~My Brand Of Love Is Unforgiving~

~Light Foot~

when she said she wanted to change 
everyone hoped for the better
pulled our hands towards our eyes
blinding ourselves from the glaring obvious
that she was treading towards the darkest of corners
but we won't try to point it
what she knew all along
and there's no guarantees like before
well maybe if she stumbled hard she'd knock herself concious
and come back home to a yellow summer
where she threw all her weights to sink underwater
eptied her pockets of her mischievous tricks
she'd be finally what she sought out to be
flawed but better

but he is coming to an end of age
an awakening to a steadier footing
where he longs to stand on thicker ice
growing tired of falling from under his feet
hoping his love still has its' merits
a poets' dream he secretly keeps in his chest
consumes him at night and in every sleep
of a symphony only the truest lovers can hear
but of a pain that only he bears on his knees
yet he faithfuly harbors the wick
and he continuously fans the flames
held up to burn in all clarity
to tread against an atmosphere of low visibility
in search of their happiness

XXXjeremyXXX

We all die in small increments. It's bound to happen, and it always does.

As a kid born in the early 80s, an era clean from all the PlayStations, iPods, & mobile phones that passes as today's version of the Swiss Knife, we were out there on the streets playing whatever there was under the sun up until dusk. We laughed, gashed our knees and elbows, got our shirts smeared with mud after making mud pies--it was the best time for a kid to be born and grow up in.

The 90s was hands down the best time for music. Pavement and The Pixies were getting more popular, college radio was in bloom, grunge was stealing Warrants' Cherry Pie, and punk seemed fresh with Billy Joe Armstrong's version of the lip swagger Sid Vicious prominently fashioned decades ago. Everything seemed to matter, emotions running around, senses heightened.

By this period however, as much as I wanted to ignore, I was naive. I believed in the magic of love, hope, faith and all of those things that would probably get you a high five and half a blow job Rainbow Brite with a pat on the back from Papa Smurf to match. But as soon as I moved to a bigger city in the hopes of claiming what was promised to me as kid, the world started to unravel itself before me, turning against me like a bitch.

No form of college education prepares you for the rape the world will deliver soon after you shake hands with your college diploma...and don't get me started with Oprah. Battling depression by your 20s may seem fashionable from your brand new HD TV and the couch that set you back two months worth of pay--and in this respect, if I knew what I know now, I would have pulled my mom's kitchen knife and chalked up Joey Potter on our kitchen floor.

Maybe someday when I officially have my first newspaper delivered to my front door, and flip through the obituaries, I'd get to see a list of the dreams and fantasies I had when I was younger. But until then, I propose a toast for another broken year. Cheers!

XXXjeremyXXX

A lot of things have changed since my last entry. 1. I’ve signed up for FaceBook (which until now I still don’t see the hype and still trying to figure out how to navigate through it), 2. Moved in to a new place, 3. Hanging out with an old buddy from college, 4. Started playing music again with a signed musician (which is fun. Learning to play blues music), 5. Bought a pair of jeans, and 6. Trying to take things as they come--It’s been Carpe-fucking-diem for me. But the biggest change I would have to say...hands down is the fact that I'm in no relationship. Don't get me wrong, I’m in no hurry to be dating (at 29) nor would I consider myself depressed or anything. Ipso facto, I might even consider myself "happy". Now, I don’t use the word "happy" loosely since the meaning of it pretty much escapes me. But I wouldn’t go as far as claiming that I’m passive about it and hardly feels anything about nothing...so "happy" would have to be it.

At this point however, I would have to say that I am disillusioned with the thing people refer to as "love". The years spent watching those romantic comedy flicks, listening to those songs that makes ones' balls shrivel into a female genitalia, and writing those poetry; derivative of those sappy dreams that one would hold onto in childhood, has done nothing but take me to where I am right now, and that would be nowhere. I have come to realize that "love" is an illusion and that it is practically synonymous with infatuation and is basically void of any capacity to yield anything to fruition. What does exist however is the idea of commitment between two individuals that is driven by goals and dreams that does not bend to shapes to fit. I think the movie The Last Kiss sums it up real good: “Stop talking about love. Every asshole in the world says he loves somebody. It means nothing. It still doesn't mean anything. What you feel only matters to you. It's what you do to the people you say you love, that's what matters. It's the only thing that counts.”

By the way…I’m not bitter. Seriously.

~Momento~

tonight we'll hide
recount their beautiful names
hoping they'd love us in return
oh but we never did learn
we cut ourselves in shapes to fit
'till we slowly ran out of ourselves
we've ran out of ourselves
withered in our empty rooms
but no one will ever know
this is our secret
no one knows

weekend evenings
clothes trail from door to bed
moaning names
calling out for saints
but neither of them are yours
and neither of them are mine my love
but for just one night inspite of ourselves
if only we could trade places
fill these arms
someone to hold

tonight we hide
recount their beautiful names
hoping they'd love us in return
oh but we never did learn
we cut ourselves in shapes to fit
for the silhouettes
for the faceless
for all the wrong reasons
we've ran out of ourselves
withered in empty rooms
no one will ever know
this is our secret
no one knows
for all the wrong reasons