Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

{by Pete Wentz} (a poem read at the end of the song by Fall Out Boy)

"From day one, I talked about getting out
But not forgetting about
How all my worst fears are letting out
He said 'Why put a new address
On the same old loneliness,
When breathing just passes the time,
Until we all just get old and die.
Now talking is just a waste of breath,
And living is just a waste of death,
And why put a new address
On the same old loneliness,
When this is just you and me,
And me and you,
Until we've got nothing left.'"

[This song came up on my shuffle the other day, and I remembered screaming these words at the top of my lungs at 13 years old, wondering if things would ever get better.]

Who Knows...

Maye someday I'll deliver a "stand-out" performance.

I just keep trying to remind myself of what she said to me:

"Just be the best that you can be" --AR

Permanent

the tatoos are fading
we are relating
to the poets with broken hearts and broken bones
we know it's not the only way to cope
we know all you need is a little hope
and in the end
we'll stop pretending it's alright

we're the ones who only make mistakes in permanent ink
and we're the ones who always drink from our broken bottles
they signed it "xoxo"
do they know?
or just think they know?

do we break?
or do we bend?
you were a godsend
how could you ever tell
that we are trapped in the fires of your hell?

Dear Ticker,

You are a costly vase.
I’ll place you on the shelf between my lungs,
And your beauty will shine outward.
But your fragility almost offsets your beauty.
Why?
I can’t share you with anyone,
For fear that you’ll crack.
So what’s the point of having you around,
If all that you can do is break?
You are as useful to me as a winter coat on a hot summer’s day.
You shatter with no trouble,
And you take too long to repair.
Perhaps I’ll just get rid of you myself.
I’d rather be heartless, anyway.

Requiem for Love

Are you happy now, now that love is dead?
Dead and extinguished for lack of common interest.
And hope.
I’m running out of hope for you.
Compromising faith and misery,
But no one’s listening to me.

Surprise: everybody’s on your side.
But is it wrong of me to want to feel alive?
You’re afraid of the unknown.
Just know that you don’t own any of us.
So just try acceptance. Find acceptance.

The worst part is that you deny your hate,
And you try to justify taking someone’s life.
I’m sure that I could prove you wrong,
And I know I’m not the only one.

Sticks and stones will break my bones,
And words will crush my heart.
Lost names and forgotten faces all because you went too far.
Now, I’m trying to speak out,
But you need to try speaking in.

Talk to me face to face,
And I’ll put you back in your place.
Explain to me your reason for hate.
We can change the world;
It’s not too late.

My Green Light (Extinguished)

I ask, will it ever get better than tonight?
Because, right now, I see no hope in sight.
My Green Light
My Green Light; it isn't so bright.
My Green Light is going dim,
Just like him,
Yet another victim.
I saw his candle blow out, as hers shines big, and bright.
My Green Light
My Green Light; it isn't so bright.

And I try to protect my flame, shielding it with my hands from the threatening breeze.
But as I see his burnt wick, flameless, and hers glowing with such ease,
I don't quite notice I'm crying, my eyes dripping with fear.
And soon, my flame is extinguished, by
one
single
tear.

Birthed from Nature, and Birthed from Man

The prime of America’s youth sits atop brick walls, like Humpty-Dumpty, ready to fall and crack—
Flattened into the ground lies a cast off ketchup packet, lonesome, empty—
A crushed, smashed, trampled Pepsi can rests among the sticks—
Among the grass, an infant pine cone sits, surrounded by its relative giants—
A lonely grey feather lies separated, detached from its home—on the ground without its owner anywhere in sight—
Amid its brothers, there lies one stick, with three perfectly circular holes, drilled, running straight through its side—
As if a part of some dysfunctional family, two stomped-out, compressed cigarette butts lie holding a small, purple ribbon, keeping it from being taken by the breeze—

Outdoor scenery, birthed from nature, and birthed from man.

Waiting for Him

It is cold. No, it is freezing. She is barefoot, though the grass below is dripping. The drops on the grass are the only evidence left of the storm. All else is calm now. But she is cold. No, she is freezing. She is waiting. She is waiting for someone. Chills sprint up and down her spine. But she is alone. She is utterly alone. The bumps appear on her skin, like tiny rolling hills. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand alert and vigilant. She is waiting. She is waiting for someone.

It is dark. No, it is black. She couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. She remembers the stories she’s heard and wishes she were home, warm, with Him. But she is freezing, and she is utterly alone. She hears a crackle. She turns to see what is around her. But it is dark. No, it is black. She feels a surge through her legs that says they want to run. But she is waiting. She is waiting for someone.

She is quivering. No, she is shuddering. She hugs her book, His book, to her chest, as if it is an impenetrable shield. She wants to run. No, she needs to run. But she is waiting. She is waiting for Him. She falls to the ground. She is afraid. No, she is petrified. As she lies there breathing in the frigid air, she is frozen, isolated, quaking. Now she sees that she will forever be waiting, waiting for Him.