade.<br />It is done with anything you can find<br />when you can't stop crying<br />or when pieces of your heart<br />are ripped out and chewed on<br />by sharp teeth.<br />It is done when someone you trust<br />disappoints you.<br />It is done <br />when you aren't good enough.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-75430388754222455272009-12-03T06:06:00.001-08:002009-12-03T06:10:17.685-08:00Inside a box<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_60c4S28IlrQ/SxfGDyeXAyI/AAAAAAAAARQ/NblbdIEr8Eo/s1600-h/rain_reflection_sidewalk_1481567_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_60c4S28IlrQ/SxfGDyeXAyI/AAAAAAAAARQ/NblbdIEr8Eo/s320/rain_reflection_sidewalk_1481567_l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411011245699957538" border="0" /></a><br />I'm inside a box. I knew it when I walked in and they taped it up. I agreed to boxed up life. I planted flowers and drew a yellow sun with a crayon on the top. I made myself small so that I couldn't see the corners.<br /><br />I've grown big like Alice. My back arches against the sun. My head touches my toes. My elbows find the taped up places. <br /><br />I can't stay inside. I can't stay inside.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-25742323936102825612009-11-27T08:17:00.000-08:002009-11-27T08:18:56.946-08:00!<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OHMYGOD</span>!<br /><br />I just realized I've been going at project life all wrong.<br /><br />I've always thought it was like an Arthur Miller play.<br /><br />Yesterday I realized it isn't at ALL!<br /><br />It's a Rogers and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hammerstein</span>!<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">CRAPcrapcrapcrapcrap</span>. (I hate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">musicals</span>)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-28765691200451762992009-11-24T07:43:00.000-08:002009-11-24T07:47:05.926-08:00Try not to kill anyone....Go forth. Be with your families. Paste on the smile. Take a caffeine pill to dull the hunger and a Valium to take the edge off the effects of the caffeine pill. Remember <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> are <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> people. <br /><br />And above all else, try not to kill anyone.<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-67014092431233964862009-11-21T11:07:00.000-08:002009-11-21T11:14:43.074-08:00See that pretty girl in the mirror there....<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/vintage%20%20drugs" target="_blank"><img src="http://i166.photobucket.com/albums/u89/hii_steph_x/tattoo.jpg" alt="pin-up Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'll never be tall. I'm five foot nothing.<br />I'll never be nice. I'm a snarky, judgmental, beastie most of the time.<br />I'll never be barbie. Is there a mean, nasty, dark barbie? There should be.<br />I'll always be strong. I'm not one of those willowy short people. I'm round even when thin. I'd be a round anorexic.<br />I'll always have those tattoos... because .... they are TATTOOS. And I plan<span style="font-style: italic;"> more</span>. Oh yes. <span style="font-weight: bold;">More</span>.<br /><br />But there is a desperate part of me that wants to be tall with a boyish figure without scars and markings. Able to wear yoga pants and walk through the Mall tall and proud into any store. I wish sometimes I was softer. softer. softer.<br /><br />AND THEN..... not so much.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-39118462745105551982009-11-12T12:26:00.000-08:002009-11-12T12:29:36.067-08:00Beauty in the Breakdown?Does a breakdown<br />really lead to a breakthrough?<br /><br />Somehow, I think it only leads to a bottle of pills<br />and the mental institution.<br /><br />I'm on my way.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-7937865079921161062009-11-10T16:05:00.000-08:002009-11-10T16:09:32.064-08:00A Dark Haiku for Mr. TrempThe gray snakes inside<br />I vomit loss on white tile<br />It all turns to wormsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-8016760694929171162009-11-09T05:32:00.001-08:002009-11-09T06:23:09.003-08:00New ConstructionUnborn.<br />Ghostless.<br />Limbless.<br />Yearning.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-1821225182332477402009-11-05T15:32:00.000-08:002009-11-05T17:46:35.333-08:00For You<object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q2JjJPDz3EE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q2JjJPDz3EE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Not my words. Nick Drake's words. His words help me write words.<br /><br />This song always makes me cry. I hope you like it.<br /><br />SuzyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-39829862216190505082009-11-02T09:10:00.000-08:002009-11-03T06:46:36.071-08:00epitaph<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/gravestone%20gothic" target="_blank"><img style="width: 272px; height: 381px;" src="http://i839.photobucket.com/albums/zz320/h-l-g/DSC00662blueangel.jpg" alt="BlueAngel Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I've thought and I've thought. I've finally figured out what I want on my gravestone when I die.<br /><br />"She went barefoot and wrote when she could."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-76026239915935044452009-10-25T10:48:00.000-07:002009-10-25T10:52:10.038-07:00Forget ParisI'll never see Paris in 1920.<br />I'll never visit with my great grandmother at her kitchen table, or run with her through the hillside villages on the Amalfi coast.<br />I'll never get to say goodbye to that little boy who said... "I wish you were my mother."<br />Because he was killed a year later.<br />I'll never get my virginity back.<br />I'll never be sixteen again.<br />I'll never kiss him for the first time.<br /><br /><br />But I can write myself there. All those things can be done and undone. I can write myself anywhere.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-70674207549516532572009-10-21T08:00:00.000-07:002009-10-21T08:00:00.248-07:00A Wednesday Sonnet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/St4U5e-YXBI/AAAAAAAAAbE/sXGx4FQ5Li4/s1600-h/tumblr_kpmbb1lAUY1qzcso1o1_400_large.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/St4U5e-YXBI/AAAAAAAAAbE/sXGx4FQ5Li4/s400/tumblr_kpmbb1lAUY1qzcso1o1_400_large.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394772381436238866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Wednesday is a day of woe<br />when flowers bow their heads to cry<br />and birds cease their singing so<br />you can hear your own heart sigh<br /><br />The clouds sink deep into the mind<br />and the rain keeps crashing on the soul<br />Wednesday is the day you find<br />that life is not worth the heavy toll<br /><br />Wednesday is a day for crying<br />even if the sun shines bright<br />because there's really no use trying<br />when nothing's really worth the fight<br /><br />So if you're always sad and blue<br />then Wednesday is the day for youUnknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-42516217644021290762009-10-14T10:05:00.000-07:002009-10-14T10:10:49.474-07:00I would<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/vintage%20crying" target="_blank"><img style="width: 446px; height: 427px;" src="http://i269.photobucket.com/albums/jj72/corbyrules/hilliersquid.jpg" alt="vintage couple w/ tenticles Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I would rather hear your voice than hear her say yes<br />A sorry would do<br />Yes means nothing to me<br />Without you<br /><br /><br />I hate loveAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-34617517191215127542009-10-09T19:04:00.000-07:002009-10-12T05:45:05.707-07:00On my way to where?In the air. Set free. Unchained.<br /><br />On my way to... Where?<br /><br /><a href="http://natalieshau.carbonmade.com/projects/2328569#8">*photo credit*</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-90154722390861966352009-09-23T06:16:00.001-07:002009-09-23T06:19:40.442-07:00Waiting<img style="visibility: hidden; width: 0px; height: 0px;" src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.0NXC/bHQ9MTI1MzcxMTcyODUxNyZwdD*xMjUzNzExNzY1MzQ3JnA9Mzg2MzYxJmQ9Jm49YmxvZ2dlciZnPTEmbz1iMGNjZmFlMjhiMmE*ZmJiYWU4MTM5ZGQzNTM*MTJlMyZvZj*w.gif" border="0" width="0" height="0" /><a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/vintage%20waiting/inluvwithyou007/Vintage/6.jpg?o=2" target="_blank"><img style="width: 199px; height: 227px;" src="http://i178.photobucket.com/albums/w251/inluvwithyou007/Vintage/6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I have almost (almost) perfected the art of waiting. It's become my hair shirt. My razor blade for hidden places, my drink that no longer gets me drunk.<br /><br />It scratches at me...but I don't move. I sit. I wait. I hold.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-9451765186091659762009-09-15T16:57:00.000-07:002009-09-15T17:02:15.852-07:00S.A.D.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/SrAq9KqyaRI/AAAAAAAAAa0/3ZRBxASwuY8/s1600-h/skeltree02.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sYuUSS4zXTU/SrAq9KqyaRI/AAAAAAAAAa0/3ZRBxASwuY8/s400/skeltree02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381848785031948562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />skeleton trees<br />lose grip on leaves<br />and the sun shines<br />pale light<br />darker and darker<br />the night creeps in<br />at six o'clock<br />bringing the manic heart<br /><br />*Although south Texas is slow at receiving autumn, I can feel it creeping around the corner. I hate to anticipate the moodiness it brings, but dimming light and cooler wind make me a sad girl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-33815975318296225302009-09-15T14:46:00.001-07:002009-09-15T14:51:53.084-07:00Dead Tired<img style="visibility: hidden; width: 0px; height: 0px;" src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.0NXC/bHQ9MTI1MzA1MTA4MjAwMCZwdD*xMjUzMDUxMTEwMzQzJnA9Mzg2MzYxJmQ9Jm49YmxvZ2dlciZnPTEmbz*1Mzk4OTNmNjA1YzU*ZDljODY3YWRjODQyOTUzNGZlMiZvZj*w.gif" width="0" border="0" height="0" /><a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/dead%20eyes/amberevil1/Amanda/eyes.jpg?o=42" target="_blank"><img src="http://i64.photobucket.com/albums/h188/amberevil1/Amanda/eyes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My gut feels like it sits square in my throat. My eyes burn and water, and I'm not crying, I'm not. I'm just tired. Bones aching, fingers linger, feet drag. Slice on the smile. Chores get done. Nothing changes. The world won't stop for me.<br /><br />Patience is harder here in my dead brain. Snapping is the easiest to do. How can I be tired and still scream so loud? It does not seem possible.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6085799910428895895.post-26299187483594289252009-09-11T12:39:00.000-07:002009-09-11T12:45:57.660-07:00Blink<a href="http://photobucket.com/images/vintage%20typewriter" target="_blank"><img style="width: 540px; height: 434px;" src="http://i38.photobucket.com/albums/e103/ebrownphotos/Polaroid%20Image%20Tranfers/00645755.jpg" alt="Vintage Typewriter Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br />I want to be typing my novels on this. While smoking, and drinking enormous amounts of alcohol. To lift the filter. Maybe some of those bent keys don't work and I have to type around an "m" or a "," oh well. I wonder what it was like, before this cursed blinking cursor.<br /><br />The blinking cursor is making me blind.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09556206184198452490noreply@blogger.com8