... in my jammies. Quiet ache taking up mad space in my funk
lonely
It's hard to admit
alone
with the sun out like it has not been in days
beautiful blaze of light
hands trembling and talking to myself
natalie merchant
sarah mclachlan
brood notes of crazy coined spring
and you betrayed me
what the fuck is the grand obsession with betrayal?
tease me
complete
rug pulled from under feet and I am falling again
falling for fluent colors
turning away from solid
bleed me
red and purple pills
swallow me
sinful
How I want always the thing I least am able to own
I want to own myself
the rhythm of me is disturbed
writing
writing
and the details are hidden from all I want to say
label me
weak
fool
friend of the fickle
my fingers do not wrap themselves
willing around what you refuse to tell me
tell me
what does looking for a director have to do with my cunt aching like
love used to live there
a long time ago
tragic
nothing tragic about the way I feel for you
she asserts
we are not tragic
and I am blanketed in tragedy
comic figure
bound by a belief in the dramatic
drunk on the memory of what I smell
in your purple pants
left folded on my couch
I don't want to fall in love
anymore
love is the knife used most effectivly to gut hope
hope me a mountain
faith
like a mustard seed
move that fucking mountain out my way
need to travel
for leisure
for the smart pleasure of seeing me
rumbling along
in countries I have not learned to be sad in yet
How I hate the recognizable common of lone silhouette
standing
looking out at the passing trees
you are among the wide branch of trees
outside my window of reach
don't jump girl
you do not leap feline into things not understood
yet
wait for the fall
Be still
stand in love
and pay attention
words of some woman
wanting me to be safe when I am in my own hands
you are not frail
she accuses
you will not break
because of anything you feel
what might kill you
is what you do not let wash over the agony of you
I am looking for a director
know anyone?
call 212 253 7017
the show goes up in August
if I can pull that shit off
kiss the wind under the skies you look up on tonight,
Staceyann
i cannot wait for the show! best wishes with the planning...and life.
kb
Posted by: keondra b at June 4, 2004 11:40 AMgrrrl staceyann.
your aura still lingers in the ever so scatteredly clouded city of stockholm. the stormy energy that came with you has not yet left. and i don't think i am alone in this.
your journal, how ever slow it may go, refills the boarders of the foot marks left behind. so, just a silent holler across the ocean - you are still in our hearts!
another 'thank you' for the generosity with which you shared part of your soul would be superfluous.
instead, stay strong. the show will go on! -fabulously too. and hey, get some chill time, ok. with peace n' luv from here!
-o
U are indeed a woman to be reckoned with
U are the light that we so desperately seek
In u we have found our voice
Thank for for the words...
Nyc cannot wait to support ur show in August
We love u and may Jah continue to bless u
Stay strong
Posted by: Roots at June 6, 2004 09:21 PMi broke up with my girlfried today, the hottest day in chicago, yet. and she said i've ripped out her guts and i thinks she wants me to find the words to make her stay and her thirty four years are twelve years that i cannot hand over to demand and dictates and depression that snatches what little i have left. and when, for her daughters stake, she finds a place to live, she'll know for certain i mean what i say. and now she has just asked if i only lay next to her. (said sexy like her sexy over my cell phone) and i'll oblige because i know i've hurt her and i so love how she feels and i'll say good bye because her bags her much too much for me.
stay up stacey....
Stacey be encouraged. You are leading the way. Which I know may seem scary. You are living which is wonderful and terribly awesome. I am wondering when you will be around my way. (philly metro)
Tiana
"falling for fluent colors
turning away from solid
bleed me
red and purple pills
swallow me
sinful"
SOUNDS SUICIDAL.
In times that you speak to yourself, its probably me that hears.
I could almost swear
On that plot of land you'd purchase
Only if depression was enough foreign currency
to reach heaven.
I'm always going to love you.
Posted by: Kin at June 27, 2004 09:31 PM