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,