How can you love a broken pencil?

I feel nauseous. Like something terrible is about to happen…or already has. I feel like my grip is slipping off the handle, like I’m slowly but surely descending that spiral into chaos. I don’t have a leg to stand on; these days it’s nothing but me. I can’t quench my need for attention. For people. For love. These are the things my life is lacking. I feel utterly isolated, completely alone. I fear bipolarity; I cannot recognize myself sometimes. Well, I can, but I don’t see myself through my eyes- I see myself through the eyes of God. I can stare into myself and wonder how it is that my mind matches my face. I feel internally displaced. I’m crawling through ink and pastel madly and blindly searching for my catalyst. My Divine inspiration. She used to be you. I thought she always would be. You seem so far away now- you’ve become a fog that I can breathe but not touch. I used to exist because I felt love for you. My love defined my Mortality. But these days, I just feel nervous. Empty. Desperate. I can hear your voice, maybe once a day if I’m lucky. It’s been sounding more and more apathetic. If only I had your sort of apathy. You’re unwieldy nature. You’re kiss on my neck. You’re hips against mine. Keep talking and I’ll keep crawling, bleeding knees and all. I hope you’ll still take a broken soul.

home is where your rump rests

Home. What the fuck does that mean?I’ve asked around. Home is where your family is. I have family in three countries, yet I’m left without any real origin. My immediate family lives thousands of miles away in a city full of strangers. Family is a pretty lose term in my life anyway. I have a huge family and only one person really knows me. Everyone else is more concerned with a façade I present to them. But I digress.

If home isn’t family, then it is “where the heart is.” How do you know where your heart belongs? How do you know when your heart is ready to settle into place and grow into its foundation? I am nineteen, and my heart has a lot to see before it can decide. For now, my heart takes comfort in familiar vices. Drugs, sex, art and music…typical interests for a kid my age I guess. So where am I left?

In an apartment full of strangers and empty of all my passions. It is always dark here. It is always quiet. The moment I walk through that door I feel like a kid in a china shop. “Put your hands in your pockets, don’t disturb anything.” Suddenly I’m five again. Is my music too loud? I’ll wait till two a.m. to paint out here- don’t want to make them feel uncomfortable. And you do feel uncomfortable when I’m around. Why? I almost don’t care anymore. And you wonder why I’m always gone. Should I do the dishes anyway? Is that my fair part? I don’t leave a mess. I don’t eat your food, even though I sometimes go days without eating anything substantial.

There’s a lot to life. There’s a lot out there. There’s a lot still to do. I try to go out and live through experience. There’s a lot outside the dark and quiet confines of this place. I am sorry if I offend you. I am sorry if my lifestyle does not align with your morals and ideals. This places is not my home, and it never will be. This feels more like a tomb than a house. You will probably remain strangers to me. You will still look at me with judgment. I will still dread being here. But the city is calling. I’ll keep my toothbrush in my car, and I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Live Epic.