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| Where the fuck are my adoring fans? I am eighteen years, one month, and 12 days old, so accustomed to being seen as something more than a two star talent, more than something, more than Akron, Ohio. And I've made the step, not the jump, but the step towards something and already I see the absence of my followers. This is not humbling; this is hopeful. Thank God, some one is here to keep me on my toes.
I'd like to be demeaned. I'd like to be pushed down, fuck up, and seen as something else that you can or cannot handle. I'd like for you to see something more in the world. "I'm not your savior or you heavenly host; I'm just a piece of slavoc toast getting soggy in a baby's aching mouth..." Does this make sense? God, of course it doesn't and that makes me sad.
See us for all our splendor, all our cons, all our goddam dirty faults, and holiness and please still dream.
Just another glass girl follower,
Miss Maria
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| Who would have guessed we'd grow up to be the kind of girls who'd never trust the boys who call us pretty.
Who would have guessed we'd turn into the kind of girls who'd just want to wear
roller skates
ballet shoes
converse
stilettos
skin
I guess I never gave up on getting out of this two star town
And dancing in and out of you low cast glances and intermittent romances is just what kept us busy.
I guess we deserve better.
We deserve more.
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| Guess I'm one of those kids who search for compliments and don't know what to make with them.
Maybe a bridge? or a Cake? Or new found self-esteem level?
Oh the possibilities.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" I looked up at Dave and his all knowing height. He was so tall and the way he looked up and sipped at his cigarette just made him look ten times bigger than me. We were just hanging out in his room again, listening to the birds outside and the leaky faucet in the bathroom next door.
"Huh?" The sound just fell out of his mouth like a ledge.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" I couldn't help but keep looking for the answer. I wanted him to think I was pretty. I wanted to be pretty. It sucked 'cause in the three years I had spent dancing, no one had ever just called me pretty. Dave looked at me and let his cigarette butt fall fall from his fingers as if he had just forgotten about it.
His foot stepped over it and he looked at me, touched my face and I watched his eyes dart back and forth like he was trying to decide right now.
"Well, I guess," he said. "I guess you are pretty. You've got a nice face, nice eyes, nice lips, and nice hair, nice everything, I guess. Who would have guessed. You are very pretty." And he just lit another cigarette.
I smiled and I wasn't sure what I expected. Being left with this empty feeling. I guess I am very pretty, sitting with a boy who'd listen to broken faucets with me even if I wasn't.
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| Writing... I've been trying to write... and failing.
I've been barely getting 100 words done a day and it's bringing me down. Jack Kerouac used to get around 1000 to 2000 words done a day.
That's how I used to write a month or so ago.
But as I fall back and forth into my nihilistic tendencies, I'm starting to freak myself out. I think I'm actually becoming an atheist. A side of life that I've never ventured into. I know that I'm impatient and I know that I'm failing to be humble, but is there anything else to learn here on Earth? Is there anything else at all?
I'm just looking for something poetic to believe in.
That's all.
I'm just curious, has anyone here noticed that my writing style has gone downhill? I have.
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| i slept on a bed
when you were alone
i was surrounded
when you had forgotten me
I prayed for you
Sometimes I grow curious as to where is my angry side. Where is my passion when I walk through doors that remind me of fathers and first loves? I flutter and smile and I laugh nervously because that is my blank response to everything that you have to say. It's worse when I'm caffeinated. It worst when you're tired. I have no heart, sad boy. I just pick up trash because the world needs someone to.
I write desperately. I'm pretty desperate.
I don't mind when people take advantage of me anymore. I look at their sad faces after wards and know that they'll never forgive themselves for doing it; so, I ought to do it for them.
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