There is such a thing as more than just today
but I’m still unsure of where that comes from.
Maybe the pills left at the bottom of the bottle,
maybe the need for something more than just what you are…
Or it was possibly, just the pills you left on the floor as you sauntered off to bed,
high above where you had last been, but not exactly in a better place;
just looking for something to pass the time.
Like sleep. And sleep does you no good.
If you’re fighting and withering in your white sheets because you didn’t mean to open your eyes… then I guess you’ve realized what you’ve forgotten.
It’s a bit like being electrical wires. You’re a cobweb, spending half your life on the floor; knotting together, breaking…breaking.
I may have discovered by accident that this is quite like my getaway theme song. I may not be going anywhere in reality, but I still tend to stray far from myself; I start swimming on the outside, blocking out the real by bringing on addiction to self-satisfy my cold empty electric insides. I am just like tangled wires.
Not even telephone wires, the long black cords that fly by your car rides
and escape by the thousands through your mind; turning into birds and bees and lightning. I am nothing like the wind that moves them; I am no more than a knotted mess.
Each morning, before the sun breaks the sky, I’m tripping over myself, not thinking about myself; forgetting myself completely.
Do you wish you were a song, or a fictional tale;
an instrumental music note that swims in the sea?
Do you dream about the longest winters and your childhood past?
The snow falls over everything like a coat of innocence and all I do is dream about it.
I’m still on the floor, still underneath all the mess. Not quite innocence, not yet forgiven.
And I try, all I do is try, try, try to do better than now. So tomorrow might be better… might be more medicated.
So before I go, I’ll spare a few cigarettes for the lonely ones, a glass to shatter in the wake of silence for you when you’re angry. We’ll see what happens to me and the mess I’ve made of wires and cords and things that plug in to the TV.
Right now, I’m in the socket burning up the air in my lungs; just burning up years of wasted breath.
Somewhere in your sleep you’re looking for your own getaway
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Just like a lullaby in an ambulence,
I'm listening to the wind behind my ears;
When the static is loud and the cars passing seem to be on mute.
The kind of tremble you hear right after coming up for air;
you've been underwater for a long time now,
The silence has changed
and the noise is much
more than still.
And when you're lost you're safe.
I don't want to believe there's a bad man,
I don't want to believe I'm running...
These are some of the things left un-said.
"When was the last time you were at a wedding that had a death defying hike, rogue waves, a luau, ultimate fighting, a presidential candidate and a budding bromance?" asks Papi Chulo. For most of us, the answer is never, but luckily, Papi Chulo and Secret Agent Scotch took the time to Vox all the amazing moments during their unforgettable Hawaiian wedding on 08.08.08 so we could all take part in the festivities.
The story began last February, when Papi Chulo popped the question and Secret Agent Scotch said yes! Since then, they've kept us in the loop about all the details, from the bride's veil to the wedding song to the final To-Do List. And throughout it all, they inspired us with their love for each other. (I'm pretty sure it doesn't get any better than knowing your future husband thinks you are The Perfect Girl.)
It's an amazing love story and we are thrilled they shared it with us. Watch the video of the ceremony and please join us in wishing Papi Chulo and Secret Agent Scotch the fairytale ending they deserve.
And What's a Team Vox Post without New Themes?
Spice up your Vox blog with one of our latest themes (found in the design area under "New") or any of our hundreds of themes. From shopping to sushi, comics to cycling, there's something for everyone.
Can't get enough of the wedding? A few lucky Voxers - Krissy, djchall, and Beau Smith - made the trip to Hawaii to take part in the celebration. Check out their Vox blogs for more pictures and stories.
Congratulations again to Secret Agent Scotch and Papi Chulo! Enjoy the Honeymoon!
This, she’s living with soft spoken benevolence and quiet afflictions.
She’s wonderment in the cities she lives in. With every step there’s a distress, of not knowing where you’re headed, or where you’re feet are going land next.
The fellow children around her skirts with similar disabilities don’t exactly know what they’re in for. Sure there’s mutiny out doors, but inside is a whole other matter, and each human being is battling demons alongside each other.
There’s being deaf and mute, losing one ear and three fingers, maybe a toe or two. But in what sense is there happiness in not being able to taste the colors and see the hues, hear the honey bees atop the petals. Fake petals though they may be, but being a bee is no less inspiring than looking through foggy glass.
Frame by frame by frame and you still only have a blank picture on your film strip. She’s just like your favorite movie and all you have to do is ignore her and forget. With her eyes on the verge of being colorless, and her voice no longer extravagant, the only thing she has left is her broken body; abused by the many passer-bys that don’t give a shit. In the state houses where she’s been acknowledged for her superiority in the terms of hearing much more than you think, there’s always a quote in the headlines; she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. Broken, maybe, but what can one say about someone so disenchanted about her sight; about losing her gorgeous amber eyes.
The blind girl’s eyes are the size of the moon; can’t anyone see the shimmer and distant light, like a star, in those languid eyes?
Forget romance, no one’s holding her hands; she’s better off walking alone. Sure she’s hurt all day, but the nights are easier without an angry lover, swaying from corner to corner, and broken bottles up to his knees. All he see’s is his blind little doe, helpless when she doesn’t know about his own destruction. Facing things with all her might and invocation; where did it begin…when does it all end?
I'll go in and out of your life
like swimming through a sea of needles
and we all bleed sometimes
just another institute in the pages of grease
nothing to find stained, torn, or shredded
but when has there ever been peace?
Oceans'll push this paper airplane
until it sinks beneath the surface
what do you have to lose
when all you had was nothing, precious
But again, it's hopeless
to ever attach any comfort
still better off to be cold
and alone than to be abandoned
I wish it were that easy
to travel through time
as we do people's lives
maybe we could fix a meal together
the stars and I
But what's flying like
and opening up your mind
I want to see inside the creativity
and make my own self-portrait
There are things I can do
make you sick
make you ill
well it's all a crying shame
that I hate to see me in you, babbo
speak louder, please
I can't hear you over my screaming,
it's just that difficult to be heard
in a world where you're nothing
and nothing ever stops you
Let's make it a memory
to be free
My heart
its taken root
and I'm trembling;
trying to choke down the feeling.
and my body is fragile
I'm hoping it's not too fragile for you.
For I've discovered something
That I don't have the name for.
This is all going much too quickly
and the time is passing all too slow
I want the desire
and it's there
it's there, oh how I know
but what kind of monster doesn't know
how to control her victims
doesn't know how to face that black cat; mirrored fear
just the thought of you touching my skin
is shivering, it's cold and delighting.
My skin isn't pretty
no not at all in any way
with the tainted flesh and swollen scars
it's all too unfasinating
don't let your eyes deceive
the white and tannish colors
I want to see the outer colors that you'll treat me to
not just what I'm used to.
So take me, baby
just take me deeper in still
because you're still screaming misses
and I'm still catching your kisses
--
I want that day
where you kiss me like rain
and distract the torment
from the weight in my brain
--
I miss you
I miss you
Let's try something new
Tonight, we're taking root
She’s some kind of mystery, with thick make-up and tangled fingers, twisted together in pages and pages of letters.
She’s a writer, a goddess in her mirror and an invisible monster in the dark. Still you find yourself spellbound…
Entranced to a degree of ire familiarity that looms in above the smoke screens.
When you look at her it’s like looking into a train wreck; a beautiful performance of fire and destruction…you can’t take your eyes off her.
As of recently, she’s the only one in the room; the smoke-infested ballroom, swelling with music.
She pleads with you to dance, all night, everyday, tomorrow and the next month over; she expects you to dance with broken legs, disfigured in a canopy of cloth.
It’s rapped so violently because you haven’t told anyone about your “accident”.
You haven’t told anyone you broke them yourself as a coping mechanism.
This woman, this mysterious being, talks with her hands; making pictures explode into the air around the ballrooms she’s invited to. She’s making pictures appear right in front of you, pictures that glitter out into colors, shapes; they spill and splatter onto the canvases inside your eyes. This is a tool she uses against you and me, she tells us stories and steals the inspiration from our bodies, making it harder and harder to walk on our own. But with you teaching the beauty of flowing hands and broken legs, you conspire a new idea in the minds of clones; of people she’s already shattered into oblivion…her own little universe of ruin.
You have to keep recycling yourself, making new the lost promises, breaking yourself down into a mold that once stood strong before this mystic. Everyone is talking backwards and you’re trying to vomit out the gibberish through your vocal cords to get everyone’s attention, all you need is for them to listen. All you need is for the rush of things stop, that’s all. Pain; nothing to fear, you’ve got the pain bundled up inside you. Fear; we all fear too much about everything, no such fear will be in us tonight. If only you got them to listen…then it’d be all right.
Here comes the bitter disappointment, you can see it in the sky…
With so much water filling the gutters and wind breathing through soaked jackets, no one is opening their eyes to see the puddles in front of them.
Teenagers packing cigarettes to get the warmth from the burn..
Burning down houses and churches, sucking the smoke through the filters, sucking the cold from bone and skin.
This is what she wanted, and she wants more; to rip open the caged-in hearts of people she’ll never forget. The world is turning into a zombie-modeled ideal from the mysterious woman, and all you have to do is get people to listen, then it will all end.
Hope? Check.
Faith? Straining.
Where does it all end or begin? When do we turn the pages?
When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat? It’s that strange feeling you get when you’re falling, barely slipping off. That same feeling you get when you’re telling yourself to “Run, run, run, run, run”. That there isn’t anyone to stop you from falling or running but you're scared doing it alone.
Before you started falling you were climbing to a better place; before you started running you were happy with the silence. Do you ever wonder about the woman; if there was kindness within her she might have felt the same way?
In the story atmosphere the words pop out from their small-life tales
When the universe crashes like waves in a hurricane, and we know it’s time to leave, we get that story atmosphere, and that begins all books in smattered clarity.
Only the authors, only the giants, know what is put into each art, each work; for some it’s a whole lifetime of troubling ties to skittish acquaintances and for the others it’s the changing seasons that get them motivated.
But, for me, it’s every aspect, every fallen piece to the puzzles we endure.
I know not what to make of war, culture, or religion, but as for the present, I’m speeding through time tables, medicine bottles; soaking up respects and noticing universal colors and combinations.
It’s not much to say for myself, but I can hardly be heard above everyone else…
It’s enough for me to picture living in someone else’s body but, I’m happy for my own, sometimes, and that’s all I can manage at a time
Before we were created, how do you think we were imagined? When we cried did we cry from being pushed past our limits, or because we weren’t used to changes? I can say I feared new scrapes on the knee, but what else are we to find out, something new that hurts much more than falling a small ways down?
(ps. I have no idea if this is finished)
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-daisy
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