the greens from your eyes have melted away.

solemn and reverent,
we speak.
our eyes, touch.
our hands fumble.
is this what you call love?
the dark springs,
the warm falls.
our warmth fades.
our skin became like prunes.
desolation, and pity
shot the stars down.
my collar bone,
collected the stars.
feeding them; with my
crocodile tears.
during the mid-night,
we swam in the lake.
with all beauty
your silver voice,
fills the moon with color.
tall grass, and dry days.
we communicate.

kart-wheels and summer kids. this is not me.

your mind is equivalent to butter. it's just there. i open my cupboard looking for something to fill my empty stomach. no bread. no flour. no vanilla extract. just the empty cupboard to fill the empty space. however, the butter, sitting on the bottom shelf, is continuously looked over. as if it doesn't exist.
and that, my homie, is why your mind is equivalent to butter.

farewell. kids.

sleep well.

sarah.

my knuckles crack and i shutter in return.

they'll sharpen their teeth,, on your neck.

i was young when i left home.

during the young nights, i would gaze upon my soul. and search it, only finding empty journals and gray cats. quite often, the further i searched, the more i hurt. the more i was confused. the more i would stumble upon the truth. and dark rooms. the truth would swim in the deep end of my soul. never in the shallow. often, i would have to rescue the truth, from drowning, over and over. until. one day. i made a silent vow, to never, deeply, soul search. i tied the truth to a brick. clutching the truth, letting the brick drag, i threw him. i threw the truth into the deep end. with a final heartbreak, the truth drowned. and sunk. 

it stayed, buried in water, breathing itself in and out, and i thought, the truth would stay there for forever. 

but i broke my silent vow.

...

.

i opened my heart, climbed inside. found my soul. and accepted a tour..    the truth learned to swim. and was floating at the top. shuttering. i left it there while the memories cried.  the heart ache and pain i have caused, made me feel impaired. blood and the smell of death, filled my soul. and i felt like a fool. my soul is worn down, and has a stench. outside in black letters, it states, foreclosed. the metal has rusted and the water has rotted. my eyes filled with salty tears, for i knew. what i had done. the time for change. has arrived. and the anxiety that comes with it. has begun. 

i never wrote a letter to my home. 

sarah.

im not the type to wear patriotic things.

One time;  I heard that blind men, can still see beauty.But i didn't believe it; I was young then. Now i question this. Quite honestly, I don't know. There is something beautiful about an other human's eye. And with some people, you can focus upon their eyes, see straight past their heart, and look upon their soul. I know this to be true; I have peered through an eye, and seen a soul. And it was beautiful. But what if that eye was blind? How could I look past their heart and see a soul, because i think their heart has to fill their empty eyes, but what if hearts aren't translucent? So then what? I would be left with some shadow filled eyes and a squished heart. .     Would the soul be blind too, if the eye was blind? Maybe not. Maybe, their soul would see for them. Perhaps, their soul would whisper vision into the heart, which would fill the eyes.M aybe, the soul is what sees;and the eyes are what feels.

I think, souls are what tell the eyes of true beauty; and the eyes obey. And see what is beautiful. 

You have once again met my expectations. 

to disappoint. 

sarah.

yesterday. i cried. and i think i have never loved something more than. yesterday.

its summer right right now. and when people, especially freaky teenagers, think of summer, they create this summer romance story that people would usually base a movie off of. well. it's never going to happen. so put those dreams back to sleep. i barley even like summer. all my "friends" are gone. everyone has a life, and so the kids like me, who so happen to have no life. are just left to stay home and become best friends with their moms. i'm not saying that it's a bad thing. but you know, it's your mom. i feel like i am at some disadvantage. poor me. everyone has exciting things to look forward to. mostly i just look forward to when it's late at night, and i can sleep. or cry. or read. or just pretend to sleep. i look forward to to the night time.

someone always asks me, "hows life." {this person shall not be called by their correct name. let's just call them,   "you."} i never know how to respond to that question because quite frankly. i don't know. i hardly even know what the word life means. sure, i understand that people grow old during life, and that you get broken bones during life. yes,  i know that. but what really is life? is it a chance to prove yourself to the world, to an other human? is it something were you go on a quest to fine "love."      the thing i know most about life is that it is short. even the word {life} itself only has four letters. that proves how short life is. {even the word short is longer than the word life.} and all i have planed for my short life is that i will graduate high school. and i will go on a mission. everything else, is a blur. a blur full of scary opportunities. opportunities that i don't deserve, and don't want to work for. its like when you're in the car, and you're looking out the window, everything seems to blend together, and you hardly realize what your missing and passing. but the destination is clear. you know where you're going, you know what it looks like. but your journey is blurry until you have already passed it. that's the worst part about life. figuring it all out. some people say that it's the best part, the adventure, and possibilities. but really. i just find myself getting anxiety about it in the night. i want my life to be like a map. telling me exactly where and what to do. it would say, four yards left after graduating high school.  follow the yellow brick road until you fall upon an apartment. 26 steps past falling in love. arrive in the mission field. fly 78 miles west to dying of cancer. bam. there you have it folks. your life.      that's what i want. and probably that's what i need. i need a map. full of directions and compasses. i really need it bad. so i'm living my life. my little highland city life. full of boring summer days, where the wind is too windy. and where i keep losing my permit. where i pretend to sleep. but im not fooling anyone, not even myself. im living it. becoming best friends with the woman who raised me. and i can't tell if i'm living a good or bad life. i sell myself short. and i expect little of myself. because, i don't want to have dreams that will never be fulfilled. i'm never going to become an astronaut. i won't and can't shoot for the stars. because, what if i point my gun up there, and i shoot. and i kill a star. and it falls down. dead. what if i slip off the moon. and fall down. dead. so "you". i don't know. i don't know how "life is." i think i will never know. i couldn't even give it a one word description. and if i tried. it would be inaccurate. so please. once im through living my map-less life. then you can ask me everyday, "how's life?"    "how was life."   and i will answer. and honestly too. i would say, "you". life was hard. and i made too many mistakes and i kept losing my map. {but in reality, i never had a map.} but i did it. and here is my one word description.  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ."

so bare with me here. ask me questions i can answer like, who's your favorite baseball team? or do you like the fall?

and then, i will say,         "what's your favorite baseball team?
the red socks? 
ok. i like the red socks.
 and yes. "you". i do like the fall."

sarah janelle. 

its nothing.

my heart has a forecloser sign, out front. 

wounded i am.

it's just too much now. 







 sarah.

i tend to think that post with big words and long titles are the best. but mostly they're just too much.

im damp with sunshine and am covered in grass stains. the wind braids my hair, into a tangled weave as i count the rings in a tree. --thirty seven, thirty eight-- you rest by the pond, reading alice in wonderland to me. the weeds write poetry and sing empty songs while the dragon flies play tag. our shoulders are collecting freckles and our fingers learn sign language. my lace socks have been acquainted with dirt and old things. but that's the way i like them. the souls of your shoes have worn through, and your toes sometimes stick out. -- seventy two, seventy three-- your brown eyes call the mountains and the humming birds. they call the wild things to play. foxs' head tilts crooked while their ears are slanted back. the rolling hills and the lean brown grass stops swaying to listen to alice's adventure. i've chipped away my green nail polish and bite at my fingers. the sun retires. but we have not. even the moon has stopped moving to listen to our memories fade. we count the consolations and star gaze far. we make up stories for the stars while they intently listen. in return, they tell us stories. the man in the moon smiles, and the fisher boy, who lives on the moon, fishes. we use the crickets as our melody, and write our secret songs. the fire flies chat and the frogs croak. pointing to the sky, i say something intriguing. you come up with a logical reply. --four hundred and forever.--

the thoughts of summer have their own kind of magic to them, i believe. 






i think. i am a fool. and a bitter one. 
sarah janelle. 

6.16.2012

and i'll follow you into the dark.

-death cab.

i already have a home town. 

sarah janelle.

math, in real life.

statement: if i run away from home, then my parents will be mad.

converse: if my parents are mad, then i have run away from home. 

thank you geometry, i am not sure i could have figured that one out 

with out you.








i am surprised how many times i have found myself flipping everything off in the past 24 hours. 
and i am not talking about my casual "fake flip off".

we all cry over pointless items. true?

this is me.

my hands are filled with wrinkles and ink.. 

and i believe they have a story to share. every cut and scar each have a little memory attached to them. and today, i studied my little hands. and i concentrated on them. thinking about my life, and how my stupid hands reflect it. and, you know, so far. my life has sucked. there are many scars and scabs resting on my hands. i even had my palms read. (im not sure it was an accurate source, but i still appreciated it quaintly.) i was told i had shaky relationships. i have always known this. and that my life will be controlled by fate. which oddly enough, i am very glad about that fact. because i have a hard time making decisions, and fate is like a decision master. my hands told me im fatigued. i was born fatigued. their story, is some what right. but i think my hands hold too much potential for me. i expect nothing more than terrible from myself. because i am told i am terrible. and terrible is what i will be. it's really hard holding on to something, for so long, and having to let go. after all the blisters. and welts. my hands became strong though. they became rough. and raw. and i think it's really quite time to let go, loosen my grip. and nurse my hands back to health.
sarah janelle.

just for you.

you: what if i punched someone in the nose so hard that it went to the back of their head? 

me: they would hate their life because they would be voldemort. 

i still owe you.

how unfairly inconsiderate i have been. this isn't me. what am i doing here and how did i end up like this? what the. what the sarah. everything seems so dark and gloomy, and i tend to dwell on the fact that i don't receive the daily newspaper. you know what i'm saying here?
no? 

its been rough. and i have been rough. and my heart has dried up a little bit, maybe. and maybe even my lungs took over, maybe i just breathe, maybe hearts aren't real. and the ink in my skin will disappear? and so will the actual skin. maybe i will start to wear make-up again, and do my hair. you know? maybe i will clean the dirt out from under my nails, and wash the mud off of my feet. maybe i will stop gritting my teeth when i think. understand? 
no?

i have been in denial. to everything. i have denied my heart, my soul,  my little self. i have denied the fact that i need to open up, that i need to stop changing so much. that my old friends, still are actually my friends. i have denied myself of comfort and concern. i have denied friends and their worries for me. i have denied meeting new strangers, and animals. what have i not denied? ... the devil. probably. 

i don't really know where im walking, i can tell that i'm moving though. i really am. but which direction? left of up? straight or wide? sometimes i just think i am alice. from wonderland. and i wonder. around this land. and it gets me no where. and i meet new people, and souls. but i tend to think i know more than the state of Indiana. which i probably don't. and i can tell it's time to find my way, to the queen of hearts. and take back my heart. claim it again, perhaps even defeat my uncontrolled mind. and wake up. you know? 
no?

basically. (to state it in words of a 3 year old fox.) 
i need to do the dreadful. i need to grow up. and get over myself, and my silly little critical mind. and plant some trees. i need to stop telling myself off. i need to stop flipping myself off. i need to just stop. and enjoy my silly little life. because if i don't enjoy my life, then am i even living? 
no?

i am ready. and i am dry. 
and i promise. 
i will try.
and it's time.


i am aware of myself.
sarah janelle.

you know, i already know.

In the Desert

By Stephen Crane

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

i am a terrible human. and i know it. no worries everyone, i know. there's no need to tell me, because i know, unless you just want to remind me and because i probably deserve it, then yes, you can tell me. and i promise i won't even scream at you. ok everyone? i know it. i think babies are.. grotesque. and i don't really like them. i will always be the one to point out your faults. and i will probably be a hypocrite and laugh at you. i will probably maybe even flip you off underneath my desk because you keep raising your hand and answering all the math questions and then you will mumble under your breath, "that's so easy." yes, i will probably flip you off for that. or just because your dumb. i will also doubt you. because how am i supposed to trust you when you telling me how to live my life. you know? i will also most likely say very inappropriate things to you, when you can't actually hear me. i will probably say something along the lines of, "you suck balls." and that's naughty to say. but i will still say it to you. i will fake be your friend. and laugh at your same stupid stories you tell, even though inside i just want to take apart a brick house and throw the bricks at you, and then i will be mad because you will probably sue me in order to pay for your plastic surgery that you now need. i will probably flirt with your best friend, just so i can get you to feel some type of emotion towards me. (i am the worst.) sometimes i may fantasize about grating your face off. with a cheese grater. Probably i will laugh at your name, because it's sounds stupid. and i don't like it. i know i will roll my grey eyes at you. and try not to loose all my self control. probably i will pretend that my phone is dead, even though i just took out the battery, or i just didn't answer it, just so i can prove to you that i don't actually need or even like you. i'm going to say no a lot to you. that's my favorite word. im going to sluff class, just so i don't have to smile at you. because i fully believe you don't deserve seeing me smile at you. because once again, i barely even like you. but can't you cut me some slack? i mean, if you were me, wouldn't you hate it too? 

are these things i do to you, or just things i wish i could do to myself? 

has life even stared yet?

when i was a child, my grandpa told me that if i ate watermelon seeds then i would grow watermelons out of my ears.  i avoided watermelon seeds very proficiently. but one time i purposely swallowed a speed, and i drank extra water and stayed outside in the sun, to make sure my growing watermelon would get what it needed. and i truly believed that it would grow and i would have a garden inside of me. this seems very logical to me. there was something exciting about believing that. i always told my mom that when i "grew up" i would be an astronaut. and i truly believed it. i would get books from our library on stars and rockets. i would read them before i went to bed, and i would pray that i would dream about living in space. it almost seems like after my childhood dreams about flying to the moon, i have always been eager to stare the moon down. when i moved to my new neighborhood, i created my own.. world. i would spend hours drawing out each creature and i would write books about all the different powers each creature possessed. i would sit in my back yard, talking to them, warning them of the evil that would soon come to pass. and i believed they were real. and that i needed them to survive. ever since i was seven i believed that i will die of cancer, because my dad had a cassette tape with song in which the girl's name was sarah, and she had cancer, and she was bald. my dad would sing it me every time we were in his car. i still believe this. and i plan on this, i don't want it. but i believe it. i believed in farries. and i would search for them, during the night. and i would look for them when the seasons changed, and when i thought i saw peter pan. (some nights i would wait for peter, and his shadow. but obviously he never came. i concluded it was because my name is sarah. and not wendy.) i wouldn't listen to anyone who told me that monsters weren't real. i enjoyed my nightly ritual were i would walk to the light switch, flip it off, and run to my bed. because i always thought that maybe the monsters weren't really all that vicious. kind of like in the book, "where the wild things are." i wanted a wild thing to live under my bed. and after watching  the Berenstain Bears for years, i decided i too will live in a tree house, and probably have a dog named dog. or even have a sister named sister.
the quaint little dreams of children are what i wish i own. being able to believe what ever you want, and there was no logic, or rules of gravity. or evolution. (i've always had something against gravity. i just don't appreciate how it holds me down. how i can't go to the moon.) my innocent childhood dreams still linger from time to time. they occasionally whisper secrets in my ear. or nightmares. but i have grown up. i have met the bitter world, and im familiar with it. i have been introduced to gravity,cruse you gravity, and photosynthesis. i have been acquainted with the chemical bonds of this and that, and i know why hair grows. and sometimes, i wish was straight up oblivious to everything. and all i had was a dictionary and imagination. and we would create what ever we needed. and that's how we would live. but thanks to age, and maturity, people think they have some silly little right to tell me santa doesn't actually exist. and that the chances of me becoming an astronaut are extremely slim. and that dogs will never talk. sometimes i just want to walk with my hands cupped to my ears, to make sure i don't hear any more disappointments. can't i just live with my fantasies? but that's not realistic. but sometimes when im outside, i think about my watermelon, growing inside of me. and it makes me smile. because, you know, there is probably really a watermelon in there. just a little one though.

sometimes. you suck. and you make me cry too much.

i have a sad cold heart. and i want a new one.

im just the bad note in the paino.

we stood there, staring across the ocean. i couldn't see you. but i felt you. our hearts beat, and sent messages. through morse code. i received every sad message you sent out, as well as the sad songs, and lonesome cries. it was our thing though. crying to each other, through our hearts. traveling by morse code, being carries by the sound waves. and wind. our thing. you stopped coming now. i still send you messages. hoping your heart will turn my direction and hear them. sometimes they bounce off the water, and i can hear them myself. sometimes i cry and pity myself. my heart is so alone. now i just skip rocks. telling myself if i make it to 13 skips, you will be there on the other side. and you will send me a message. even just a, "hello." so far i have made it to 7. i will have to practice some more. it hurts my wrist. i can usually only practice for 3 hours. so i just nap by the sea side. and listen to the other sad people. 

our people are sad. america is pretty broken. 

i guess that's why you live away now. 

you have a smart heart. 

smarter than i.

my game is though. and so am i.

sarah janelle. 

im ready and its getting damp

sometimes i just wish i could listen to a song without thinking of you. it may mean more that way. it hurts knowing that we are going our separate ways and that our friendship cannot grow more, that we can't be more than just friends. and even the word "friend" is sketchy to throw around with you. it's hard to not wish that things would change, it's to wish you would love me. it's hard carrying my feelings with me. is it time to set them free, to empty them from my travel pack?