I have 3 days left before my day dreams take place in real life.
writing is dry. abandon ship.

goosey says she would love to play the piano
but tinckle tinkle only goes her trinkle
when she goes to the bathroom
or flaunts her wrists charm bracelet
the only charm she has
everyone knew that to go to charm school you had to play the piano
but goosey could only trinkle in the loo,
what might have you
say who
it all rhymes like diarrhea coming out of my mouth in the end. in the end i feel like a failure and in the end I am not ready to write and in the end there is a period, always.
there she be.

I can't write till I just write and poems come and go and how am I supposed to ever succeed at writing, when I often mispell the word and can't put a pen to paper anymore, can't make my fingers work.
sometimes I feel like an artist and sometimes I just want to describe things, but tonight is not the night to shake myself dry.
even the cacti need a bit of moisture to replenish themselves with.

I AM FURIOUS AT THE ENTIRE WORLD.
sometime I wish I could create hurricanes, mostly to destroy myself
oh bother

jour de bastille tomorrow
i wish i was celebrating with pints of 1664 at the galway pub in paris. putain de merde. i miss charlie and the old crowd and singing and smoking for hours upon hours. soon enough.

Im just feeling a tad bit frustrated and all over the damn place. like i cant keep my veins from twitching in my arm, like i cant get my bang off my face not matter how many bobbypins i use, like no clothes fit me, i havent got an appetite for any food, I cant find any interesting books that put me in the mood to read for hours.

love is a fucking drug.

if i had money pouring from my pockets
and gold bricks laying hot at the foot of my bed I would, I really would
yves saint laurent:
/Users/nataliakvitek/Desktop/ysl-dress-M.jpg

the water was cold today and looked velvety from afar. I would rather it looked like a wierd kool-aid flavour and was as warm as my bathtub water. my nose is brown like a muffin with my freckles being the poppyseeds in the lemon batter. my finances are worse, student loans are difficult and i want to scream out to the entire world that I AM NOT DEPENDENT. I AM INDEPENDENT. veritable idiots!
this is not nearly as poetic as yesterday or maybe the days to come. I am bringing my camera out of recluse, I VOW, but who really has the time.
I've been feeling sulky.

my life sometimes feels like a transition between light of the day's reality and the darkness of nights dreams and nightmares.
in september I am chasing and no longer waiting, I am impatient and already packing my bags. I have two suitcases arranged with various items and am as ready as ever to take off into the wild, or rather, a well known country to me. what i wont forget is my leather journal and watch, last summer I forgot my watch and had to drag around my alarm clock never knowing what time it was. I narrowly escaped missing trains and flights. but it felt delicious to disconnect where it didnt really matter what time it was at all ( except at those many crucial moments)
often i've felt like my writing is dreamy and quite frankly useless to everyone but i. i suppose poetry is such and i am more prose than reality because I am describing things that are perhaps real to me but unreal and dreamlike to all others.
i have such bad bad grammar anyhow.

well, I said to him
can you hear the call of the north west?
because I, I said, I did say
that I hear the call of the east, I can smell it in the flowers I pass
in the early morning breath of fog,
when i trot off to catch a bus
driving down a desolate lane
and i board it again and again,