I have nothing poetic to write anymore. Somewhere in the whirldwind of broken hearts and almost-a-year-after-we-broke-up sex (hah, we should make an anniversery out of it. what material should i stab you in the back with? is it ivory yet?), the looming exams waiting impatiently to tear me down and rip apart my dreams, the thick musty STATIC air inside my veins... I have lost myself. The poetic, lonely mask of me has lost the former to accentuate the latter. I miss you, stranger of my past. I miss you, non(less!)-cliched-writing.

"I want to die," she said, as if moulding each word carefully in her heart. "Dot," he whispered uncomfortably, "you'll forget. Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know-because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands." "All right." Absorbed in himself, he continued: "I've often thought that if I hadn't got what I wanted things might have been different with me. I might have found something in my mind and enjoyed putting it in circulation. I might have been content with the work of it, and had some sweet vanity out of the success. I suppose that at one time I could have had anything I wanted, within reason, but that was the only thing I ever wanted with any fervor. God! And that taught me you can't have anything, you can't have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It's like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it-but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you've got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone-" He broke off uneasily. She had risen and was standing, dry-eyed, picking little leaves from a dark vine.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm angry at him for not being what I want him to be, or angry at MYSELF for not being what -I- want to be. And I hope to god it's the latter, because I want to love him like I used to. Where is my mind?

I said once you were my home (was it only weeks ago? it feels like lifetimes...), but I feel as if you've stolen the key (and not only to my heart) and I'm locked outdoors, watching you from windows wishing you'd PICK UP THAT DAMN PHONE. Why must I always be the one in the black cape, fighting wars with my mind and that pathway leading up to your door? Is this a fort or a seige? I just want to know who's winning, and when this battle ends. My defenses: down. All I've left to do is prepare for your open fire, if you even know what the word open means.

And I am a writer, writer of fictions I am the heart that you call home And I've written pages upon pages Trying to rid you from my bones

Never in my wildest dreams, because this is the stuff movies are made of, and I'm not sure whether that is good or bad. And you were there, and you were there, and you were there. three times over, three times lucky, every time a little more love surging through us, every every time. Hot water hitting like rain and bullets and brass keys, opening doorways to our skin, all in the whirlwind of touching and kissing that we can call Oz: Darling, you ARE my home, and I promise you, there's no place like it. "be my hope I'll be your hope be the hair that knots with my hair be the drink when I am thirsty be the hand I hold at night"

He said he loved me. Then told me to get out while I still can. But I don't want to.

Sweet communist The communist daughter Standing on the sea-weed water Semen stains the mountain tops With coca leaves along the border Sweetness sings from every corner Cars careening from the clouds The bridges burst and twist around And wanting something warm and moving Bends towards herself the soothing Proves that she must still exist She moves herself about her fist Sweet communist The communist daughter Standing on the sea-weed water Semen stains the mountain tops

girl in a bubble. a girl i was friends with in kindergarten doesn't eat anything because 41 kgs is too much for her and the hospital doesn't appear to agree but willpower can punch through lead if it wants to. and it does. and i can't make myself care. and i broke a boys heart and he says now it's falling apart and he's aching for the hospitals and panic attacks and will i take him back? no. and i can't make myself feel guilty. and last night, in his room, watching spongebob and the inside of his mouth, tasting cigarettes and comfort, it's all a big dream now. fade to gray, always gray. and the night before, swapping saliva like trading cards at the cinema, as blurry as the morning fog on the day he spat his soul into my hands. and i love him, i know it, but will someone let my heart know? i want to FEEL again.

I like your thinking it's such a gorgeous shade of red.

Ignoring the terrible use of language, is it worse to love hate, or to hate love?

Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said I'd like to smash every tooth in your head Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said by rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed

You said tonight is a wonderful night to die I asked you how you could tell you told me to look at the sky Look at all those stars, Look at how goddamn ugly the stars are.

It's funny the way things are these days. I can remember pizza hut's phone number, but not my best friend's.

(How do you get to) "And when I told Bobby 'No one's being themselves, everyone's so phony', Bobby said 'Shhh' and then whispered 'That is being themselves'" - Glamorama, Bret Easton Ellis.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" - Jack Kerouac

We cut up onions today and hours after I spilled tears of onion juice I'm thinking, maybe in today's society vegetables are the only thing it's okay to cry about.

Boy on the bike, what are you like as you cycle round the town? you're going up you're going down you're going nowhere. It's not as if they're paying you. It's not as if it's fun. At least not anymore. When your legs are black and blue it's time to take a break But where to?

Girl in the snow, where do you go To find someone who will do? To tell someone all the truth before it kills you They listen to your crazy laugh Before you hang a right And disappear from sight What do they know anyway? You'll read it in a book What do they know anyway? You'll read it in a book tonight -The Fox in the Snow, Belle and Sebastian

We're living life suspiciously believing there’s no one we can trust They're dividing the population the system is destroying us profiting from this division and the line of thinking that’s been bought if equality is ever to exist we have to unlearn what weve been taught bigotry by ignorance unintended prejudice - Best feminist song ever. (aka Sexist Appeal - Aus Rotten)