I imagine the way I miss Hungary, he misses his family a thousand times more.

maybe more than a thousand.

i do not blog about these things, not so openly anyways, maybe tucked in some poetry here or there. but i am just baffled.

he is not the things i want in a man. why on earth do i keep thinking about him.

driving me crazy, but not in the usual way.

i. am. not. attracted. to. him. physically or emotionally.

bah humbug!

bigbluewatertower

just. be.

Sarah said pain is beautiful. that it is allowed. that suffering is allowed. that American society doesn't let people hurt or suffer. 

let me hurt. i need to.

usually i find creative writing classes really boring. weird maybe, cause i have to write, but there's a big difference in writing and in talking about what someone else wrote. and though my professor for my modern poetry class is my absolute favorite professor, i'm usually incredibly bored in there. (i had her for a different class too.) BUT. sometimes, people get comfortable and start to spill what they really think and it is BEAUTIFUL. when people get comfortable in the not knowing, settle down for a good discussion. DELIGHT. 

I have decided that all poetry is spiritual. 

solitude, fragility, urgency, and emptiness.

and later i read a sociological article about social deviance, and it's almost enjoyable. and an airplane flies over, which has somehow always been a very comforting sound to me.

freshman year i could see the big water tower out my window, far in the distance and i loved that- it was the escape route, the highway, and i could see it. and now, there is a big, blue, pretty water tower just outside my window. 

and i'm wearing turkish pants.

and i guess i should eat, but i ate so many starbursts i'm not really hungry yet.

and i'm addicted to ellie goulding's "anything could happen."

and i want to dance- not because i'm happy, but because dancing is free. gotta get it out somehow. 

my friends are doing crazy cool things with their lives! 

like, woah, things.

!!

i need to unlearn my culture. or most of it. yeah.

workin' on that. 

just be

pain

sarah says pain is beautiful. crying is beautiful. because we carry this weight, crying is how we release.

suffering
is
allowed.

don't try to cheer me up.
i'm grieving.

it sounds dramatic and awful
but
it
literally
feels like
my heart got
ripped out and left.

and i know that
feeeeels,
doesn't matter all that much.
but it does.


can't focus on anything
i listen to crickets
and sad music
and look at my textbooks but don't soak in the words.

i need someone to just be with me.
SILENTLY.

i am allowed to need extra time
space
and silence.
i am allowed to hurt.

--

boys.
TURN
DOWN YOUR MUSIC.

my heart used to ache for maine. i could look at a picture and just ache. and all of my ache has been swept into this other place, willow tree and a barbed wire wall.

quietbeats

the music, quietbeats, like those from airplane headphones, channel eight on your arm rest
and you cannot slouch.
my head nods down, surprise,
cause the street is filled with yells and hollers
girls and boys
trying to be old-
though the old watch the news and things like jeopardy and laugh track shows
and dance on wooden floors-
we dance too,
waving our arms so they would not fit in clubs or bars,
our ears being interrupted by frequent trains,
laughter of the guys downstairs.
eleven eleven
time
for
bed.
if only I could unfold myself from this chair and crawl into the other room, maneuvering fire hazards of notebooks and shoes, brush my teeth and climb.into.bed... goodnight moon,
bedtime for bonzo.

the sound of tires on gravel.

solemndays

these solemn days we drink tea on the balcony

my heart rests

in knowing you’re alive.

my nonsense speaks volumes

of love.

because any real meaning aches to put to page.

a year ago their definition of love

was thin,

non-fat milk for real, rain forest coffee.

didn’t work,

nothing true.

though their words were scientific,

my nonsense words say more.

she writes because she can do nothing else,

i write to breathe.

and these days,

even writing cannot unclog this nose.

even writing cannot touch this.

even writing cannot show,

only telling these days,

and that they say i am not allowed to do.

just a break in the walls of these strong feelings.

my heart rests

in knowing you are safe

knowing you are His.

in these small words i sit and wait

and wait

trying to place faith in One

instead of seasons and hours

and wait.

i say there are other things-

there are,

and there are not.

my heart rests

somehow,

and then we fall apart.

these small words

speak volumes

of falling apart.

I just need to write for a bit. I mean, I need more than that, but that is what I can do right now.

I sat with a friend today, outside. She used these terms, like she thinks I'm a writer or something. I'm not a writer. I'm just a girl, sitting on a bench, listening to cicadas and wishing she was in the woods with Jesus. Just a girl.

I'm kind of depressed.

I love being able to see the clock tower from my bedroom.

I love the sunsets.