pennylane731's Diaryland Diary

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this is the poem that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend...

the poetry written in red

(yes, red)

across beige pages

and my chardonnay-soaked heart breaks.

i'm trying to prove...what? i don't know.

the inner dialogue, again.

i've spent all night singing

with no audience.

i'm dreaming of glitter

and that sparkly attention it brings.

(maybe it's my cleavage, truth be told)

unsure of how to handle it; still,

i live for it.

nouns and predicates, adjectives

scream at me

from across maps.

but the compass lies to me, babydoll.

there's a line

of those willing to wait

to cross the velvet rope

i amaze myself.

i could be the grandest sinner,

yet i don't.

indulging in little more than solitary vices.

they'd laugh, yes.

because no one's worried anymore.

i'm just kidding, y'all.

let's laugh again.

divide my life in half,

and they're still so fare ahead.

i curse myself, because clearly,

i'm flawed to the point of revulsion.

the digital evidence,

should prove that it's me.

but it's not. some other girl

is smiling gorgeously.

prettygirl

some other dream is in that photograph;

myself...is ugly.

no room to contemplate the whys;

facts and figures multiplied by numbers to scale

and i know it's it.

it's it. (again)

the desperate course of action i'm all too used to

was halted before it began.

i could have catapulted back into that way of life.

someone wanted to kiss me.

someone wanted to fuck me.

someone thought i was beautiful.

but none of those voices belonged to the name i would call.

that voice is ever-fading, unbeknownst.

oh, the uglygirl i've become.

poetry is little relief.

so i wait.

saturday will twirl violently around me,

embraces of friends encircling,

and the smile will be mine, finally, again

for a few brief hours

that will pass millisecond-ly

until the tears reveal

that the words that have never escaped to the world

never really existed at all.

sadly, i'd comply

with any demand.

the screaming never comes

except in my psyche

telling me this

telling me this

i can only believe myself

when it's the only voice i hear,

these days.

the routine:

think back to march

think back to 2 januaries ago

think real, hard.

2+2=july

9 days before the candles.

and i'll make it count, regardless of...

dammit.

i will make this day my miracle.

i deserve it.

i do.

(convince me)

the last minute will not do.

there's a plan formulating.

who's planning? unknown.

the jersey shore is beautiful this time of year.

ripe with the superficial attention

(mejore que nada, i suppose, badly translated)

but i need this.

something.

smiling-winking-watermelon-love-or-something

gimmewhatchagot

happy 29th, girl.

make it count.

11:51 p.m. - 2004-07-22

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