If I Had a Diary

if i had a diary, it would go something like this:

12/29/06
Dear Diary,
Today was a good day.
-Tina

i'd love you to sway me

i'd love you to sway me, like you had once a time ago,
sometimes i hope you'll come back, and be the person i know.
but then it hits me, that you are gone for good.
and all i have is this substance
of what you think we've misunderstood.
i do know you, because you are like me.
and i thank you for being my poetry.
don't stop being cruel or harsh.
don't soften the blunts of your words, and don't try to weigh thought on your moves.
if you did, i'd have nothing to prove.
if you did, i would have nothing to say, i'd have nothing to write, i would feel no way.
if you said what i'd hoped, then i would hope no more.
i would get what i want,
and trying would be a bore.
if you gave me that sweet minute, that i've wanted all along,
i'd be missing out on that moment where everything you did was wrong.
and in your errors where i can find desire to strive
my plans of how to win you, i secretly contrive.

room for air

this is how you feel finals night. this is how you feel every night. it's what gets you through the days, as you stumble through time in search of meaning. this is what you are headed for as you fruitlessly try to diverge. this is how it felt when you learned santa didn't exist. and the easter bunny. and the tooth fairy. this is what you didn't do when you had the chance, but should've done irrationally and conspicuously. this very paragraph is your hindsight and you don't even know it. yet.
It knows you inside and out.
this is your life waiting to breathe.

by-product of disillusion...and a late night telephone call.

This was December 30th, 2005.
Intentions aren't always what they seem.

In a daring attempt to catch the sun before it said goodnight, Natalie took this. I want to wake up to the sound of this for a while.

11 days left to go.

you didn't hear this from me, but...

creativity runs like paint drips from the brush.
it's too quick for me. yet too slow for my canvas.

I'm hearing impartial to the static gleaming and screaming.
Like the bright white of the page.
Like the story, that doesn't age.
It just sits there in all of its demeanor.
I hate when my canvas acts all presumptuous.

action painting passes time, I guess. Pollock had it good then.
I had to unlearn everything I knew as a child to fit what?
Oh.
Proportion, ration, scale, etc.