Brain Swirls

just some random little thoughts from life...

Name:
Location: Houston, TX

Friday, September 02, 2005

what an overwhelming feeling to realize your whole life has become merely a shadow of what it could be...

Friday, July 22, 2005

Back of the Bottom Drawer

In the back of the bottom drawer
Of the dresser by our bed
Is a box of odds and ends that I have always kept.
But the man who sleeps beside me
Doesn't know it's even there,
Little pieces of my past that I shouldn't have to share.

A napkin that is stained with time
Has a poem on it that didn't quite rhyme, but it made me cry.
In a "Dear Jane" letter from a different guy
He broke up with me and he told me I'm not always right.
And a stolen key from an old hotel door
In the back of the bottom drawer.

I don't keep these things 'cause I'm longing to go back,
I keep them because I want to stay right where I'm at.
I'm reminded of my rights and wrongs
I don't want to mess this up,
But I woulnd't know where I belong
Without this box of stuff.

A birthday card from my first boyfriend
He signed it, "I love you" so I gave in.
Yeah we went too far in his daddy's car.
And those Mardi Gras beads from '98
We danced all night, stayed out so late...
We thought we were stars, closing down the bars.
That champagne was cheap but still I've got that cork,
In the back of the bottom drawer.

I'm not trying to hide these things from the man I love today
But I'm a better woman for him, thanks to yesterdays.

So now I try to give him more than I take
And bite my tongue, fight the urge to say it's my way
Or no way at all.
And now I cherish love a whole lot more
'Cause of what's
In the back of the bottom drawer.

--Chely Wright

Friday, July 15, 2005

The precipice of a dream,
Realization of desires.

A frightful lingering of emotions
from my perch at the cusp of the future...

How foolish can a person be to believe that they posess enough love to make up for the both of them?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it started out at love, but somewhere, somehow, something happened to it, and it became something else.

I WANT THE BIG LOVE.

I got miles of troubles spreading far and wide...
Bills on the table gettin' higher and higher,
they just keep on coming, there ain't no end in sight.

I'm just holding on tight.

I got someone who loves me more than words can say
and I'm thankful for that each and every day.
And if I count all my blessings, I get a smile on my face...

Still it's hard to find faith...

But if you can look in my eyes
and tell me we'll be allright,
if you promise never to leave
you just might make me believe...

It's just day to day trying to make ends meet,
what I'd give for an address out on easy street.
I need a deep margarita to help me unwind,
leave my troubles behind...

But if you can look in my eyes
and tell me we'll be allright,
if you promise never to leave
you just might make me believe...

I used to believe in us when times got tough,
but lately I'm afraid that even love is not enough...

But if you can look in my eyes
and tell me we'll be allright,
if you promise never to leave,
you just might make me- oh, you just might make me,
you just might make me believe.

Do you believe in love?
And that we were meant to be?
Two words can free us,
so repeat them after me: "i do"

One of the major dissapointments of my adult life has been finding out just how little being smart has to do with love. I've always relied on my brains to get me through, I've always secretly believed that I had a leg up in life because I was, if not the smartest person in the room, at least the one that the smartest person in the room would pick to talk to, and I figured that would make me good at love.

--Sarah Dunn, The Big Love

Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people I see walking down the street who appear to have no inner world whatsoever-

People who manage to go through life without thinking about everything all the time.

"This is your life. Are you who you want to be?" --Switchfoot

"You love me, but you don't know who I am." -- 3 Doors Down

"Life is like an hourglass glued to the table." -- Anna Nalick

And these mistakes you've made
you'll just make them again
if you only try turning around.


2am and i'm still awake
writing a song
if i get it all down
on paper
it's no longer
inside of me
threatening the life
it belongs to.

and i feel like i'm naked
in front of a crowd
cause these words are my diary
screaming out loud
and i know that you'll use them
however you want to.



Tuesday, March 29, 2005

I am youth's soldier chasing down an endless dawn.

"Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body
I would break
into blossom."
-James Wright

"I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need."
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"Don't ask questions about longing, look into my face."
-Rumi

What is my civil war about? Is it the fear of being held in the warmth of familiar love versus the fear of running through the fog searching for love? Each holds its own terrors, extracts its own pound of flesh.

Flesh. Now we draw closer. Can I soften to love, with the full knowledge of the suffering I welcome in? Thomas Merton said the love we most cherish will, of necessity, bring us pain. Because that love is like the setting of a body with broken bones.

But I want to stage the setting. I want to direct the scenes.

"She's a pretty girl, does she make you think nasty thoughts?
She's a pretty girl, do you want to tie her down?
She's a pretty girl, do you call her a bitch?
She's a pretty girl, did she sleep with your whole town?
Pretty girl, pretty girl...
Do you hate her 'cause she's pieces of you?"

Monday, November 25, 2002

Fear



Fear is the fiery-eyed dragon
Perched on the shoulder of my inner thoughts,
Taunting me to stay away.

Fear’s mammoth hand
Shoves me to the ground,
Grinding my face into the mud.

Fear’s searing breath
Hisses dark secrets in my ears,
Drawing me closer to it.

A voluntary captive of this evil beast
Tugging at me from the pit of my stomach,
Encircling my wrists with doubt,
Polluting my brain with Novocain.

Fear infects every fiber of my body,
Saturates every pore of my skin,
Dictates the exertion of every muscle.

Gaunt phantom of myself,
Obedient marionette to the sinister being inside.
Imprisoned in a dungeon of darkness,
Lined with insomnia and insecurity.

If only for a moment-
When fear blinks its watchful eye,
I could shiver,
Shake this snare upon me,
And fear would be no more.

Andrew


We are like two actors in the matinee of life,
Both of us pretending
That I don’t know you better than anyone in this place.
I watch you bear your image
Not making eye contact with anyone,
Quiet, but definitely too cool for everyone else.

But I know
What’s really inside that skin that opens for no one.
Because that summer,
You opened it for me--
And I saw things so unbelievably wonderful
That you had taken such care to mask from the rest of the world.

That’s what I remember most about you:
The real you
That I found that summer.
The caring, sensitive, funny guy
That won my stubborn heart with such ease.

So many nights,
Under the balmy moon--
We talked for hours
About your cowboy antenna ball “Dewayne” we bought at Wal*Mart,
How sunburned we both were from goofing around at the pool all day,
And me heading off to college in less than a month.

All the while knowing
When we finally crept home in those wee hours,
That I would have to face the crossed arms of my mother in that navy bathrobe,
And you would only get three hours of sleep.

I see you in this new town,
With these new people
I think about you,
And often wonder how you are really doing.
I wonder how it is possible
That we can be such strangers to each other now.
And then…

I can’t help but miss you a little.

Oranges

Flock of suns
Crowded atop the rickety wooden cart.
Each one sealed
Under the dimples of its globular skin,
Blinding rays
Capturing the attention of passersby.
Tangy gas
Floods their nostrils, dissolves taste buds to puddles.

Who To Eat Turkey With

Green pine branches,
Glassy red ornaments,
Twinkling white star lights,
And mysterious packages wrapped in silver and gold
All capture my attention as
I walk into a house that is so familiar
For its spicy cinnamon smells,
And Crackling fireplace,
Looking for my mom’s big welcome home hug
And my family chattering away in the kitchen;
Since I only come home once or twice a year now,
It’s so easy to forget that my parent’s house
Is not so lively anymore- -
That they finally decided that not speaking to each other
For two years
Was not accomplishing anything,
And now my brother and I must decide
Who’s house to go to,
Who to eat turkey with,
And how we’re ever going to get to hang out
Together anymore.

Me and Dylan


We were four and seven
And could almost have been twins
With our sandy hair
And ocean eyes
That saw a jungle in our front yard.

The jungle was our home,
We were raised by smelly apes
And got as dirty as we wanted
Because we were savages.

Sometimes the jungle
Was a grocery store instead,
With leafy lettuce platters
Worm noodles
And chocolaty mud pies

All for the giant feast in our castle.
Of course I was the princess of the kingdom
And you were the funny little jester
Or the woodsman that hunted bugs.

Mom always grew impatient
Having to use our middle names,
Crossing her arms,
And furrowing her brow;
Trying to get us to come in
From our cul-de-sac play.

Covered in dirt,
Red with laughter,
Full of the memories that will last a lifetime
And tie us together,
Even if we are miles apart,
And miles away from the jungle of our childhood.

Divorce

I’m used to the silence.
Even the scraping of forks is torturous.
Sitting at the dinner table
Staring at the same white plates with red rims
That I’ve been eating off of for the last twenty years,
Chewing without tasting the green beans in my mouth.
Pretending that there really is just
Nothing to say,
Or all four of us are tired,
Instead of the fact that my parents just don’t talk
At all anymore.

Counting Days

Today is the 5th,
A month since we celebrated
Your birthday with homemade brownies,
And fourteen days since you have called.
The rumble of every diesel truck I hear
Turns my head,
And I can’t help but look
At the driver of every maroon F-250
I see on the roads.
I check my machine like clockwork
When I get home,
And remember to carry my cell phone
Even to the bathroom.
I’m lying awake in bed
Again tonight.
The phone lies quiet
Beside my pillow.
12:15
Today is the 6th,
And fifteen days since you have called.

Santa Fe

The musty medley
Of Old Spice cologne,
Blue Listerine,
And Wintergreen Copenhagen
Invades my nostrils
And stings at my tear ducts
As I push open
The dingy metal door of the 1970’s,
southwestern décor hotel room.

Inside the cab of your
Navy pick-up is the only place
I have smelled this combination before.

You would have liked the ridiculously large
Cowboy painting hanging crooked
Over the burly wooden headboard,
With its cliché sunset
And pensive cowboy
Mounted on his trusty steed
Staring off into the horizon.

My bags squeak the over-used
Springs of the bed,
Its lopsided mattress makes me
Disappointed I will be
Sleeping alone.
No one to roll into the slump with.

Santa Fe is not supposed to remind me of you.