on youth wasted...yeah!

listening to Finch - What is it to burn
"Today's on fire,
The sky is bleeding above me,
And I am blistered,
I walk these lines of blasphemy,
Every day,
And still...
Like a bad star,
I'm falling faster down to her,
She's the only one who knows,
what it is to burn."

"Youth would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life."- Herbert Henry Asquith

"Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children." - George Bernard Shaw

--some of the quotes that made me think I've wasted youth on a lot of nonsensical things, that I should've done something much much greater and with value. It makes me recall a lot of things; that I should've gotten drunk less, smoked less; that I should've studied more and wondered less; that I shouldn't have felt crazy madly in love and believed in all that too early; that I should've spent all the time I've been procrastinating on doing something a little less from what adults should be doing.

I'm in my twenty-ones and I'm still wasting what's left of my youth. For me, youth not wasted is not youth at all. The youth, the illusion of old men, is overrated. Youth is the time where youth makes mistakes, get hurt, and learn. What comes after is the time where they make something of what they've learned and if it falls short then blame it on a youth not wasted well.

I'll never exchange my crazy role in the stage for a stand on a battlefield that will always be there waiting for me. I'm still wasting, making mistakes, and expecting a lot more painful experiences, but I still will be learning.

"It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded." - W. Somerset Maugham

my addiction

She is my madness, my addiction, my nicotine and caffeine. She is my hobby, my pursuit of leisure, my undying infatuation. She is my diversion from this reality and the diversion I find in my fantasies. She is my escape to another world and my reason to stay.

She would be the inspiration behind my sistine chapel, the meaning hidden inside my poem, the nude model of my obra, and the heroine of my story.

She is in every bubble of every bottled beast that I drink, be it hard, light, cold, or warm, nasty or smooth. Her face forms at every smoke I breath out, and every air I breath in I try to catch a piece of her scent.

Hers is the name that I would write at every opportunity I get with a pen--write on the wall, on a tree, on a leaf, on a bus ticket, on a napkin, on every piece of paper of any kind man had ever invented, or even on a mushroom perhaps.

She is in my instictive being of being, in between the involuntary poundings of my heart, on top of every expansion and contraction of my lungs. You'll see her in every chain of my thougts and in every neuron that signals a euphoric state of ridiculous giddiness or even a despairing moment of longing.

She is the word I whisper when I'm alone, the word I murmur when I dream, the word I desire for when I awake. She is the gift I want on Christmas, the wish I make before blowing the candles. She is in every prayer I offer every night and in every coin I toss on a wishing well.

She rides the cool breeze just before rain, or the beam of the sun every noon. And just now, she is even in the pictures that I draw--

a not love poem

listening to something emo

can't sleep
can't eat

some promises are best left forgotten

bitter as cold
dark as devoid

sweet as hell

time has stopped on me
the angels, gone

some lives are best left alone

give me your knife
i'll show you my wrist

painful as the last goodbye

can't breath
can't live

some dreams are best left empty