#februarypoetry

[abongguy]

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[julyatnight]

February 27th- 12:52

Everyone needs a sense of urgency. Who are we without some anxiety? I doubt I would have any creative energy left if I didn't need to stay up until awful hours working on Biology studies and major papers all the time. I need a few more hours, even, I think.

I miss drawing, and sketching, though. Writing is fine when I have something to write about. You can fuck and kiss and party and go out every weekend, and still be nothing. I thought that that all meant something. I thought that being reckless and bad to yourself was something that brought inspiration- how shallow that reads, it's not. But I still find myself rhyming and rambling about one person, who I haven't seen in ages, who I "hung out" with, one night...not even the whole night (how crap is that, I forget sometimes). And one night is enough to write about, for months. Years. How do you get those? You can't create them yourself- can you? How do you produce actual meaning? 

[julyatnight]

February 26: Thoughts at Night

...for when I canNOT work on my Art History paper.

It's so bad, I just can't. And Bio the next day- finish me off now.

Punctuation is overrated

How cool does that look its like your writing or typing is just like your mind full stream of consciousness

-Unless you think in perfect structure. Crisp, prompt punctuation and syntax. Beautiful in thought and articulation, as well- Or, at least, I would figure they go hand-in-hand.

-Oh, those bands- not songs, bands- that make you think of someone certain. No matter if you liked them first, or more, but their sound is just someone else's. It has nothing to do with lyricism, but maybe a time, or place, or feel, that's so much someone else- it's theirs, no doubt about it. 

In that case, S owns Arctic Monkeys- particularly Alex Turner. Sorry Alex. You've been owned.

In that case, the Duke owns Vampire Weekend and Snowmine, a little Bonobo and, horrifyingly, Local Natives, as well. Even though he dislikes them so- how could someone call the Local Natives a "girls'" band? I've never been so...incredulous.

And J. She owns bits and pieces of Bon Iver and Cold War Kids. She'd never know. I wish she didn't. Those should be no ones. No ones, for me.

I wish my heart was aching like it's summer. ////

[julyatnight]

February 25, 1:25

I feel like I'm floating in chlorinated water,/ lit from underneath and around./ I'm looking up, but I can see it- I can feel it.

It's powdery feel, it's smell;/ the way it lingers on the skin and textures my hair./ I feel it, I see the most beautiful light teal, green-blue tint./ There's nothing better, no wonder I forever long for summer.

It's the same when we talk, now, but I don't know how beautiful that is./ You just stick to me the same way.

[julyatnight]

February 5th- Mixed Thoughts from Night Before

Fucked up without the fucking.

Brutal Honesty is a selfish act.

Dazed Stupor/ Blurred Mind/ Burning Chest/ Conscious Blind.

[julyatnight]

February 22, 1:47- A Semi/Quiet Moment In a Club.

It doesn't feel real, what you're doing, every this typing is berserk. Bit it awesome. And it's beau tifuk. There's a disco light in the bathroom. It beautiful. You're accepted... ...you're worth something. Right now. Life is crazy, you're nothing thinking, and life is beautiful. Believe on you. Practically everyone else does.

...your gums feel numb. Nice grammar.

[julyatnight]

February 4, 7:53

The sky an inky blue,/ The trees the dullest orange,/ And I knew...

The fluorescent street lamps a blinding white,

I looked up into the window, and there were people running nowhere.../ my backpack slid, it was too big for my shoulders.../and my feet slipped over the gravel as I typed...

The gates squealed as they saw their students fade into dark.../ My ears ached from loud beauty.../ My heart moaned, "Oh"...

I wanted to run. I could not. I felt empty. I felt he was more free than me. That I could not bear.

And I don't think I'm pretty. And that makes me sad. At night I become afraid of my mortality and feel myself slipping.

The granules of seconds and chances to be young slide down the chute, and I do nothing but grow more and more panicked...