boys

A bunch of broken parts..

and I can’t seem to find your heart.

It’s always the broken people you can’t forget. The ones so haunted by the past that no matter what they do, they can’t bring themselves to put themselves back together again. How easy for people to forget and turn off their emotions. Just pretend nothing and no one exists, and continue on their days as if nothing has happened. These people were never real to begin with and no matter how many times you try to reach them, they are never there.

I keep knocking on wood, hoping there’s a real boy inside.

Were you ever real? Were you ever truly broken? I have a hard time separating fact from fiction. The more I think about the past, the more I romanticize this nostalgia. Who you were when you’re broken isn’t the person you turned out to be. And yet, I can’t help but keep running back to these broken people. With their hearts on their sleeves, punch drunk off love. Feeling the emotions, I can’t feel anymore.

Could you ever be a real, real boy.

You feel everything then nothing. Then like clockwork you turn off those emotions that made you bold to begin with. How was I to know that I was only knocking on wood? That all my nostalgic ways were built on puppets pretending to be real boys.

I can’t put you back together again.

After all this time has passed, I find myself thinking about you. I no longer feel resentment toward you. I don’t feel hate, I feel nothing. After all this time I know better. I know to stop searching for the broken people that can’t put themselves back together again. Not to go looking for boys that should have grown up to be men. Stop romanticizing the past, with you as a central character. You don’t exist, you were never real to begin with.

You’re not a man, you’re just a mannequin. 

3/17/2007

 

 

 

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Chasing Pavements.

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Even if it leads nowhere..

My skin has turned raw for the countless times I’ve tried to scratch you out from under my skin. Days become months, and still I can’t stop this way of thinking. Why do things that are not meant to be, still effect us ever so passionately? The more I stop thinking about you, the more you continue to get under my skin. I shouldn’t be thinking and driving myself into this madness. Yet, I can’t help myself.

I find myself at a crossroads, between you and moving forward. When I step forward to leave, you’re pulling me two steps back. It wasn’t my intention to keep this going. There are days I have the strength, and then days I can’t bring myself to continue on. What kind of madness has to succumb to this emotion? I don’t know how it got this far or how it even started. The more I think I have a step forward, I keep falling two steps back. I just want to reach you, but I can’t.

I am tired of running after you, chasing you and ending up empty handed. If I fall to my knees I know it’s over. The moment I beg you to stay, you’ve already won. Then again you’re always winning. I can’t help but want you around. Even when I know you chase after everyone else and I am still struggling to keep up. These are my scars. These are my pitfalls. These are my skinned knees and broken veins; I’ve hurt trying to reach you. I should never have let you get so far under my skin, but comfortably you stay there. I want to cut out every piece of you, that still exists inside of me. That still makes me think of you. That still makes me believe that even through the hurt and the pain, it wasn’t worse than anything else in life.

You have this silly way of keeping me on the edge of my seat. Keeping me waiting and wanting more. Waiting never does any good, I’ve grown tired of chasing you. Grown up from the juvenile wants of yesterday. Slowly my wounds heal and eventually you come out from under my skin that you found shelter upon. Watching you leave is easier than chasing you upon a thousand empty pavements. Watching you leave, I watch the past leave with every step you take forward. For the first time I don’t have to race to catch up to you. From where I stand I watch the past end and leave with you. The roads come to life and don’t feel as empty anymore. No longer feeling the need to lead back to you and your far off destinations.

The intention was never to be caught, it was always to leave and see who follows. I won’t be the fool anymore. Here I stand, here I stay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some Boys.

I wonder if you’re all the same.

The same thoughts, the same process, the same cool demeanor.  While I sit here wonder, analyze and change everything. I keep asking myself, what I should be doing. Should I be changing, should I be asking different questions, engaging you in what you want to hear? What am I doing here?  Should I be pretending to be everyone else, under a veil of vulnerability. If what you say and who you are, are completely different people, then who are we really? First impressions mean everything and yet we can’t help but pretend to be different people, hiding under veils of insecurities.

This feels stupid, this feels silly. This lack of self control is slowly going out of control. I calculate my actions so delicately and watch my words fall like chess pieces on the board. It’s all a game and we are all here for taking. What I want and what you want, and seeing how everything evens out. How strong and cool in demeanor you are and how I can’t help but gravitate to those ways. How mysterious the mystery of people really are. How a person can change how you look at things with out doing much of anything.

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I don’t know you. For a brief second, I think I know everything. I don’t. I don’t know anything about you but yet I still want you around. I want to know what darkness harbors underneath your light. All I want is to take apart all your parts and see what makes you tick. It was easier with the other boys. It was easier with the legions of people before.  It frustrates me. It frazzles me. How I wish to pick everything apart but it takes the fun out of everything. The fun out of the adventure. The fun out of the story.  Giving me just enough to keep me coming back for more. All I want is a sign that this will be something. Something, anything from this over analyzing frustrated feeling. This lack of self control drives me insane and yet I embrace the challenge. This isn’t love, this isn’t like, but it feels like something like it. And I just can’t turn it off.

If they ask they receive. If they listen they will see. I wonder if all boys are the same, or if it’s just some boys. How some boys will sing their blues to anyone that will listen. Or is it just you.

Some boys don’t know how to love.

11/5/2015

All the pretty girls.

He was a master of taking hearts but no hearts were ever broken. I never cried for him, I don’t believe anyone else did either. Not that I was aware of, not that I even cared. But the girls like moths flocked to his light. Always all the pretty girls with broken prides and promises. A master of disguise and a gentleman with charming words that entrances even the darkest of hearts. The light that over shadows the illusion of right from wrong. Speaking the words they longed to hear, always there for the taking. Never giving much of anything, but paid no mind taking the countless of hearts that graced his path. A heart lined path that were prized like trophies.

He was so fucking cool.

It was the impression that he gave that made us all wonder. The talking salesman that spoke the words but never cared enough about what the words would mean. His appearance was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, an illusion everyone wanted but nobody could ever attain. The girls knew in the end they were lies but couldn’t help but be wooed in the play. It was always just a play. Just another game that no one ever bothered to win. He won, he lost, most times he just broke even. At least in his mind. The lies out weighed the words and sometimes people would get hurt. Sometimes, but not all the time. He failed to mention certain aspects of his life and in the end everything would come tumbling down. At least that’s what we all wanted. We waited for the demise of the smooth talking man with the cool demeanor. His smooth talking ways would save the world if it could, instead it saved his performance and again he went on his way.

You are so cool.

We all had our part to play. We all had our purpose. All the pretty girls knew to imagine it was over. Don’t believe the gentleman in the sharp suit and the cool talking ways. She knew it all but as silly as girls are believed every lie to be truth. Silly girls believe anything if there’s a feeling involved. Silly girls would drop everything before they fall. Silly girls are silly to believe in the charms of a salesman feeding them lies. We knew it. We all knew it. But we couldn’t help but be silly and foolish in the webs of these lies. We wanted to be the cool girls. The cool girls that could play their part. The cool girls that could match wits with the cool gentleman in the sharp suit. Instead we were all stupid silly girls. Stupid, stupid girls. It wasn’t love, it was lust. It wasn’t fun, it was funny. It was nothing more than a game that we were all sure to lose. No hearts were broken, no hearts were lost. Still he carried our hearts like trophies through paths. The path of victory to the path of our own foolish sorrow. We were all stupid in falling again. Why does this keep happening? Who is the next victim in this play? The play that’s a game and it ends with a loss. What did we lose in the end if it wasn’t our hearts? Just our pride with our dignity in the shameful deceit.

Stupid, silly, girl.

The games are over on my part but I know he still plays. I can’t help but wonder about him from time to time. He liked to talk to all the pretty girls. All the pretty girls at the bar. Sometimes, I want to ask him “Do you still talk to all the pretty girls and lie about all the other girls?”. Is the game still worth the thousands of hearts in your path? Does she know your lies better than the bed you can’t make? I already know all the answers. She makes your bed better than the words that you say. She knows all your lies and still plays all your games. She’s the cool girl in the wave of all the silly stupid girls. But you can’t help but talk to all the pretty girls.

It was always all the pretty girls.