Not a lot.

When I do it just comes, like hunger pains; or, like a sneeze.




Without fail the tears stream down my face. And, without fail I stay awake… but, for what? To fill some void that has been created by death? To please the Omni/ever present “you” that will forever live on your side of the screens?

For what?

For me?

Do I write for me?

Do I paint for me?

Or, is it all for you?

He played melikeafiddle…

It still hurts if I think too hard. What must’ve happened to him?


Don’t give them a chance to say “no”.


There are many men

Who wish death,

But ignore truth.

Bananas for Dinner

I’m poor, so Je suis mange les ananas…

Many Many

There are many things that I wish I said.

Not only do I wish I said them; I wish you heard them…

Not just hearing, but I mean really listened.


That hurt.

That was more than flirting,

it was painful.

How do I teach you that you were wrong abt me if you won’t listen?

How do I make sure you see just how much you hurt me?

How do I make sense of it all?


via Susan