My Sam,

Who are we to be poetic? We haven't suffered. Teenage angst maybe, but nothing worth complaining about. No badges of honor for us. I am not a martyr. I am not a tragedy. I pretend to be misunderstood, but my motives are shamefully blatant to the surrounding willow trees. They laugh at me as I scowl in immaturity at the beauty of this world. Their leaves brush my cheeks gently, but I am too angry at myself to take good advice.

We are young and foolish

We are old and boring

We are sick and twisted

We light up the world

We sip passion through a straw

We're degenerates

We bear the music in our eyes

We haunt the streets at night

We are mixed up and mashed up

We are going to be okay

Everybody's talkin bout

BAGISM MADISM DRAGISM SHAGISM RAGISM TAGIM
This-ism, that-ism
ism ism ism

On another note,




It rained yesterday!

"I'm getting tired of living like I'm dying while the world is moving on"

My Sam,

Do you ever have moments when you get lost? Sometimes I find myself doing something: wringing my hands, dressing myself, staring at a movie screen, and I wake up and feel almost sick at myself for wasting time. The hours are stealing my days away.

We're growing up. Faster than anyone realizes, faster than anyone wants us to. Who are we? Are we already the people we will always be? Have we turned out as we wanted? Does it matter? I am asking questions and getting lost again.

Everything is so silly, but I am still sick to my stomach.

Dear Sam,

Sometimes it seems as though the gap between us and our parents stretches more and more over time, like the holes in our jeans.

But I've noticed that the gap's been sewn back up a bit. Maybe a patch was just added for decoration, who knows. But the gap is definitely smaller. Something feels warm today. I hope you're feeling it too.

Love, Sam

It turns out cigarettes can kill you

'Cause when you didn't come back

Every time that I thought of you

I smoked a whole pack

Got to be so I didn't care

If I was leaving or loving

Oh, what i was

And what i was becoming

-Dr. Dog

p.s. hang in there love

Dear Sam,

Today I hitched a ride, came home at 1, went to my room and closed the blinds and got in my bed and pulled over the covers and stared at the ceiling, something's not healing... And I got out of bed popped some alleve and told all my pains it was bout time to leave... And I got back in bed and blew my nose and went under the covers til everything froze... And then I woke up, kicked off the covers, rolled out of bed and opened the shades, left my room feeling the way I came in, left my room in the same state that I've been...

Love, Sam

P.S. Don't get sick.

P.P.S. When it comes to blue-eyed boy, remember Sally

No one could call that crazy.

My Sam, 

I am doing summersaults on the last patches of summer grass. There is something about the falling sun that makes my giggle reflex go insane. Probably I am delirious from too many sit-ups. I will always have weak stomach muscles, it is a fact. My helium is running out, but my eyes are squinting as if I was smiling. Maybe I am.

"It's like those puzzles. The ones that ask, 'How many animals can you find in this picture?' In a way, that's what I'm trying to do. Find the hidden animals. I feel they must be there- if only I could see them" - Truman Capote

Love, Sam

I need a new camera

it's true, I do,

Dear Sam,

we could just leave tomorrow

never ever see any sorrow

and we'll sleep in the ocean

far from all the commotion

and we run and we hide

from the slow assassination tide

and we run and we fight

our skin is our only home tonight

Hey, Hey, Hey the fadeaway

we could sneak out while they're sleeping

resculpt the world the way we dream it

and we'll sleep in the ocean

far from all the commotion...

Love, Sam

(and The Cloud Room)

My Sam,

I am sinking. I am deep, deep under.

I am knee deep in adolescence and I feel incredibly trapped. I could be warming myself with spiked irish coffee and geology worksheets with a crazy blue-eyed boy. Instead I am fresh out of a shower, into the lonely world of procrastination and irresponsibility. I have stopped flailing my arms to stay afloat. Let the water rise around me. I couldn't breath on dry land, drowning in this college-ruled pile of graphite shouldn't be any different.

but where is my diving helmet when I need it?

.

Oh Sam, why must the boys I love kiss my boo-boos and toss me wicked smiles and tease me so? I want to run away to a place where the love letters are addressed to me. Is that too much to ask?

 Let's hop the fence together. 

-Sam

Dear Sam,


I'm starting to feel the weight of the world pile up atop my fingertips and on my shoulders and somewhere up my nose in my sinuses I'm afraid my head will explode and all my friends and family will see and tell me cliches that are kind of close to "I told you so" and I'm stressing over what will come and what I can't control sometimes I feel like I've missed so much yet I'm not missed it's good to hear from you and it's good to feel missed sometimes.

The cds you sent are the mobile above my crib. The rock in my cradle. The benzodiazepine in my sleeping pills.

Love, Sam

marry me?

I hope love is more than just a string of pretty words and I hope friendship is more than toothy grins. Even though those are nice.  I just want us to stick our hands in wet cement and bathe in the imprints until our fingers and toes are too wrinkled to feel disappointment or pain. 

When did I lose the flush of my cheeks? All my warmth has dripped to my feet, but I'm running holes in the soles of my shoes. Cute sucks, sweet too. Everything I think to wish for makes me sick with too much sugar. Can't happiness be something other than a force fed cupcake? My head is aching with bubblegum pink and right now, I just want to be blue.

Sam, just know when I'm with you I want to break my pencils and cut the collars off my shirts. I want scream my energy all the way to the big dipper and never be anything else but there.

Dear Sam,

I'm wearing size thirteen basketball shoes and laugh at your fishnets i'm freaked out and fucked up and I'm standing alone in an alley with you wanting to show you a cure for your hiccups but instead I close my eyes the needles are numbered so I'm writing you letters and I cannot disguise the fact that I'm nervous when we are together and so I fantasize that the nights will get shorter and the days will get better.

found this pic of you. the caldecott tunnel is a mood killer. hope to see you soon.

Love, Sam


P.S. I mustn't forget when I see the sun set that tomorrow it will rise again.