I read what you write

Around 2 am I grow bored with the silly game I waste all my time on.
The world is silent except for the hum of the computer and everyone is asleep but me.
I remember that the world is empty and open Robot Melon.
If I read everything, I will be able to write something amazing.

Something is wrong tonight, when I read I feel sick and knotted up inside.
No matter how much I read, I cannot be all of you.
I need to stop pretending.
I need to write like me.

The Poet's Voice

When I read a poem, I don't hear my voice in my head.
I don't hear what I think the writer sounds like either.
It is always the same voice(s), a girl and a boy who are the same person.
They are the same as the words on the page, the words on the screen.
(Is there a difference between them anymore?)
When the words behind my eyes want to live on the page, born through the pen,
I hear the voices again.

This time, they aren't reading old words from a screen, they read me my life as if it were written.
"A man and a woman exchange text messages, both talking past the other."
"A woman with nothing left but enough to live for watches imported English television and laughs."
"I am wearing a purple hoodie too thin for anything, and pants too large around the waste."
"He said... She said..."

The voices are dim, the words blurry, a hand cast out to touch the ephemeral poetry of my mind passes through them like metaphorical smoke or that fog thick enough to breathe.

The coffee.
I thought about it at 6.
Brewed it at 7.
Finished at 8?
Drank at 9.
Sipping the rest now, at 10 pm.
Why coffee at night? Because it makes the words clear.
Crisp, delicious, visceral and within reach.
The voices can be heard, transcribed, they are manifesting now, through the fingers on the keyboard.

I have not written a word tonight, just copied the voices and their words. Or are the voices just my way, that voice they tell me I have but I cannot see?

But this touch, this breath, the bleeding of the words onto the page.
It has begun.
Please.
Please, don't let it ever stop.

Define Summer: Empty

The first entry in a long time. I have no one to apologize too, because nobody reads this text on a black page. It makes me wonder, are all these words that float in front of my eyes, a novel in a week, are they wasted on me?

I sleep 12 hours a day. You think I do, anyway. I sleep 10. The other 2, I dream. Beautiful pictures and fantasies of a life that could have been, should have been, could be. I see Em, Sarah, Megan, today I woke up in an empty bed with Jamie on my lips. My love isn't for them anymore, but it is Love. It's an idea that fills me when I try not to remember it, reminding me every sunrise that I have a future. With her. Whoever she is, wherever she may be. The one I felt on the steps of Whit when I was alone, when I kissed Sarah and she cried, when Jamie told me secrets, when I asked Em to coffee and fate said no.

Yeah, I used your names. Nobody reads this, and none of you are Juliet anymore. Did you know when I play World of Warcraft online, I pretend to be you? I'm Neveret. I just typed it in and it stared me in the face like it was meant to be. Neveret.

I feel tears that don't come, like I used too. Am I sad, or just alive? I need a new place for this, for me. A place where I'm not Rose of Montague, Neveret, or Anthony. A place where I, and the girl who never shows her face in the mirror can be. Just be and keep living for the day when I hatch the brilliant game mechanic, write the story that makes the government want to kill me, or teach a class filled with a bunch of sleepy kids who don't give a damn about anything but the beer in their dorm room.

Who am I? I'm alive. And I've gotta grow up some time. But I'll tell you this. Truth and Beauty and Sparkles, they won't go away. I won't let them. I can't let that go, even if everything else falls apart.