Sometimes I feel like it only rains at your house
Sometimes I feel like it only rains when I’m with you
Dark clouds cover my heart like leather on a beating drum
Lightning ignites my passion for you,
But burns down our forest of love
Delicate trees all smoke and singe now
Left standing bare,
Covered in vulnerable ash
Naked as our love
Thunder pounds against my every desire to stay
But I tell myself we can’t
Beating incessantly in my brain until I pray for my eyes to weep
I can’t hold you now
I can’t be with you
I can’t love you now
Rain won’t fall from the darkness of my soul
Tears won’t come from empty clouds
I crawl back to your house
Like a dying piece of road kill across the highway
I crawl to you
Looking for hope
Love
Friendship, anything
I want there to be something
But you can’t fix a heart already battered and broken
You can’t love the unlovable
You can’t be mine
It only rains at your house
It only rains when I’m with you.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Whiskey Tears Run Dry
“Got fired again didn’t you?”
My father’s voice, barking hatred at me through my cell phone, would seem angry to anyone else, but I’ve come to actually know this tone as calm. Years of berating and abuse have brought me to know when he’s truly upset and when he’s just venting. I know he’ll continue, and I know I thrive on his yelling for my own self-pity.
“Probably already at the bar. Aren’t you? Do you ever leave there?”
“Yes Pop, I’m at the bar. If you want, I’ll have a shot for you while I’m waiting to go to hell.” These words drip out of my mouth with a little bit of whiskey-flavored saliva and the disdain I feel for life.
A damp hole in the wall escape from reality that this bar meant to everyone who crossed its threshold had become home. An impressive mosaic of glass litters the wall behind the bartender, but all I can see is the half-empty bottle of Cutty that I am sure should just be hooked up to an IV and pumped straight into my veins.
“You’re never going to grow up, are you? You’ll live your whole life in that dark grave of a bar. I used to wonder when you were going to settle down, meet a nice girl and maybe have children, but now I have no hope for that. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being, and I--”
“You what Pop? You wish I’d never been fucking born?” I could feel my words making the vain in his forehead bulge. Through his silence, I could hear his thin lips pressed together so tightly in anger that they would burst if not sewn together by better judgment.
“Can’t say it, can ya Pop?” I pushed my shot glass to the edge of the deep oak bar, but the bartender ignored me again. “Fine then, I’ll fucking say it. The world would be a better place if I had died instead of Mom.”
“I never said that!”
I’ve tried desperately my whole life to block his voice from my mind. I feel the pain from his words beating on my eardrums, and soon they fall into rhythm with the music that pained itself to fill the empty smoky air of this desolate bar. The ole’ jukebox gasped for breath as the song skipped and started over. Years of scratching due to people throwing each other against it made Led Zeppelin the constant theme music for this bar. My ears are begging me to only hear the notes of “Stairway to Heaven” as my father continues his speech of embarrassment.
“I’m just disappointed, that’s all. If I had known this would be what you’ve become—you’re right. I would’ve have rethought ever having you.”
“Fuck you, Pop. You hear me? Fuck you!”
“I should have killed you when you were born! You worthless, no-good, piece of –“ The sound of my father’s voice drowns in my draft Bud Light as the phone sinks to the bottom of the glass. Foam slides slyly down the side of the glass and forms a pool of despair on the bar.
Sometimes I wish he had killed me when I was born. It would have saved me the trouble of trying to do it with alcohol myself twenty-nine years later.
Cough
You can’t cough in this bar. I feel my own eyebrow raise at the sound of this lonely hack. The stagnant smell of dried hops, desperate cigar resin, and stale dreams is more appealing than a phlegm-filled cough in this bar. If you’re going to cough in this bar you might as well just lower your head beneath the cancer clouds and leave. You’ve given yourself away. Only true dedicated smokers belong in this bar.
“Another whiskey, double, neat.” I mutter, once the bartender looks at me. He gives me an odd look and pulls the cell phone out of my beer.
“Probably don’t get a decent signal in there.” I don’t find him amusing and I refuse to associate with my poison supplier. As he empties my ashtray, he continues in monotone as if reading from a script. “Cutty, I assume.”
I nodded and turn my attention back to the sullen man down the bar. The cougher. Perhaps he coughs to avoid vomiting on his mangled half-buttoned plaid shirt. Or perhaps he did it to ease the onset of tuberculosis that was breeding new members in the fleshy ash-filled cubicles of his lungs. Whatever it was, as the smoke escapes his mouth, his cough twists his entire face into an illustration of pain.
Through that pain I see him. He raises his ale to cracked lips, and as I watch the gulp that swallows his dreams day after day, foam crawls out of his mouth and trickles down five o’clock whiskers at nine a.m. Even lonely beer foam searches for an escape from this man. He feels my glance and smiles at me. As he hiccups a burp through his nose I know this man sees me too. He makes me shiver.
The only other person in here, besides the cougher and me, is the bartender. I have nothing to distract me. I have no one. I swivel around on my stool and hide myself in my American Spirit. The smoke lingers on my lips and I can’t pull myself away from this man. This man, this pathetic mangled mess of self-pity at the opposite end of the bar has drawn me in. He’s captivated me, and I have to turn back around just to feel his presence.
His beer is half-empty, and I see the shot glass in front of him. I pull my whiskey double towards me and lift it to him. I toast to this man and he raises his fingerprinted glass to me. We down the shot in silence and out of the corner of my eyes I see that we are both drowning in our own failure.
I slam my money down on the bar and swallow the rest of my beer hoping to swallow the lump of desperation in my throat. I take one last look at the cougher and as he sets his empty beer down he winks a tear filled eye at me. I smile at him and I see that he’s playing with something. A matchbook twirls through his fingers like yarn through a spinster’s wheel. It flickers in the dungeon lighting and I question if that’s all he has left in the world. I snuff my cigarette in the barren ashtray and I leave.
My steps are heavy and full of dread as I leave the darkness of my sanctuary for the bright reality outside. The movement and finality of life makes me cringe and wince in the light of day. The traffic in the street flies by, as oblivious to me as I am to the world. The sounds overwhelm my mind and I pull my hands to my ears sheltering my brain from their harshness. A rush of wind hits me like a bus and as I step into the street I feel released. A woman screams.
I turn to see her but I only catch a glimpse before she melts into the blurred canvas of the sidewalk traffic behind her. She screams again but I still can’t see her and the scream can only be heard in my left ear.
I reach for my American Spirits and as I place one in my cracked lips, I feel something in my pocket. Where my lighter should be there’s a thin paper like object. I quickly pull it out and see it’s a matchbook.
I weave it through my fingers and realize it belongs to the cougher. I open the packet and see that there are no matches left.
“Figures.” Mumbling to myself, I shove it back into my pocket. I hear sirens but their only in my left ear and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m in a catacomb. Everything around me has faded in an eternal dark blur. Nothing makes sense anymore.
This old man’s fucking with me. I thought to myself. He did something to my beer. I oughta go back and kick the shit out of him.
I stumble back on to the sidewalk. I walk through the screaming woman. I can’t feel my legs but my anger is pulling me back into that bar. I fall into the doorway. The heavy oak door slams behind me like a coffin lid and the light from the outside world is swallowed.
“Where is he!?!?!” My voice is harsh and loud, I can hear it echo in my own head. But the bartender doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“Hey! I was talking to you! Where’s that guy?” Still he ignores my demands. The screaming woman screeches through the door and the daylight temporarily blinds the bartender.
“Someone got hit! Call 911!” She screams pleadingly, and runs back out into the street. The bartender turns and runs to the back room.
Oh so he hears her!
Furious at this point, I push stools out of my way as I fly to the end of bar where the cougher had been perched. Only before I can get there, I run smack into a mirror. Putting my hand to my head I feel blood rush over my fingers and down my arm. I don’t feel any pain. I look at the mirror and I see no crack, no mark on it whatsoever.
I see my reflection.
Blood is dripping from my brain, which is exposed from the right side of my forehead deep into my receding hairline. My right eyelid is sewn shut with blood and gravel is woven into the entire right side of my face. The left side seems to be smashed into the right side. My nose is defying all laws of nature and holding it’s own against the left side of my face melting into the right. Blood trickles from my dangling right ear into my unshaven neck, soaking my unbuttoned and torn flannel shirt where my left arm hangs limp and dislocated.
I must have hit it hard.
I’m horrified that I could survive such war wounds and yet the mirror shows no signs of battle scars.
I need a cigarette.
I pull out the empty matches and as they lie in my blood stained shaking palm I remember the cougher. He has messed with my mind. I look back to where I knew he would be. That man of a dying cough and dead dreams. All I see is the mirror. In that mirror I see, not the old man, not even myself, but rather my father.
I slam my fist into the mirror and it shatters into all the pieces of my life. The bartender reappears quickly looking shaken and bewildered at the shattered glass.
Here's to you, Pop!
“Another Whiskey neat, and make it a double.”
My father’s voice, barking hatred at me through my cell phone, would seem angry to anyone else, but I’ve come to actually know this tone as calm. Years of berating and abuse have brought me to know when he’s truly upset and when he’s just venting. I know he’ll continue, and I know I thrive on his yelling for my own self-pity.
“Probably already at the bar. Aren’t you? Do you ever leave there?”
“Yes Pop, I’m at the bar. If you want, I’ll have a shot for you while I’m waiting to go to hell.” These words drip out of my mouth with a little bit of whiskey-flavored saliva and the disdain I feel for life.
A damp hole in the wall escape from reality that this bar meant to everyone who crossed its threshold had become home. An impressive mosaic of glass litters the wall behind the bartender, but all I can see is the half-empty bottle of Cutty that I am sure should just be hooked up to an IV and pumped straight into my veins.
“You’re never going to grow up, are you? You’ll live your whole life in that dark grave of a bar. I used to wonder when you were going to settle down, meet a nice girl and maybe have children, but now I have no hope for that. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being, and I--”
“You what Pop? You wish I’d never been fucking born?” I could feel my words making the vain in his forehead bulge. Through his silence, I could hear his thin lips pressed together so tightly in anger that they would burst if not sewn together by better judgment.
“Can’t say it, can ya Pop?” I pushed my shot glass to the edge of the deep oak bar, but the bartender ignored me again. “Fine then, I’ll fucking say it. The world would be a better place if I had died instead of Mom.”
“I never said that!”
I’ve tried desperately my whole life to block his voice from my mind. I feel the pain from his words beating on my eardrums, and soon they fall into rhythm with the music that pained itself to fill the empty smoky air of this desolate bar. The ole’ jukebox gasped for breath as the song skipped and started over. Years of scratching due to people throwing each other against it made Led Zeppelin the constant theme music for this bar. My ears are begging me to only hear the notes of “Stairway to Heaven” as my father continues his speech of embarrassment.
“I’m just disappointed, that’s all. If I had known this would be what you’ve become—you’re right. I would’ve have rethought ever having you.”
“Fuck you, Pop. You hear me? Fuck you!”
“I should have killed you when you were born! You worthless, no-good, piece of –“ The sound of my father’s voice drowns in my draft Bud Light as the phone sinks to the bottom of the glass. Foam slides slyly down the side of the glass and forms a pool of despair on the bar.
Sometimes I wish he had killed me when I was born. It would have saved me the trouble of trying to do it with alcohol myself twenty-nine years later.
Cough
You can’t cough in this bar. I feel my own eyebrow raise at the sound of this lonely hack. The stagnant smell of dried hops, desperate cigar resin, and stale dreams is more appealing than a phlegm-filled cough in this bar. If you’re going to cough in this bar you might as well just lower your head beneath the cancer clouds and leave. You’ve given yourself away. Only true dedicated smokers belong in this bar.
“Another whiskey, double, neat.” I mutter, once the bartender looks at me. He gives me an odd look and pulls the cell phone out of my beer.
“Probably don’t get a decent signal in there.” I don’t find him amusing and I refuse to associate with my poison supplier. As he empties my ashtray, he continues in monotone as if reading from a script. “Cutty, I assume.”
I nodded and turn my attention back to the sullen man down the bar. The cougher. Perhaps he coughs to avoid vomiting on his mangled half-buttoned plaid shirt. Or perhaps he did it to ease the onset of tuberculosis that was breeding new members in the fleshy ash-filled cubicles of his lungs. Whatever it was, as the smoke escapes his mouth, his cough twists his entire face into an illustration of pain.
Through that pain I see him. He raises his ale to cracked lips, and as I watch the gulp that swallows his dreams day after day, foam crawls out of his mouth and trickles down five o’clock whiskers at nine a.m. Even lonely beer foam searches for an escape from this man. He feels my glance and smiles at me. As he hiccups a burp through his nose I know this man sees me too. He makes me shiver.
The only other person in here, besides the cougher and me, is the bartender. I have nothing to distract me. I have no one. I swivel around on my stool and hide myself in my American Spirit. The smoke lingers on my lips and I can’t pull myself away from this man. This man, this pathetic mangled mess of self-pity at the opposite end of the bar has drawn me in. He’s captivated me, and I have to turn back around just to feel his presence.
His beer is half-empty, and I see the shot glass in front of him. I pull my whiskey double towards me and lift it to him. I toast to this man and he raises his fingerprinted glass to me. We down the shot in silence and out of the corner of my eyes I see that we are both drowning in our own failure.
I slam my money down on the bar and swallow the rest of my beer hoping to swallow the lump of desperation in my throat. I take one last look at the cougher and as he sets his empty beer down he winks a tear filled eye at me. I smile at him and I see that he’s playing with something. A matchbook twirls through his fingers like yarn through a spinster’s wheel. It flickers in the dungeon lighting and I question if that’s all he has left in the world. I snuff my cigarette in the barren ashtray and I leave.
My steps are heavy and full of dread as I leave the darkness of my sanctuary for the bright reality outside. The movement and finality of life makes me cringe and wince in the light of day. The traffic in the street flies by, as oblivious to me as I am to the world. The sounds overwhelm my mind and I pull my hands to my ears sheltering my brain from their harshness. A rush of wind hits me like a bus and as I step into the street I feel released. A woman screams.
I turn to see her but I only catch a glimpse before she melts into the blurred canvas of the sidewalk traffic behind her. She screams again but I still can’t see her and the scream can only be heard in my left ear.
I reach for my American Spirits and as I place one in my cracked lips, I feel something in my pocket. Where my lighter should be there’s a thin paper like object. I quickly pull it out and see it’s a matchbook.
I weave it through my fingers and realize it belongs to the cougher. I open the packet and see that there are no matches left.
“Figures.” Mumbling to myself, I shove it back into my pocket. I hear sirens but their only in my left ear and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m in a catacomb. Everything around me has faded in an eternal dark blur. Nothing makes sense anymore.
This old man’s fucking with me. I thought to myself. He did something to my beer. I oughta go back and kick the shit out of him.
I stumble back on to the sidewalk. I walk through the screaming woman. I can’t feel my legs but my anger is pulling me back into that bar. I fall into the doorway. The heavy oak door slams behind me like a coffin lid and the light from the outside world is swallowed.
“Where is he!?!?!” My voice is harsh and loud, I can hear it echo in my own head. But the bartender doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“Hey! I was talking to you! Where’s that guy?” Still he ignores my demands. The screaming woman screeches through the door and the daylight temporarily blinds the bartender.
“Someone got hit! Call 911!” She screams pleadingly, and runs back out into the street. The bartender turns and runs to the back room.
Oh so he hears her!
Furious at this point, I push stools out of my way as I fly to the end of bar where the cougher had been perched. Only before I can get there, I run smack into a mirror. Putting my hand to my head I feel blood rush over my fingers and down my arm. I don’t feel any pain. I look at the mirror and I see no crack, no mark on it whatsoever.
I see my reflection.
Blood is dripping from my brain, which is exposed from the right side of my forehead deep into my receding hairline. My right eyelid is sewn shut with blood and gravel is woven into the entire right side of my face. The left side seems to be smashed into the right side. My nose is defying all laws of nature and holding it’s own against the left side of my face melting into the right. Blood trickles from my dangling right ear into my unshaven neck, soaking my unbuttoned and torn flannel shirt where my left arm hangs limp and dislocated.
I must have hit it hard.
I’m horrified that I could survive such war wounds and yet the mirror shows no signs of battle scars.
I need a cigarette.
I pull out the empty matches and as they lie in my blood stained shaking palm I remember the cougher. He has messed with my mind. I look back to where I knew he would be. That man of a dying cough and dead dreams. All I see is the mirror. In that mirror I see, not the old man, not even myself, but rather my father.
I slam my fist into the mirror and it shatters into all the pieces of my life. The bartender reappears quickly looking shaken and bewildered at the shattered glass.
Here's to you, Pop!
“Another Whiskey neat, and make it a double.”
Alive and Dirty
Jen adjusted her skintight skirt as she plopped down into the booth seat across from me. A gust of Curve perfume overpowered the scent of freshly skewered scallops that had been tickling my nose as I watched her enter. The busy bee chatter of all the other patrons melted away, or maybe surrendered, to the confidence in her voice.
"Couldn’t pony up to the bar in this joint, eh?"
I smiled and laughed politely at her comment because I knew it was her way of telling me we were getting drunk no matter how suave this place may have been. Jen’s hair matched the table’s place setting. It looked carefully arranged in an elegant design of culinary perfection. Each piece strategically placed in its spot. Seemingly flawless, but in reality both her hair and the table probably only took minutes to create.
My gaze drifted above her hair and I noticed the painting behind her. My father had pictures of that same boat with at least twenty sails, sitting statuesque like amongst rough waters. The canvas was delicately pieced together with the swift yet painfully exerted strokes of a mediocre artist. In the dim light, my eyes were drawn back down to the unblemished post-modern canvas of Jen’s face.
I noticed the audacity drip from her freshly glossed lips when she barked, "Two martini’s. Extra dirty." before the waitress—dressed as a man to avoid discrimination lawsuits—could even set our mountain spring in a crystal glass on the table. I knew why she ordered them that way. I could see the reason sparkle in her eyes even through the blinding flash of her earrings. Jen likes to say dirty. Even more than the owner of this restaurant wanted us to feel that the lobster was caught fresh from the Atlantic that morning, Jen wanted the world to know she likes to say dirty. The beautiful masquerade of glam, eloquence and pride on the outside of both Jen and the restaurant was nothing more than a simple façade. Inside Jen’s empty word, dirty, lied the same insecurity that kept the manager of this establishment awake at night.
"Do you think anyone cares?" Jen muttered as she looked around at people she’d already judged by the clothes they wore.
"Do you think anyone cares about what?" I noticed my voice was just above a whisper, and yet I couldn’t figure out why it had come out this way.
"Cares about any of this? Are we just all pre-programmed to go through every day with the same pattern?"
She had me confused. These questions were Jen’s way of being philosophical, but since when did she think on a Friday? "Ah fuck it all! Let’s just do what we do best. Get lit. Where’d that bitch of a waitress go?"
"Probably to pee in your martini, hooker." I winked and smiled at her, knowing she’d say something twice as bad to me. A fork dropped, and as I glanced at the ancient woman to our right, I knew her butter sauce she’d been using no longer made the over-priced King Crab taste quite as succulent.
"Probably." Jen looked down into her purse, searching frantically for a Camel Special Light. She hadn’t said anything. Was something wrong? Did all our years of calling each other names and making lewd comments that made respectable people cringe, finally wear off on her? "But, you’ll wish it was pee when you figure out what I told her to do to yours."
I laughed in relief and searched for my cigarettes too. Jen was the first person I knew that ever admitted to liking smoking. And until I met Jen, that even included myself. We both knew it would kill us eventually, but we rationalized that our livers would probably croak way before our lungs ran out on us. It was arrogant and naïve thinking, but truthfully we felt that it fit us. Jen was the only person that I could sit next to in silence and light one lonely cigarette after the next without ever feeling bad about it. I liked the way the warm fog covered my tongue and danced down my throat every time I smoked with Jen. The burning made me feel alive rather than like it was killing me. It was a dirty habit, but it made me feel the same way Jen made me feel. Alive and dirty. Only dirty because I was alive and only alive because I was dirty.
"So, what gives?" Jen mumbled through her cigarette. Her manicured hands pulled out a lighter from her purse—which matched her earrings, belt, makeup and probably underwear—and in one smooth movement she pulled the flame to her cigarette, switched hands, blew smoke through her nose, and dropped the lighter back in her bag. A curl of smoke lingered on her lips as she continued. "Oh don’t look at me like that, Jenna. I know you better than I know me. So c’mon hoebag, spill it."
"I’m moving." That was it. Two words and yet the repercussions and animosity I thought it might have created made me feel like I was giving the State of the Union address. My shoulders felt ten times lighter, but I still hadn’t looked up. I was staring at my cigarette. Watching it slowly burn down until I could see the camels feet give way to the ash. The ash was dirty.
"Yeah OK. How long you think you’ll make it?" I looked up to see Jen with a cockass grin on her face telling me with a smirk that she didn’t think I’d make it. Jen had moved away once and came back after three months. I knew that in her heart she knew I’d go the same way I knew she would go, but I also felt her reluctance to believe it.
"Um… at least three years."
Jen took another hit of her cigarette, flicked the flaky ash into the darken tray of things that will kill us, and looked out the window. I looked outside too. I think we were both hoping for something to walk by and distract us from this moment. The harder I stared the less I saw. It was dark out and all I could really see was our reflection. We were so out of place in this restaurant or out of our element, as Jen would say. Individually we’d fit in just fine, but the relationship Jen and I had we rarely fit in anywhere together. We were crude, judgmental, and complete jerks to people we didn’t know or approve of, but we loved each other. We had a relationship that was based on our superficiality, but it was more real than anything either of us had known. Our relationship was dirty. The light from our booth divided us in the table, but on that night as I stared at our reflection I saw how we completed each other.
"I’ll miss you," Jen snuffed her cigarette into the ashtray and quickly pulled her menu up to hide her glossy eyes. I pulled mine up also, but a glimmer in the window caught my eye. It was my earring. I looked at a reflection of routinely done hair, unblemished makeup, and more audacity than I saw in Jen. In all the expectations and cruelty we’d passed on other people, I never thought about how much we had passed on each other. "but we all have to grow up sometime." Her voice comforted me in that moment and those words would follow me to where ever I decided to end up.
"What did you mean by do you think anyone cares?" I questioned her early statement partly out of curiosity, but mainly hoping to lighten the mood. The waitress returned at that moment and to my surprise, Jen looked just as relieved as I was to see her. Jen rolled her eyes as the poor girl frantically set down our drinks trying not to spill on the ivory sateen tablecloth.
"I’ll have the seafood alfredo, baked potato with sour cream and a side of ranch, a garden salad with a side of ranch, and could you keep the martini’s coming. We’re drinking to this bitch leaving me!"
The waitress hadn’t heard the last little bit, she was too busy searching for a pad of paper in the tool belt that loosely hung from the spot where a normal woman’s hips would be to scribble down Jen’s order. Jen rolled her eyes and I just smiled as I waited for the waitress to catch up. She stopped writing but didn’t look up. I raised my eyebrow at Jen and then realized the waitress had expected me to order in the same manner as Jen, with no warning. I waited. She had to look up eventually. I took this opportunity to scrutinize her more closely.
From afar she embodied the perfect high-scale downtown waitress. But as I placed my judgmental eye on her, I saw more. Her shirt had to have come from a sale rack at an outlet mall, and the pants were well worn and faded. Small stains of what I hope is sauce or alcohol litters the front of her tool belt/apron, but would not be noticed by the untrained eye. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes were slowly molding into slits from the pressure that was placed on them forty hours a week. Her eye makeup is too thick on the right eyelid and her foundation isn’t blended into her hairline. She looks tired for the beginning of her Friday night shift, and her lack of expression gives away that she’d probably look tired even with twenty-four hours of sleep. Finally she looks at me, I smile and for a moment I think I see a sparkle in her eyes. I wonder if people often wait for her, or if people even smile at her?
"I’ll have the lobster stuffed ravioli, with the mashed potatoes, and a Caesar salad." She smiled back at me and asked us if we wanted anything else. We shook our heads no and she left quietly.
"Hope she doesn’t shit in your ranch." I say to Jen and the ancient woman to our left now puts down her fork and pushes her food away.
"Eh, wouldn’t be the first time." Jen laughed and pulled another cigarette from her purse. "I meant that I’m not sure any of this really matters. I always knew you’d eventually go, I guess I just never thought of us as being apart. I’m glad you’re moving because I’ve really been thinking that we need to grow up. I’m proud of you for moving, No city can handle us both for too long!" I thought I saw her hand tremble as she lifted it up to light her cigarette, but I ignored it. This was my girl that liked to say dirty. And if anyone could say it with confidence of knowing it meant something other than the PG rated version, it was my Jen.
"Damn straight! And hey, you can come out and we’ll get lit and do stupid shit just like we would do anywhere else."
She smiled and blew a cloud of smoke in my face as I said this.
"Start saving hoebag, you’re coming to visit. So deal with it you dirty bitch!"
I lit my cigarette and Jen’s cell phone went off. I knew we were done with the serious talking. I watched the waitress rush from table to table and I wondered why I had looked at her so carefully. I wondered if what I was looking for was a way to get away from my cynicism without leaving my Jen. Yet, as Jen cackled into the phone, winking at me constantly, I knew no matter where I moved I would never leave Jen.
We did get drunk that night and we didn’t grow up at all. If anything I’m pretty sure we slid backwards a decade or two because the moonwalk and running man made their appearances. Part of the fun of being with Jen is the immature part. Most of the fun with Jen though has to be taken in stride. As dirty as our friendship was, it always got better with vodka.
"Couldn’t pony up to the bar in this joint, eh?"
I smiled and laughed politely at her comment because I knew it was her way of telling me we were getting drunk no matter how suave this place may have been. Jen’s hair matched the table’s place setting. It looked carefully arranged in an elegant design of culinary perfection. Each piece strategically placed in its spot. Seemingly flawless, but in reality both her hair and the table probably only took minutes to create.
My gaze drifted above her hair and I noticed the painting behind her. My father had pictures of that same boat with at least twenty sails, sitting statuesque like amongst rough waters. The canvas was delicately pieced together with the swift yet painfully exerted strokes of a mediocre artist. In the dim light, my eyes were drawn back down to the unblemished post-modern canvas of Jen’s face.
I noticed the audacity drip from her freshly glossed lips when she barked, "Two martini’s. Extra dirty." before the waitress—dressed as a man to avoid discrimination lawsuits—could even set our mountain spring in a crystal glass on the table. I knew why she ordered them that way. I could see the reason sparkle in her eyes even through the blinding flash of her earrings. Jen likes to say dirty. Even more than the owner of this restaurant wanted us to feel that the lobster was caught fresh from the Atlantic that morning, Jen wanted the world to know she likes to say dirty. The beautiful masquerade of glam, eloquence and pride on the outside of both Jen and the restaurant was nothing more than a simple façade. Inside Jen’s empty word, dirty, lied the same insecurity that kept the manager of this establishment awake at night.
"Do you think anyone cares?" Jen muttered as she looked around at people she’d already judged by the clothes they wore.
"Do you think anyone cares about what?" I noticed my voice was just above a whisper, and yet I couldn’t figure out why it had come out this way.
"Cares about any of this? Are we just all pre-programmed to go through every day with the same pattern?"
She had me confused. These questions were Jen’s way of being philosophical, but since when did she think on a Friday? "Ah fuck it all! Let’s just do what we do best. Get lit. Where’d that bitch of a waitress go?"
"Probably to pee in your martini, hooker." I winked and smiled at her, knowing she’d say something twice as bad to me. A fork dropped, and as I glanced at the ancient woman to our right, I knew her butter sauce she’d been using no longer made the over-priced King Crab taste quite as succulent.
"Probably." Jen looked down into her purse, searching frantically for a Camel Special Light. She hadn’t said anything. Was something wrong? Did all our years of calling each other names and making lewd comments that made respectable people cringe, finally wear off on her? "But, you’ll wish it was pee when you figure out what I told her to do to yours."
I laughed in relief and searched for my cigarettes too. Jen was the first person I knew that ever admitted to liking smoking. And until I met Jen, that even included myself. We both knew it would kill us eventually, but we rationalized that our livers would probably croak way before our lungs ran out on us. It was arrogant and naïve thinking, but truthfully we felt that it fit us. Jen was the only person that I could sit next to in silence and light one lonely cigarette after the next without ever feeling bad about it. I liked the way the warm fog covered my tongue and danced down my throat every time I smoked with Jen. The burning made me feel alive rather than like it was killing me. It was a dirty habit, but it made me feel the same way Jen made me feel. Alive and dirty. Only dirty because I was alive and only alive because I was dirty.
"So, what gives?" Jen mumbled through her cigarette. Her manicured hands pulled out a lighter from her purse—which matched her earrings, belt, makeup and probably underwear—and in one smooth movement she pulled the flame to her cigarette, switched hands, blew smoke through her nose, and dropped the lighter back in her bag. A curl of smoke lingered on her lips as she continued. "Oh don’t look at me like that, Jenna. I know you better than I know me. So c’mon hoebag, spill it."
"I’m moving." That was it. Two words and yet the repercussions and animosity I thought it might have created made me feel like I was giving the State of the Union address. My shoulders felt ten times lighter, but I still hadn’t looked up. I was staring at my cigarette. Watching it slowly burn down until I could see the camels feet give way to the ash. The ash was dirty.
"Yeah OK. How long you think you’ll make it?" I looked up to see Jen with a cockass grin on her face telling me with a smirk that she didn’t think I’d make it. Jen had moved away once and came back after three months. I knew that in her heart she knew I’d go the same way I knew she would go, but I also felt her reluctance to believe it.
"Um… at least three years."
Jen took another hit of her cigarette, flicked the flaky ash into the darken tray of things that will kill us, and looked out the window. I looked outside too. I think we were both hoping for something to walk by and distract us from this moment. The harder I stared the less I saw. It was dark out and all I could really see was our reflection. We were so out of place in this restaurant or out of our element, as Jen would say. Individually we’d fit in just fine, but the relationship Jen and I had we rarely fit in anywhere together. We were crude, judgmental, and complete jerks to people we didn’t know or approve of, but we loved each other. We had a relationship that was based on our superficiality, but it was more real than anything either of us had known. Our relationship was dirty. The light from our booth divided us in the table, but on that night as I stared at our reflection I saw how we completed each other.
"I’ll miss you," Jen snuffed her cigarette into the ashtray and quickly pulled her menu up to hide her glossy eyes. I pulled mine up also, but a glimmer in the window caught my eye. It was my earring. I looked at a reflection of routinely done hair, unblemished makeup, and more audacity than I saw in Jen. In all the expectations and cruelty we’d passed on other people, I never thought about how much we had passed on each other. "but we all have to grow up sometime." Her voice comforted me in that moment and those words would follow me to where ever I decided to end up.
"What did you mean by do you think anyone cares?" I questioned her early statement partly out of curiosity, but mainly hoping to lighten the mood. The waitress returned at that moment and to my surprise, Jen looked just as relieved as I was to see her. Jen rolled her eyes as the poor girl frantically set down our drinks trying not to spill on the ivory sateen tablecloth.
"I’ll have the seafood alfredo, baked potato with sour cream and a side of ranch, a garden salad with a side of ranch, and could you keep the martini’s coming. We’re drinking to this bitch leaving me!"
The waitress hadn’t heard the last little bit, she was too busy searching for a pad of paper in the tool belt that loosely hung from the spot where a normal woman’s hips would be to scribble down Jen’s order. Jen rolled her eyes and I just smiled as I waited for the waitress to catch up. She stopped writing but didn’t look up. I raised my eyebrow at Jen and then realized the waitress had expected me to order in the same manner as Jen, with no warning. I waited. She had to look up eventually. I took this opportunity to scrutinize her more closely.
From afar she embodied the perfect high-scale downtown waitress. But as I placed my judgmental eye on her, I saw more. Her shirt had to have come from a sale rack at an outlet mall, and the pants were well worn and faded. Small stains of what I hope is sauce or alcohol litters the front of her tool belt/apron, but would not be noticed by the untrained eye. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes were slowly molding into slits from the pressure that was placed on them forty hours a week. Her eye makeup is too thick on the right eyelid and her foundation isn’t blended into her hairline. She looks tired for the beginning of her Friday night shift, and her lack of expression gives away that she’d probably look tired even with twenty-four hours of sleep. Finally she looks at me, I smile and for a moment I think I see a sparkle in her eyes. I wonder if people often wait for her, or if people even smile at her?
"I’ll have the lobster stuffed ravioli, with the mashed potatoes, and a Caesar salad." She smiled back at me and asked us if we wanted anything else. We shook our heads no and she left quietly.
"Hope she doesn’t shit in your ranch." I say to Jen and the ancient woman to our left now puts down her fork and pushes her food away.
"Eh, wouldn’t be the first time." Jen laughed and pulled another cigarette from her purse. "I meant that I’m not sure any of this really matters. I always knew you’d eventually go, I guess I just never thought of us as being apart. I’m glad you’re moving because I’ve really been thinking that we need to grow up. I’m proud of you for moving, No city can handle us both for too long!" I thought I saw her hand tremble as she lifted it up to light her cigarette, but I ignored it. This was my girl that liked to say dirty. And if anyone could say it with confidence of knowing it meant something other than the PG rated version, it was my Jen.
"Damn straight! And hey, you can come out and we’ll get lit and do stupid shit just like we would do anywhere else."
She smiled and blew a cloud of smoke in my face as I said this.
"Start saving hoebag, you’re coming to visit. So deal with it you dirty bitch!"
I lit my cigarette and Jen’s cell phone went off. I knew we were done with the serious talking. I watched the waitress rush from table to table and I wondered why I had looked at her so carefully. I wondered if what I was looking for was a way to get away from my cynicism without leaving my Jen. Yet, as Jen cackled into the phone, winking at me constantly, I knew no matter where I moved I would never leave Jen.
We did get drunk that night and we didn’t grow up at all. If anything I’m pretty sure we slid backwards a decade or two because the moonwalk and running man made their appearances. Part of the fun of being with Jen is the immature part. Most of the fun with Jen though has to be taken in stride. As dirty as our friendship was, it always got better with vodka.
The Sound of Silence Essay
As an American, I was born in a time where freedom of speech wasn’t questioned; I’ve always stated my opinion and no one ever objected. I was raised in a household where expressing yourself was the only way to talk to each other, so I’m not sure I can fathom the depths of Simon’s words. To me Simon’s lyrics felt as if he was speaking to the darkness of the world and no one was listening. Simon was trying to communicate with a society that had long lost the ability to communicate with each other. He wanted to portray the societal disaffection that loomed over the sixties. “The Sound of Silence” speaks of people’s ability to speak and understand each other, or the lack there of. It is an increasing plea of Simon’s vision that we all need to love each other once again. The folk-rock sound of this song had a basic appeal to the listeners of the sixties. Garfunkel singing the increasing forceful melody, Simon gently enforcing Garfunkel with the harmony, and the calm, comforting flow of a single guitar forever etched itself into the hearts of American teenagers. The musical attributes to this song are incredibly beautiful in a simplistic manner. The echo of the guitar floats through your ears. The softness of Garfunkel’s pitch is complimented by the whisper of Simon’s melody. You can feel this song in your heart. “Hello, darkness, my old friend,” is simply a familiar comfort for all of us that have ever felt alone and ignored. This line reaches to the poet and sadness in all of us. In the darkness we can find security and hope. A song with such beautiful words needed no musical help; however, Simon and Garfunkel put the two aspects together seamlessly and created what would become their mark on the sixties. The result is exquisitely written music with an unearthly undertone. You can feel the vulnerability of this song in each note played.
“The Sound of Silence” uses imagery of light and dark to show how indifference and ignorance can destroy people’s capability to relate to one another. This can eventually lead to the loss of the ability to even simply love each other. In most literary works light symbolizes truth and enlightenment. Simon uses it as a symbolic metaphor for destructiveness. Words such as stabbing and flashing are used to represent the painful repercussions of not communicating with each other. “In restless dreams I walked alone,” Simon writes, “I turned my collar to the cold and damp.” He uses such imagery to relate to his audience that feeling of alienation and sadness. Simon uses the word “naked” to describe light in a clear reference to purity, yet turns around to say that the “neon” sign showed people that the unhappiness of their world was self-inflicted. The poetic words of Simon reach deep into the subconscious and relate with unmatched sincerity to the convictions of the human spirit.
Simon assumes a position in this song that is almost patronizing and morally judgmental. He assumes a position that Americans were rebelling against in the sixties. “Fools,” said I, “you do not know. Silence like a cancer grows.” Simon is trying to speak from wisdom and experience, but his words are falling on deaf ears. “Take my arms that I might reach you.” You can feel Simon calling to the listener. Whispering in your ear, “Hear my words that I might teach you,” to love again. He is trying to show Americans that their opinions are what matters now. They’re the ones that have to change the world. There is no serious understanding in this world because there is no communication. Simon illustrates this with words such as “People talking without speaking, People hearing without listening.” He conveys the message that communication no longer exists in society.
The words of Paul Simon in this song have meant many things to many different people. Everyone interprets different, and no interpretation is ever wrong. I felt that, without a doubt, Simon wrote this song out of loneliness; yet he wrote it with the intention to prove a point to the American people. He believed that the isolation he was feeling was something all people felt one time or another. This song was a way of saying we need to relay these feelings with one another and then maybe this world will seem a little better. This song also represented Simon’s own inability to communicate. In the comfort of his darkness, he wrote a song preaching community and togetherness. The irony is that “The Sound of Silence” is all that can be heard now, but who is there to listen?
“The Sound of Silence” uses imagery of light and dark to show how indifference and ignorance can destroy people’s capability to relate to one another. This can eventually lead to the loss of the ability to even simply love each other. In most literary works light symbolizes truth and enlightenment. Simon uses it as a symbolic metaphor for destructiveness. Words such as stabbing and flashing are used to represent the painful repercussions of not communicating with each other. “In restless dreams I walked alone,” Simon writes, “I turned my collar to the cold and damp.” He uses such imagery to relate to his audience that feeling of alienation and sadness. Simon uses the word “naked” to describe light in a clear reference to purity, yet turns around to say that the “neon” sign showed people that the unhappiness of their world was self-inflicted. The poetic words of Simon reach deep into the subconscious and relate with unmatched sincerity to the convictions of the human spirit.
Simon assumes a position in this song that is almost patronizing and morally judgmental. He assumes a position that Americans were rebelling against in the sixties. “Fools,” said I, “you do not know. Silence like a cancer grows.” Simon is trying to speak from wisdom and experience, but his words are falling on deaf ears. “Take my arms that I might reach you.” You can feel Simon calling to the listener. Whispering in your ear, “Hear my words that I might teach you,” to love again. He is trying to show Americans that their opinions are what matters now. They’re the ones that have to change the world. There is no serious understanding in this world because there is no communication. Simon illustrates this with words such as “People talking without speaking, People hearing without listening.” He conveys the message that communication no longer exists in society.
The words of Paul Simon in this song have meant many things to many different people. Everyone interprets different, and no interpretation is ever wrong. I felt that, without a doubt, Simon wrote this song out of loneliness; yet he wrote it with the intention to prove a point to the American people. He believed that the isolation he was feeling was something all people felt one time or another. This song was a way of saying we need to relay these feelings with one another and then maybe this world will seem a little better. This song also represented Simon’s own inability to communicate. In the comfort of his darkness, he wrote a song preaching community and togetherness. The irony is that “The Sound of Silence” is all that can be heard now, but who is there to listen?
Ocean
I remember the way you looked at the ocean.
I saw happiness in your eyes I’d never seen before.
They filled with laughter and nostalgia from memories.
As if just the beauty of it all made your heart sore.
I knew that you missed it and would forever long for it.
It almost seemed to be as much a part of you as are you are of me.
A love, a serenity, a piece of your heart that shouldn’t be missing;
This is the happiness your ocean seems to be.
All the aspects came alive in your eyes
The crash of the waves, the softness of the sand
The beauty and the tranquility came naturally
As we walked forever, hand in hand
The classic beauty of you is like the ocean, an art
The tranquil beauty of the ocean through your eyes, is in my heart.
I saw happiness in your eyes I’d never seen before.
They filled with laughter and nostalgia from memories.
As if just the beauty of it all made your heart sore.
I knew that you missed it and would forever long for it.
It almost seemed to be as much a part of you as are you are of me.
A love, a serenity, a piece of your heart that shouldn’t be missing;
This is the happiness your ocean seems to be.
All the aspects came alive in your eyes
The crash of the waves, the softness of the sand
The beauty and the tranquility came naturally
As we walked forever, hand in hand
The classic beauty of you is like the ocean, an art
The tranquil beauty of the ocean through your eyes, is in my heart.
Your Smile
The love you’ve given me
Is more than I deserve
The love I have for you
Is what I’m trying to put into words
You watched me take my first steps
You heard my very first word
You wiped away my first tears
And lied for me when I killed Tina’s bird
You stood by my side through every day
You were there when I went to bed
You were there when I awoke
You always kept me warm and well fed.
You taught me to ride a bike
You tried not to laugh when I’d fall
You kissed my scrapes and bruises
And smiled through it all
You woke me up with a vacuum
You told me to earn my own money
You forgot to get me at the airport
Then laughed because it really was kind of funny
You sent me off in planes
To see the wonders of the world
You gave me every opportunity
To realize I am more than just a girl
To you I am just me
I’m pierced and tattooed
I drink and I smoke
I stayed out late, and broke the rules
You worried because you cared
You cried when I was in pain
You saw me for who I was
Even if you thought I was insane
You giggled at my first crush
You frowned at my first boyfriend
You held me through my first heartache
You always helped my heart to mend.
You cared when I told myself you didn’t
You did what was best for me
Even if I didn’t like it
You smile and said someday I would see.
I never thought you hated me
Or for a second you weren’t proud
I always knew you loved me
And wish I’d said I love you more out loud
You knew when to listen
You knew when to advise
You knew when to hug me
You knew when I just needed to cry
You taught me to be good
To treat others how I wanted to be treated
To love each and every person
And not to be arrogant or conceited
This year I’ve learned to say goodbye
I’ve learned to let go
I’ve learned “life lessons”
I’ve been through much pain and sorrow
I’ve also learned that I am strong
And I may not know everything
But I know that I am happier now
I know that I can do anything
I’m taking a scary step
Becoming my own person
Finding out what I want to do
And finally becoming a woman
You watched me make mistakes
You helped me learn from them what I could
You told me not to repeat them
But with a smile, you knew I probably would
Mom, you let me go my own way
You’ve been there for me through tears and trials
You held my hand and said
“Follow your heart,Do what makes you smile”
Dad, you let me choose my own path
You walked me down the aisle
And when I walked back to you
You held me through my tears and smiled.
You’ve watched over me through my pain
You’ve seen my endless tears
You’ve seen my heart break over and over
But in the end, I’ve got little left to fear.
You’ve taught me to become my own person
To love myself first
To be kind and good and thoughtful
To smile when I think I’m cursed
I want to say thank you
For each and every day
For the love and the lessons
You’re smiles have brought me a long way.
You’ve been with me for always
You’ve been my inspiration
All I want to become
My every admiration
Because of you I am a good person
I know that life isn’t walked on a line
I don’t worry about anything that comes my way
Because of you I know I’ll be fine
What you’ve done for me
Is more than I’ll ever be able to say
So on this Christmas day I’ll say this
I wake every morning, and smile at the day
I thank God for my life
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Is more than I deserve
The love I have for you
Is what I’m trying to put into words
You watched me take my first steps
You heard my very first word
You wiped away my first tears
And lied for me when I killed Tina’s bird
You stood by my side through every day
You were there when I went to bed
You were there when I awoke
You always kept me warm and well fed.
You taught me to ride a bike
You tried not to laugh when I’d fall
You kissed my scrapes and bruises
And smiled through it all
You woke me up with a vacuum
You told me to earn my own money
You forgot to get me at the airport
Then laughed because it really was kind of funny
You sent me off in planes
To see the wonders of the world
You gave me every opportunity
To realize I am more than just a girl
To you I am just me
I’m pierced and tattooed
I drink and I smoke
I stayed out late, and broke the rules
You worried because you cared
You cried when I was in pain
You saw me for who I was
Even if you thought I was insane
You giggled at my first crush
You frowned at my first boyfriend
You held me through my first heartache
You always helped my heart to mend.
You cared when I told myself you didn’t
You did what was best for me
Even if I didn’t like it
You smile and said someday I would see.
I never thought you hated me
Or for a second you weren’t proud
I always knew you loved me
And wish I’d said I love you more out loud
You knew when to listen
You knew when to advise
You knew when to hug me
You knew when I just needed to cry
You taught me to be good
To treat others how I wanted to be treated
To love each and every person
And not to be arrogant or conceited
This year I’ve learned to say goodbye
I’ve learned to let go
I’ve learned “life lessons”
I’ve been through much pain and sorrow
I’ve also learned that I am strong
And I may not know everything
But I know that I am happier now
I know that I can do anything
I’m taking a scary step
Becoming my own person
Finding out what I want to do
And finally becoming a woman
You watched me make mistakes
You helped me learn from them what I could
You told me not to repeat them
But with a smile, you knew I probably would
Mom, you let me go my own way
You’ve been there for me through tears and trials
You held my hand and said
“Follow your heart,Do what makes you smile”
Dad, you let me choose my own path
You walked me down the aisle
And when I walked back to you
You held me through my tears and smiled.
You’ve watched over me through my pain
You’ve seen my endless tears
You’ve seen my heart break over and over
But in the end, I’ve got little left to fear.
You’ve taught me to become my own person
To love myself first
To be kind and good and thoughtful
To smile when I think I’m cursed
I want to say thank you
For each and every day
For the love and the lessons
You’re smiles have brought me a long way.
You’ve been with me for always
You’ve been my inspiration
All I want to become
My every admiration
Because of you I am a good person
I know that life isn’t walked on a line
I don’t worry about anything that comes my way
Because of you I know I’ll be fine
What you’ve done for me
Is more than I’ll ever be able to say
So on this Christmas day I’ll say this
I wake every morning, and smile at the day
I thank God for my life
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dessert Tray
You are a dessert tray to me. I’m sitting in the best restaurant of my life and I’ve just finished a different but overall wonderful appetizer. I know the main course is coming, the best part of the meal. I know exactly what I want and I’ve ordered it. In fact I’m going to go back to the kitchen and cook it myself to make sure every detail of my life is prepared, simmered and perfected to my taste. And before I even stand up there you are; a tray full of all the wonders and excitements that will make my meal worth eating. Behind you is back packing in Europe disguised as tiramisu, and directly behind that is the career I’ve always dreamed of with whipped cream and strawberry sauce dripping off of it. Things that I will one day have but I can’t quite eat them yet. But you, you are right there just teetering off the tray. I want to grab you for fear that you’re just going to topple off the tray never to be seen again, or worse someone else will take you. I know in my heart that there’s not need to rush, you’ll be there for me when I’m ready or another dessert just as good will be in your place. I know that if I eat you now then I might as well ask for the check and move on to another restaurant. I don’t want you to be the dessert. I want you to be the bottle of never ending wine that compliments my life. I want to sip you lightly through the beginning of my meal and enjoy you’re distinct taste and the character you add to my life. I only want to indulge myself at the opportune moments. When the onions on my salad make me cry; or when the promotion I ordered medium well comes back bleeding, I want you there to comfort me. I want to taste you upon my lips when the appetizer of my future arrives on time; or when I’m ready to fully have my dessert, I want you there to smile with me. I think of you as a compliment to who I am and who I will become. Like wine, you can not become a necessity to my life, but you simply make it better.
Unavailable to me
His eyes were dark and seemed cold,
yet my heart burned for him.
The more he pushed me away
the closer I wanted to be to him.
I overanalyzed and stayed up late
telling myself that this was not
the way to go.
This was not the way to hold
an icy heart
Yet I threw my heart towards him
I let him smash my hopes of love
with his hammer of unavailability.
Yet I still loved
I loved with unkind patience
and unfair judgement.
I wanted him
more than I wanted me
I thought he was me
And I tried achingly hard to be him.
Why
I don’t think I’ll ever know
I wasn’t meant to know
That wasn’t what I learned
in his shadow
He was there to help build my
wall of insensitivity.
But he could tear it down with
just one kiss.
A kiss I came to know as
more sweet then death
All he was to me
yet my heart burned for him.
The more he pushed me away
the closer I wanted to be to him.
I overanalyzed and stayed up late
telling myself that this was not
the way to go.
This was not the way to hold
an icy heart
Yet I threw my heart towards him
I let him smash my hopes of love
with his hammer of unavailability.
Yet I still loved
I loved with unkind patience
and unfair judgement.
I wanted him
more than I wanted me
I thought he was me
And I tried achingly hard to be him.
Why
I don’t think I’ll ever know
I wasn’t meant to know
That wasn’t what I learned
in his shadow
He was there to help build my
wall of insensitivity.
But he could tear it down with
just one kiss.
A kiss I came to know as
more sweet then death
All he was to me
Freefalling
I fell into something I didn’t want
I wanted something I couldn’t see
I heard something in him
That I couldn’t see in me
In every wonder I wanted to see
In all the things I wanted on a whim
In the guileless dreams of what I wanted to be
All I could dream about was him.
I didn’t know my heart was closed
I didn’t think that I would care
I never imagined all I’d want
Was for him to say he’d be there.
Sometimes I think I need to fall in order to be free
Sometimes I think that maybe he just caught me
I wanted something I couldn’t see
I heard something in him
That I couldn’t see in me
In every wonder I wanted to see
In all the things I wanted on a whim
In the guileless dreams of what I wanted to be
All I could dream about was him.
I didn’t know my heart was closed
I didn’t think that I would care
I never imagined all I’d want
Was for him to say he’d be there.
Sometimes I think I need to fall in order to be free
Sometimes I think that maybe he just caught me
Silence
Silence is sometimes louder than words
If I could look you in the eye and scream
Would it be more effective than saying nothing at all?
Would you hear my words,
if I said them with my eyes?
if a tear drips down my cheek
Can you feel my pain?
Can you feel it more if you hear my cry?
Is it silence that drives you mad?
Or is that you’re madand the silence is consequential?
Why do you think you can’t hear
your own voice against a crowd?
Do you think your conscience can’t scream
Silence is always thought of as uncomfortable
shocking and somber
Yes, it is that.
It is also rare, tranquil and underappreciated
Sound is not what we’re talking about though
What we’re talking about is a voice.
One voice.
That doesn’t think it will be heard
If it backs down it won’t be
Did we learn to speak to be told what to say?
Does freedom of speech only apply to
the voice that agrees with the majority
If I could look you in the eye and scream
Would it be more effective than saying nothing at all?
Would you hear my words,
if I said them with my eyes?
if a tear drips down my cheek
Can you feel my pain?
Can you feel it more if you hear my cry?
Is it silence that drives you mad?
Or is that you’re madand the silence is consequential?
Why do you think you can’t hear
your own voice against a crowd?
Do you think your conscience can’t scream
Silence is always thought of as uncomfortable
shocking and somber
Yes, it is that.
It is also rare, tranquil and underappreciated
Sound is not what we’re talking about though
What we’re talking about is a voice.
One voice.
That doesn’t think it will be heard
If it backs down it won’t be
Did we learn to speak to be told what to say?
Does freedom of speech only apply to
the voice that agrees with the majority
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