Hello, self-serving scrapbook, we meet again.

Someone is holding my hand in a sturdy grip over the burner and threatening to press if I look away, and every time I blink I get punched in the face. It's completely unneccesary; I'm internally ruining myself etiher way.

Frosted even.

I was cake once.

A prize on the counter top, all yours.

Now I'm drying on a shelf out of sight.
Useless even for croutons. 

I am...

Being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. Wrenching down on the intestines like a bus chord willing you to stop thinking about it.

And it goes like this:

And those mewling mourning sounds with a mouth full of mud under a shallow wave will be all that's left of me when I bury myself in the shore line tommorrow morning.

Sometimes I just to type and type and type and type and type and type :l*

They tell me I don't need anything and I believe they are the wisest things I've never spoken with that I've communicated more to and from than anything else. These pools; I drown in bright blue pools(I've never been a strong swimmer) that make me want to sing a voice I don't have; and run. Run blindly laughing until I cry, away from everything. Cry away from everything.  Run into the sea and salt silly and spray light and heavy across my face with nothing, nothing at all.  Walk off akathesia (the walkies) at at least a 20 mile sprint and let that restlessness go with the wind and the water and flow behind me like a shadow of a distilled self lack of awareness and unseeing, unthinking misery curtain of intangible tons, weighing me down and getting light as I get closer to lights generated by myself reflected on those surfaces I pine for.  Still drunk from a dream of such softness, I am unaware I am awake, and like the drink I must sleep again and create the same to avoid the hangover and perpetuate the illusion that in my waking life I cry and run and cry and run for. And collapse into that perfect state where I am too tired to answer, so I don't. And it feels wonderful, perfect giving up by believing in something you gave up. Surrender to the otherside of the war you thought you'd lost. Surrender for the win.
It's real, though infrequent. It sparks fire and starts wars. It keeps distant soldiers up at night. Men at their toes, women at their feet. It will grant me a death worth deserving by molding a life worth having. It keeps me filled with something I usually lack: Hope.
*The language of music notation as best described by keyboard.

Calamity can be so dry clinging to the back of your throat.

Hitting brakes and lurching forward I pine for no seatbelt 

Maybe I just want to fly

and the tight constraints are soo...Constraining!

I want to KNOW 
I want to KNOW WHY

Coffin(ed) anxiety is painful for those like myself who's only true power is to wake the dead (and FLY)

Inertia is my best friend
But the fingers are only scraping air------->while they pine for no nylon waist

And only to root in your hair

Palms over thorax: pulse over abdomen: and I am wondering why I am so dehumidified

Twist squirm grind against gray leather while my head pines for glass

I hate air conditioning, I hate these conditions.

I hate for loving; inside and out.

restraint:communication::Me:You

Sometimes I write gibberish that only I understand.

Conversationally blinking out cold lights and thoughtless dew drops of sound over tongue too cavalier and uncaring to acknowledge what you've been saying swaying with music heard only soft melting and moist. 

Country fest is a clear bell from here.

I can remember it fascianating me as a child. Sitting on my front porch, even my back porch, you can hear the Hodag Country Fest raging from across Boom Lake, which happens to be across from my house down a dirt road. The water carries the sound from Pine Lake perfectly with the acception of the vocals being somewhat muddy; every guitar riff carries immaculately and every bass drum kick is as if it was coming from my front lawn. After every song, the crowd screams; the unified voices run together like the wail of 40,000 ghosts, running strong for nearly a minute after every headliner finishes a song, floating over the lake in a sea of eerie sound. Goose bumps usually ensue.  It was captivating sitting on my porch at a young age and thinking, "I'm within mere miles of famous millionare musicians, so close."  I went to Country Fest whatever year Toby Keith played. My dad goes every year. He's there right now. Tomorrow I will listen to Merle Haggard and be humbled once again at the close range. In the winter, I can walk across the lake and be in Pine Lake in under a minute; it's nearly a 15 mile drive from here. Strange, isn't it? I can't tell who's playing right now, I am not up to date with country artist's, but if I was familiar with any of the songs I could recognize it in a heart beat. It might be Billy Ray Cyrus actually, in which case I would only recognize Achey Breaky Heart, and if I was 4 this would be incredible.

Horrorscopes.

Your emotional forecast is facing a cold front of paranoia and a high pressure system in your chest, follwed alternating hails of worry and flurries of disbelief.

Please don't be dead.

Losing childhood

You crawled out of soil that dried up after you left and was usually too tired too play
And on the day you asked if it's head still ached, it struck you instead

And made a little ringing in yours that barely hurt
Compared to the stinging in your chest you have yet to understand

Go fuck yourself.

I have swallowed so many spiders for you and held onto so many unspoken words without judgement.  I will continue to keep them festering there, but for you to spit venom and claw out with multiple points of criticism like 8 scratching legs in my throat, I dare say you are inviting me to vomit out nasty secrets. I'll keep them still, I will not condem you when you have trusted me with your shame, because that's what is the right thing to do even if you can't do it for me. Judge if you will, but remember me for accepting you. My livid rage will nurse the egg nest in my esophogus while you don't even bother trying to incubate my demons, and let them run free with your nose in the air. Hell has a place for me, surely, but there is an even darker one for you, for I know your sins and so does the devil.

O, Baby, I'm postive.

Purse tracking persistence and fluctuating levels have never been half this frightening and twice this exciting and the clamour of it has woken me up as though I've been dead for years.

I know I do.

Do you ever want to bounce from one place to another; an innocuous trip to the mall circa '85 with big hair and plastic earrings shaking to a synthesized soundtrack only to be jostled to the inside of a recycled coffin 6 feet under for 15 minutes, complete darkness and stale air and the lingering smell of the body you replaced, screaming with your finger nails against the wood, splintering keratin and mahogany? To be behind a waterfall hidden in Ireland where no one has been in a 100 years, crumbling rock walls lining the black forest shimmering through a sheet of crystalline water that you find yourself walking towards, just wanting to touch the mossy rocks in the cool moist air like it will tell you a secret, when suddenly you are rocketed into a bat lined catacomb deep under France behind a brick wall next to a lost jester in search of a cask of amontillado, skeletal with a rotten, jingling hat of past drunken gaiety in disintegration?

Do you ever discover something you adore so much you irrationally hate the last person you fell in love with?

Do you ever dream about lying down in the most comfortable way, most comfortable arms, most comfortable place, most comfortable pulse, only to wake up alone and your back hurts?