today. i fell in love. it's a strong hard love. one that will never fail. one that will be there to count my faults. and it so happens to be my favorite kind of love. the most brutal kind. but it hurts my little body, it hurts. it likes to smash me, and paint my nails a navy blue. it likes to create fantasies with me, and tell me all the concerns and dark thoughts. but my only problem is, i don't know what i am in love with. am i just in love with the fact that i am in love? i am in love with the wind? (i tend to leave my window open when i sleep. for all i know the wind could be blowing it's love all over me.) could i be in love with the fact that i kind figured why i am a terrible person? maybe. maybe i am just feeling summer in my window. 
or i could just be in love with cats. 








can't we just be in love already?

sarah janelle. 

i have chipped so much, even my nails are dying. my features are fading along side with my blood. my knuckles pop and my neck hurts. the clouds are comforting and the dark corners are cozy. i see images of intimidating concerns in my head. my toes are black and blue as well as my eyes. my bike has broken down and lost it's wheels. and my bell has lost it's ring. i have drifted into these feelings of, despair and jealousy. and i think it's fine to have these feelings. but it's not fine. not fine at all. i can't really control myself from it. i can not contain my feelings any longer. i can't help it but to be drawn into my haze and dark clouds. i like my chipped heart and my mood swings. i like it all. i like how i can have a pity party for myself every day and drink my cold tea. this is the way i live, this is probably how it will always be. i have become a drifter. i set sail everyday, and wave goodbye to my comforts. i said goodbye to my God, and my parents. i had to part with my friends, and all i can do is sail. and drift. and taste my salty 
water, and watch myself chip away til i am no more. 




im very not excited for summer. 
sarah janelle.

hey soulless human. hey terror.

lying there, i felt the sun take control. i became the sun's possession. and while i laid there, the sun burned a whole though me. right were my heart should be, the center of my... .. haze. the sun was looking for an adventure, looking for a new soul. but because of past occurrences, i have no soul. instead the sun found a super massive black hole. and the sun didn't know what to do. how would it be appropriate to react when finding out that a little shallow girl has no soul? "oh, i'm sorry, i didn't realize how terribly heartless you are, and how obdurate you have become. i couldn't really tell by the looks of you. let me just cover that hole i burned into you, um?" i felt embarrassed. and ashamed. i have let the sun burn through me, and the only thing it found was my lungs, shriveled and barely moving. like me. i wanted to take a mirror and burn a hole through the sun. show the sun how it felt to be stripped of identity and left there shivering. i wanted to see the sun's soul. i wanted to see the source of life and i wanted to possess the sun. no. i wanted to possess the sun's heart. possibly, as a gift, the sun could spare me his heart? i need one. or he could give me his soul. i need that too. tree's and cats don't feel it right to give their souls and hearts away. where can i find one? my super massive black hole sometimes swells when i'm with someone that kind of cares about me. when i'm with them, i feel like i have a heart. i can kind of feel it pumping the-never-felt blood into my veins. kind of. i can maybe hear it. kind of. that may just be my super massive black hole at work, taking new victims. but it's a nice thought, the thought of a heart, a fully functional heart. maybe if the sun gave me his heart, i would glow. and people would see who i really am. who i really hate. and maybe that would be good for me, kind of. but, until the sun figures out i am no good, and realizes i am no possession worth holding on to, maybe i could start my life long quest of finding a soul. or heart. or both. it's not so bad belonging to the sun.



i think haze and i will get married. and he could play his violin when i get sad.
sarah janelle. 

searching for the vacuum closet.

i have been word-less for days now. and im pretty sure, word-less is not even a word. this just proves how absolutely word-less i am. i don't really want to talk to anyone,because they all tend to ask me a lot of questions, that i can't really answer that well. i feel like a vacuum has sucked all the words and thoughts out of me. so, can't we just watch a movie together, silently? or can't we just ride some nice bikes, or play on my swing set. why does everyone feel like they have comfort me or whatever; or maybe people don't feel like they have to comfort me. and that's fine. because i don't really like fake comfort. it hurts more than just leaving things unspoken. so lets stay unspoken. and let's stay silent. because when there is silence, it gives us plenty of time to count stars and what not. let's read a lot of books, and empty our rooms, let's have bare walls. let's tape newspaper to doors, and hang bird cages from our ceilings, let's do some freaky origami. let's build forts and flip people off. let's kind of laugh some times, but not that much, because then it wouldn't be that silent. let's pretend we don't care about school, or grades. let's drop out of high school. let's take a 7 week road trip and make some music. it's ok if we make music; music and silence are pretty much the same thing. let's go gold mining in California. let's bathe in the stream. let's go blind for a day. but until my words and thoughts are replaced, by the vacuum. i will just be silent. silence is strictly golden.


i promised that i wouldn't lie. but when i promised that, i was smiling. because i knew that promise, was a lie.
i will be silent. 


sarah janelle.

its my own type of 9/11

the daily haze of this life has treated me well. at times, i enjoy and crave this.. film, or fog if you will, more than anything, and when it hits me, i loiter around in it, until it smothers me. and i enjoy this. thoroughly. its hard not to get sucked into this haze, and it's even harder to get out. sometimes it gets lonely, also. fog isn't the best oxygen intake, and the color is not the most appealing. i do wonder though, how could one human -onesoul- be so hazy everyday, and barely feel alive? how could i enjoy this feeling? while barely feeling anything at all? is this even possible? i found it is possible; very possible. one can only experience this haze after the deepest and most inadequate of all possible betrayal. the betrayal of one human's own soul. pure betrayal itself. betrayal in its worst form. and i think it occurs more than mere mortal humans would appear, and/or think. it happens.. i know for a strict fact that it is possible, because i am living in this hazy betrayal. and it feels good.     it feels empty, haze feels happy, and damp. and it makes me slur my speech, it makes me limp. it makes me not brush my hair, or teeth, or iron my clothes, and it makes me feel happy that i can wear white socks and white shoes.  but do i have a soul? i felt quite like a liar for claiming i had a soul earlier in this post. ^ my bad everyone. my bad. how good is my daily haze? how good is it to sleep in haze? i think i can get cancer this way. 

i said goodbye to my soul, and i drove it to the air port and watched the plane take off, and i waved and called after it, "you suck." i drove back to my house, with no seat belt, because i have no soul. why wear my seat belt when i have no soul-i believe this was a sensible choice. my soul has been gone ever since it heard me yelling, i had received an enraged email addressed to me, from my soul. it stated. no, sarah. you suck. i accepted this true fact, i nodded. fair enough soul. we don't need each other,, so naturally after my brake-up with my soul, i called up my good friend haze. i said, "hey haze. will you fill my body, so i can walk and move? please, i really need you at this point." we get along quite well. our relationship is based off of our emptiness. but haze fills me up. and keeps me feeling limp. i like him for this. we have this door mat that reads, get out. and above the mat we have a sign that says, we don't exist. i like the sign the most. the tile in our kitchen is very cold, my feet and hand are blue, so are my lips. but sometimes haze makes a fire, but only he gets to sit by it. that's ok though. i am ok with being cold. i don't have a bed either. haze gets the only bed. i like to sleep on the ground though.    i am fine with these adjustments. its all fine haze. we're fine. you're fine. im fine. fine.

one day i will write my soul a letter, it will probably say, "come back? i kind of like you more than haze. so call me." 

but until i escape my house, with haze, i will just have to stay here. and here is kind of cozy. 

if you don't have a soul. give me a call. 

801-nosoulforever. 

this is our future. 

sarah janelle. 

when i am on the freeway i always roll down my window, because this is my favorite sound. i think flying sounds like this.

i don't know anything anymore. 

who are you?

sarah janelle. 

it's not really different to like mondays.

i read through the internet, and the so called, "blogs" and i frown. i do a whole lot of frowning when i read these "blogs". and i frown because i wish i could write like these other kids, yes. that's all i really ever wanted. 

all the freaky "indie" kids who need to leave their "mark" on this world are so absolutely desperate to be different. but you know. what's different about trying to be different, when everyone is doing it? how different are you being when everyone is different, is no one different? being different isn't different. you're all the same. all trying to leave the same "mark" but in your own different way. what's the point? some of the "different indie kids" will leave their mark by style. but hasn't everyone tried that at least once or twice? aren't you just copying some one else style, but then putting your "own different" tweak to it? that's not different. because in reality. everyone does that. other "different kids" will make their mark through their writing, which is where i do a lot of frowning while i read their writing, i guess leaving your "mark" on writing is a little easier, because other people aren't really ALLOWED to copy your writing while putting their own little tweak to it, because that's not ALLOWED. have you heard of copy right, perhaps? plus maybe one day i will be able to leave this "mark" that everyone is talking about on my own writing, but probably not, because i tend to use overly long run-on sentences and repeat the same words quite often. double plus, i also tend to not make that much sense when i write, but you know, it makes a lot of sense to me, and paragraphs aren't really my thing. that's alright though. all you desperate different kids. oh you guys. you're quite the silly little bunch. you silly bunch you. some of you like to leave your "mark" by pretending you like to read, or write poetry, or do drugs. but all of you like to read and write poetry and do drugs. so how are you different? 
do you even want to be different?
of course you do. of course. do i want to be different? you know. it all depends what different really is. 
being different isn't actually being different. not being different is different. but who wants to be different any way? 
it's a monday. and being different isn't different. 




HELLO? can you tell me your plan for life? 
how much does it involve ME?

sarah janelle. 

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.