No way, you know it's not a secret!
I could be your girlfriend!
You see, I could take and absorb that pain of yours, and make it mine. And once I've got it...I could let it go.
He steps away, steps out of my car, and is walking away. His turquiose eyes, his honey speckled hair, drifting down the sidewalk...and then he turns back, and laughs. He smiles that perfect smile that he has.
The fancy footing of the course we walk down always finds me stumbling, even slightly.
I have humility to see our imperfections and still, perfection reigns
in the concious thoughts caught in my head
I don't need everything, I didn't need a savior
I don't need blue, or hazel, or green, or brown; I don't need
stubble to trace my finger along
I don't need you
but you gave it to me
We bicker; I cry; you shut down;
we laugh; we share.
I didn't know such things could be legitamite.
the pros and the cons
fall back onto time, odious time underserving of its power.
Only at particular times do I ward off the self-pity is when I feel exhilerated; like I'm all you need, and you for me. Times when we're dangling high on a thread, and that's when self-doubt consumes me.
"As I walked by myself
And talked to myself,
Myself said unto me,
Look to thyself,
Take care of thyself,
For nobody cares for thee."
As proven time and time again, when I fall, I'm scraped up and bruised about, and take a while to heal; patch up; scab. (Though, sometimes, I wish you'd lay with me, and get your lips bloody, and kiss it away...)
But why shouldn't I look out for myself?
Nobody else will.
I'm no pessimist, only nastalgic. I never seem to let things go.
(because not a day goes by I don't think of the ridiculous Violent Femmes and their introduction into my life.)
I separate the pages, I fall back on what could be happening, and I think that I should be able to cry, or be angry.
Here's the problem that I face:
I don't lack depth, but how am I to show it?
And I don't. Tone is nonchalant, and evanescent, you say I have none.
What should I give you?
What I'm feeling exactly?
That would just piss off your senses.
I want all of you
your wrongs, your rights
your coming-of-age, your immaturity
I want the words you think,
your knee-jerk reactions,
I want the tears I'll never see
and the past I'll never know
and when you think ahead, do you see anybody?
Conventional, tiresome.
He can say no.
You see, I could take and absorb that pain of yours, and make it mine. And once I've got it...I could let it go.
He steps away, steps out of my car, and is walking away. His turquiose eyes, his honey speckled hair, drifting down the sidewalk...and then he turns back, and laughs. He smiles that perfect smile that he has.
The fancy footing of the course we walk down always finds me stumbling, even slightly.
I have humility to see our imperfections and still, perfection reigns
in the concious thoughts caught in my head
I don't need everything, I didn't need a savior
I don't need blue, or hazel, or green, or brown; I don't need
stubble to trace my finger along
I don't need you
but you gave it to me
We bicker; I cry; you shut down;
we laugh; we share.
I didn't know such things could be legitamite.
the pros and the cons
fall back onto time, odious time underserving of its power.
Only at particular times do I ward off the self-pity is when I feel exhilerated; like I'm all you need, and you for me. Times when we're dangling high on a thread, and that's when self-doubt consumes me.
"As I walked by myself
And talked to myself,
Myself said unto me,
Look to thyself,
Take care of thyself,
For nobody cares for thee."
As proven time and time again, when I fall, I'm scraped up and bruised about, and take a while to heal; patch up; scab. (Though, sometimes, I wish you'd lay with me, and get your lips bloody, and kiss it away...)
But why shouldn't I look out for myself?
Nobody else will.
I'm no pessimist, only nastalgic. I never seem to let things go.
(because not a day goes by I don't think of the ridiculous Violent Femmes and their introduction into my life.)
I separate the pages, I fall back on what could be happening, and I think that I should be able to cry, or be angry.
Here's the problem that I face:
I don't lack depth, but how am I to show it?
And I don't. Tone is nonchalant, and evanescent, you say I have none.
What should I give you?
What I'm feeling exactly?
That would just piss off your senses.
I want all of you
your wrongs, your rights
your coming-of-age, your immaturity
I want the words you think,
your knee-jerk reactions,
I want the tears I'll never see
and the past I'll never know
and when you think ahead, do you see anybody?
Conventional, tiresome.
He can say no.
posted by Sarah at 9:34 PM
2 Comments:
Hmmm. I miss ya. And the good 'ole days of kidnapping you till 2 in the morning & high heels on tabletops at Beth Marie's & bright pink wigs in Wal-Mart, & ..., oh the care-free times. You make me want to write again. You should keep all these posts you write for a book someday.
---the other Sarah Green
Hey Sarah It's Matt B. My internet hasn't been working for a long time and so I checked your blog out when it finally started working again. You should really e-mail me one last time and convince me to start a new blog. The notepads are expensive, the pencil blisters begin to effect your hand-writing potential, and I learned piano quite well surprisingly in about two months due to all the practic, so writers block is a double activity for me but you get used to it.
For real though, I have notbooks full of rhapsodys that I want anyone to read so they can visualize my experiences by interpreting my words. Especially you, because you were always encouraging and always had something witty and helpful to say. You're the most kind person I ever knew. I'm interested in seeing how you are now, and showing you who I have become.
--MB
Matt48262@netscape.net
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