trans it

patterns that turn into your life.
corners that meet turn in, to your life.
walls that recede turn in, to your life.
floors that ascend, turn into your life.
if you read these lines right,
if you read what i don't mean to write,
they may turn in,
to your life.

somethink i thunk

i didn't want it then, but i want it now.


"As the thudding of the bass got louder and more intense, she drove faster and more swiftly. Her heart was swept into a sea of bliss as it sank back into that once distant, yet familiar place. Realizing now, how much it meant to her all of that time, she was satisfied with what fate had unraveled. She could finally have some peace of mind; she could finally have a piece of her own mind."

it helps to speak from experience, but me i aint got none

it's hard doing what you want,
when burdened by the thoughts of what is right,
and i'm sure you understand
i am oh so sure that you feel in your bones
that there is a potential
to gain something
by giving up
everything
if it is worth it
and awesome in it's entirety

just a compass

every single little thing makes a difference
the detail in your sheets
the sidewalk-cracks on your street
the way light hits your wall
and washes your life as it falls
the way you speak
dont care who answers
just to speak it
is all that matters
when the choice is ours
we haven't a clue what to choose
most important we know
never to lose
our fiery passion
that's our direction
like the compass on your wrist
keeping a steadfast brightness that is brilliant

Ideal of Beauty

"The harmony and concord of all the parts achieved in such a manner that nothing could be added or taken away or altered except for the worse"

Ideal of beauty, Alberti, 10 books of architecture

We Apples All Fall Closely From The Same Sad Tree

it's a funny thing when we want to love a person
and all they want
is to love somebody else
and it's an even funnier thing
when someone else wants to love you,
it's all they want to do,
and all you want is to love somebody else and we spend
countless hours
living, thinking, trying to find the words
but,
its irrelevance consuming our every bit of conscience,
and we seldom get to see the real side of things
because the real side doesn't exist, since
from another angle life can look alot different,
it's the epitome of your existence.
and you don't even know it,
you'll never know it because
we don't allow ourselves to realize
how many people at any given moment
miss us
need us
and we live our lives obliviously,
mirroring their lives
sadly, dangerously close to the edge, all the while
we miss, we need, we love.
all the ones that don't
miss/need/love us
it gives us a sense of purpose to fight and chase things that are
in large part non-existent,
irrelevant
trivial
we get high and low and feel the blows
of rejection and acceptance
excitement and dormancy
stimulation and deceleration
and we don't know how
transience speaks to us in codes and rhymes
transience wants to free us,
all we have to do is look to it
and we're there

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.