prelude to the man in the moon.

i have simple and few things to say.
and I'm not going to say them. 
i will keep them in my locked heart, where they will forever belong. 
where they will forever stay. 
i will probably sort through them and organize them. because they very badly need to be organized. i will probably put them away, back into their labeled file cabinet. 
i will probably frame them, or put them in scrap books in 30 or so years. all the pictures will be black and white. and the words will be invisible,to all other sous, but mine. 
i will place them on green shelves that will collect dust over the decades. those scrap books and dust will become very close acquaintances. they will have their usual late night conversations and early morning bitterness together. the books and the dust will probably leave the green shelf alone, and they will have their daily brunch.while they cradle their pride in their arms. yes. the books and the dust will do this. 
when i die.
no one will want my simple words, or my scrap booked feelings. 
so where will they go? certainly my cats will not want them, and why would my mother care? will they just stay in my little house forever? while the dust gets higher and higher? and the green shelf gets lonelier and lonelier?
i would have lost all touch with my friends, so it's not like i could hand it to them. 
perhaps, i will just have to throw all my simple words and feelings into a bottle. and then i could send that bottle to the sea. and the sea could keep them.
i will tie a green ribbon around the bottle. but the bottle must never be opened. i will have to seal it forever, before i toss it to the sea. 
or perhaps i could just keep the words and feelings in my heart were they belong, and i could keep them sealed from myself, and they will never be opened. or organized. or sorted. or scrap booked. or framed. or put into a labeled file cabinet. 
perhaps. they will just stay in my locked heart. where they will forever belong. 
where they will forever stay.

man in the moon, can we be in love? 

















the man in the moon is always smiling. cause he's in love. 
he's in love with the girl in the world. 
sarah janelle. 

oh the irony of this all. you think you're oh so clever. calling me a game. coming up with some cute girly way of killing me. well played. well played. but while i stand here in the tears and discomforts, you can walk away. fine. walk far far way. walk so far until you only appear as a dot in my eyes. and then, i will call you a game. and leave you in tears. 

day after day you pushed me to my edge. and i would call after you, "you're sure this is safe?" you would nod and smirk. you played me so well. you almost convinced me you cared. almost. step by step i trusted you, closer and closer to the edge i got. i would call after you, "this far?   ,,  this far? ,,  THIS far?" until i fell. and my trust was left at the top.

you got me. good one. good one. this is very cute and funny. not only did you play my "game." you won. you're the last one standing. while i beg for the observers for some help. "please anyone, please." they wince and cry, but not for me. for you. you've already cast your spell and fooled them all. not me. i know you better. but you won't tell me the strategy you used. instead, you shake my hand and under your grin you say, "good game." 

i like you. i do. 

i have just been hurt. and hurt is hard. and painful. and hard. 

almost too hard to forget. almost always.

i like you. and your face, and your personality. i like your little hands, and how you always are the last to hang up the phone. how you are honest and brave. and your voice. yes. that too. i like your voice. i like your smile, and the bows that are always in your hair. but have i fallen in love with something fake? its easier to be fake. i know that. but is it better to be fake? 

perhaps we are too much the same. perhaps we have lived too hard of lives. perhaps we are too mean. and fake. 

i will return the ring. the one i bragged about to everyone that would listen. i would say, "hey. my pal made this, cool huh?"  i will return that. oh, yes. and the button. i will just remove that from my favorite shirt, it was the closest i ever got to New York. oh and of course the sticky note that has a picture of a cat that. you one time drew for me. you want that too? ok. oh, how could i have forgotten. you want that one project that you worked really long and hard on, you want that back too? alright. you earned it. you may as well have me. but its not like you want me. that's okay though. 

i tried. right? right? 

right? 

you win. good game. 

Sarah janelle.

it's hard to write when you have a numb heart. but i will try. 

i live in the space between white and black. i live in the grey shadows. in the city shadows and alleys. the grey alleys. with an acoustic guitar in the background,i walk through walls and jump the roofs. living in my grey alley. with my grey cat. being a grey person. yes. me and my cat are grey. now and then my cat and i will mumble a grey, "hello." to the fellow color white. 

i wear the grey socks, and hair. i will cry my grey tears and my grey blood. i have those grey numb eyes, that win all games. my grey pride and hopes become a nuisance. my grey newspaper and my grey mail box, my grey dust, my grey skin. my grey new years night, my grey stars, my grey glasses, my grey book. we're all grey. together this world will turn grey. 

the grey boys and girls will live their grey lives and have their grey children. with their grey breakfast and their grey church house. with their grey nose. 

i lay in my grey grey bed. and stare up into my white ceiling. "i want to paint you grey." i whisper. i lift my grey body off the floor and whimper. "so much grey."

i have too much of a grey soul. however, there is a little blue-grey smudge right were my heart should be. 

rather than smearing that smudge into my skin, i paint it over with grey. 

forever we will be grey. living in this grey bitter world. 

with my sister standing by, we pick our grey fruit, out of our grey orchard. 

goodnight world.

sleep bad. 

Sarah janelle.

to the night of dudes.

tonight i had a sleep over,, over the internet. 

oh shut up world. 

its all over.

Sarah Janelle.

sounds like a tuesday.

on a mere rainy tuesday

i was in class, reading my book, oh so intently. the release bell rang and i stood. 

you did as well. you are a faster walker than me, only because i am walking and reading at the same time. 

you quietly grab the door for me.  i look in your eyes and mumble a thank you.

you stand there and hold the door open for everyone. you wait until the lights go off in the room, until the last snail leaves the room, until the room is shuffled empty. everyday you do this. 

excuse me, may i ask you something? why do you do it? but yesterday. i answered myself. it's because you are a tuesday person. and a tuesday person you will stay. 

on a wednesday

i went to the library to read during lunch. yes. i do this.

i was in the library, reading my book, oh so intently. flipping the pages and trying to unnoticeably plug my ears. on this afternoon the library was quite loud. covering my face and ears with my hair, i glance up, i see you. 

what? you too read in the library? dude, same. 

i then thought, you tuesday person you. 

and a tuesday person you will stay. 

may i ask you something? 

sense you're a tuesday person, do you hang origami from your ceiling? it seems like tuesday people would do this.

do you longborad, or play guitar? 

-will you teach me? 

do you love loneliness?

bare feet. how do you feel about this? 

-you ware bracelets? , you're cool.

can you double dutch?

do you like girls with wild hair? 

-yes?               good. 

can you write poetry? 

do you hike?

what about walk? do you walk everywhere?

what? you love the winter? 

do you drink coffee? 

do you love the night time? 

-i bet you've tried to count the stars.

are you going to live in indiana when you grow up? 

-will you ever grow up?

-you are one of the lost boys?   i like the lost boys. 

can i ask you more questions? 

can we talk in real life one time? 

- thank you.

last one. 

can you teach me to be a tuesday person? 

-we are tuesday people, you say? 

we tuesday people. 

i like the sound of this. 

there's bigger things. 

Sarah Janelle.

summer skins

 

every year we will unload our coats, our beanies, and mittens. Our unclean and warn boots. Yes, we unload our scarfs, even our leg warmers. Some of us, will even go as far as unload our spirits. the saddened and damp spirits. 

the icy and frozen eyelashes grow long and dark. 

our pasty dull faces are replaced with brown, freckled, covered features. Our socks come off and our feet become dirt stained. and bare. 

our hole filled mittens are thrown away, and substituted with cheap nail polish. There go our scarfs and beanies. And the buns and reddened necks are free. 

the quiet stripping of our wintered hopes are left behind, and readied to redeem our summer skins. 

yes, this happens every year. 

every year? yes. every year.  

our summer skins introduces us to a new was of living.. the true way of living.

you ask, "the best way of living."

and i nod.. "yes. the best way of living. indeed."

it shows us how to have thoughtlessness phone calls. it even shows us how to have green eyes, and careless poems. the summer skins shows us how to be untamed, how to behave and how to imagine. it shows us which shoes will get too many holes to ware, and if you are lucky, it shows us how to love loneliness. 

yes. loneliness is lucky.
it shows us how to miss our beds, and our new head phones.

it shows us how to hike, and long board, perhaps even how to rain dance. .. even how to be an indian. 

our summer skins shows us how to have blond hair, and glasses. and how to never brush our hair. summer skins whispers the silent music to our hearts, to our sun-drenched hearts. it shows to us how to have-a-silent-eye-role. it shows us how to have an i-don't-care-about-what-you-think-or-think-of-me kind of attitude. {is not caring good,,                                         or bad?}

it shows us how to love the gaps between our teeth, and how to have our own conversations, and how to live with the smell of coffee. 

and through our summer skins, 

we are introduced to a new way of living..

you ask, "the best way of living?"

and i nod, "yes. the best way of living. indeed."

the master plan

welcome to summer every one. 

welcome very much. 

Sarah Janelle.

the days filled with death.

the mornings were a symbol of heart aches. the new days felt worse than the yesterdays. the fake smiles and broken eyes, the bitter thoughts. the untied shoes laces, the echoes of alarm clocks ringing in your ears as you try to smile. the chipped nail polish, the unhealed broken bones, the sour rain only washing your life-less feet down the street. the conversations left silent, waiting for the words to speak themselves. the needy phone calls, the lonely life filled with mistakes. the unfair times, the consistent tugs of your shirt reminding you of the expectations to be made. the times you would drag your feet, and not brush your hair. the feelings of broken glass asking you if you finished your homework. the sad songs written, the salty tear stains. the dark rooms. the empty bottles of heart glue. the sunless days. the cuts and splinters friends left, for you to heal yourself. the bleeding lips. the cruel and forgotten words. the  never returned letters. the for sale signs. the bitterness of 5 year foolishness. 




the all. 










lets fill this silence with cries. 






the markings of a colorless girl.

old couch patterens.

the window opens

as the wind rushes to you;

climbing up your spine

bringing memories home.

the black roses rest

lying, dying,

trying to breathe in your

soul.

as you bite your stiff-dead-fingers

you can still hear the soft melody 

of life

singing in your throat.

you drag yourself down sorrow road

only finding a dead end;

full of lonely springs

and frozen summers.

your broken eye lashes fall from

heaven

landing in a mess

leaving a disaster;

flying to hell.

wishing the questions would 

flee, they bombarded america 

while every living soul is left
motionless. 

as the old couch patterns fade
as the air screams for mercy,
as the guilt clutches your leg.


we curse the moon
chasing the birds
wasting the seconds 
we all cry.


the last breath is spoken 
letting the words soar from their
life 
they breathe;
if i were prettier..
would you have loved me? 

the markings of a colorless girl. 

this is for you kate and tess.

you made me.

Loneliness is death to our souls.

As we cry our broken hearts don't break. 

They are too broken to continue to break. Too shattered, too hurt, too many pieces.

As our tears fall like rain the world sees a flood. 

The sound of our cries become our only comfort. 

The sound of our tears become so familiar.

They numb our bodies. 

Yet we still feel the pain.

They all say, love is medicine. 

As i realize that i love.

it hurts.

it brings fear.

fears of being broken again.

being hurt again. 

I cover my eyes.

My gray eyes,

they see blue.

the coldest blue there is. 

they feel the chill.

the only warmth are my tears.

colder colder i go.

and my love is stolen. 

the markings of a colorless girl.

Sarah Janelle.

soul: noun

a human being; person.

The inner thoughts of one's soul are malicious. 









 

time after time my inner thoughts will  gash at my soul. I then glance around the room, counting the living hearts who heard the damage. the birth of all secrets, lies, wishes, hopes, depressions and sorrows lie in your soul. 

  

each time your heart wishes,while your eyes scream fears at the world, only your soul knows. Every year you open your heart, trying to find the death of your soul, the only thing that was left for you to chew on are tears. the ones who scavenger through their chest, and succeed are the ones who die first. the mess of the soul is bloody, dark, tear stained, and shattered. but who can fix a shattered mess? who can glues thousands of disappointments? who can sew plastic? 

the mind of a soul is vengeful. The soul it's self is a deep lingering cruel creature. one by one, fools try to mend the soul, each fool tries to pilot the soul. each one is left to bleed. The mouth of the soul takes the hurt in, swallows it hole, as well and throws it back up, leaving you to choke. the wise men sleep in the shallowness of the heart. the fools venture too deep, finding themselves dead.

as your inner thoughts travel to your heart, stop them, before they dig too deep and stare upon your naked soul. 

The markings of a colorless girl. 

Sarah Janelle. 

it feels wonderful to write again.

 

 

if i just lay here

will you lie with me and just forget the world.

let's waste time chasing cars.

around our heads.





having writers block it terrible.

Sarah Janelle.

 i have writers block.































i don't mind change as long as everything stays the same.






Sarah Janelle.

she is the kind of girl who is married to life.

she is the kind of girl who loves the world and everyone.

she is the kind of girl who sacrifices for others.

she is the kind of girl who never messes up.

she is the kind of girl who works till she makes it.

she is the kind of girl who has confidence.

she is the kind of girl that believes that words mean nothing.

she is the kind of girl who is beautiful in the inside out.

she is the kind of girl who doesn't have wrinkly clothes.

she is the kind of girl who naturally has a clean room.

she is the kind of girl who has a clean vocabulary.

she is the kind of girl who wears pink nail polish.

she is the girl.

she is the kind of girl that like 3 minuet intros to songs.

she is the kind of girl that some days only wants loneliness.

she is the kind of girl who doesn't mind wearing the same shirt 2 times that week.

she is the kind of girl who tells herself that she is better than other people.

she is the kind of girl who thinks of herself first. 

she is the kind of girl who gets embarrassed easily.

she is the kind of girl who has to control everything in her life or she will hate it or them.

she is the kind of girl who expresses herself oddly.

she is the kind of girl who is tired of trying so hard to make. she fakes it till she makes it.

she is the kind of girl who thinks people are not worth it. 

she is the girl.

you choose which one is real.

Sarah Janelle.

being diverse isn't hard.

The consistent sound of gravel being stepped on was a familiar sound to one girl. 
And only one girl. she was the girl who walked.
Her footsteps left an invisible trail behind.
She was isolated compared to everyone else. 
She was different. 


silently as people passed her, they would beg to know her. 
to open her heart,to crawl inside of it, to feel it. 
she was eccentric. but yet in a non-eccentric way. 
she was the one who didn't care about other people and their thoughts. and that was unpredictable but in a predicable way.
She was a secret.

she may have had no friends. 
she didn't wear any make up. 
she didn't seek for attendtion.
she didn't need a boyfriend.
she didn't need other people to fill her up.
or color her in.


what made her SO different was her confidence.
her knew she was loved. 
She may have not been loved by others around her.
but she knew she was loved by GOD.
she didn't fear Him.
         she loved Him.
 

 the markings of a colorless girl..
Sarah Janelle.

the inner soul is an open window.

sometimes, i cry long and hard.
about something that shouldn't, but does hurt me.
sometimes, i cry even longer and harder
about something that doestn't ever hurt.
i just sometimes need to cry.

too many times i will fake laugh
about something that's funny to other people.
too many times i will laugh so hard till i cant breath
about something that isn't funny to other people,
but it's funny to me. and im not afraid to laugh,
because if i don'tlaugh,
then i will drown in my tears.

most of the time i will force a smile,
when i really feel like dying.
most of the time, i really do smile,
when im dead.

at times i will lock myself in a room,
to make sure i don't fall apart.
at times i will stay in the middle of the house,
to make sure other people are there to pick up my pieces.

sometimes i walk in the middle of the road,
to live on the edge, to think about what i would do before i died.
other times i walk on the sidewalk,
i walk on the safe side, to make sure i have time to say goodbye.

some days i lose it. and i bang on my piano,
hoping that i will calm down.
i never calm down.
some days, i have it all. and i bang on my piano
hoping that i will release my excitement.
i never release it all.

day by day, i tell myself, im ok. but sometimes... im really not.
week by week, i look it over and forget it.
month by month, i live this way in hopes that one day i will be stable.
year by year i do it again and again. and one day. i will not be able to stop.

and second by second im in training to be better.
minuet by minuet im coasting down the hill of life
hour by hour im climbing the stairs of success.
day by day im finding my inner soul.


The markings of a colorless girl.

Sarah Janelle.

The nonexistent paint brush moves across the canvas.

It starts with small seed. A walnut seed.

Day by day. Little change. But there is change.

The sprout grows and is green.

Our lives are compared to a canvas.

It starts out blank and pure.

Soon the canvas has noticeable colors.

Some of which are dark and other are light.

That canvas will change and will take a longtime to finish.

As our little plant grows it will soon realize that it is a tree.

A beautiful tree, full of life and love.

Around this tree, there are many colors.

Some of which are dark and other are light.

The colors explain and document the journey of this tree.

Our canvas is not just painted on by ourselves,

but by others. Friend come and go,

some leave smeared and stained on colors,

others are held on to, are valued and dear.

As if they were jewels.

As the tree makes it way up to the sky,

the journey is a long one.

Through the cold winters or the warm summers

the tree is left with the memories.

These memories leave love marks, or scars.

some of them are wounds and left disfigurement.

Either one is still left, for the tree to live in or forget

As we the trees stand tall in our canvas

we may look down.

But we must keep in mind

that we were once down on the ground

on our journey up.

Our lives will go on, and we may wither.

but remember the scars,

don't forget them.

They will guide you and show you how not to live.

But most of all. Remember the treasured times.

Always remember the love marks. The jewels.

They are the eternal guide for love.

They will lead you up.

High above the clouds.

Look down, but go up.

The markings of a colorless girl.




Sarah Janelle.

This is my 70th post. yeah. i know. not impressive.

whateves.


today is halloween.

party.

this is lame. i will write when im not dead.


Sarah Janelle.

imma liken my friends.


and im going to be happy for now on.


surprize!


Sarah Janelle.


That was lame. i will write better tomorrow. i have stuff to do. (homework)


peace out girl scout.


Your name is on everything you do...

acting like you have something to prove....

You alread have.