a sturdy chord

strummed at the same pace

as a tapping foot.

this is what my heartbeat sounds like

an easy chord

at a steady pace

strum down

then up

at no particular hurry

this is the sound of my heart

before it skips a beat.

this is my life, a full book on the floor, feel free to open and read, i think i wrote it for you anyways.

by that, by saying that i thought i wrote all of this for you, if you were to find it - i don't think that's a complete truth...for one, the proverbial "you" is a large one in regards to this. the subject of my rants, words of love, whatever, changes often. the only distinguishing features are catchphrases and references to pencil skirts. here's hoping i can recall those allusions when i'm older and revisiting. right, now. if any of these "you" found this - and read this - and attributed writings to yourself - then fine. i'm not going to be around to say whether you were right or not. you wouldn't listen anyway. speaking of anyway, maybe, in a way - these are my memoirs. find. publish. one dream down, a million to go. i always wanted to pen my story but always pictured it as daunting. here it is - uncut. unabridged. just like life. only better.

my room is packed with books - with stories of lives and loves i'll never experience

hundreds of vignettes show me exactly what i'm missing

however, some have been helpful tomes

they've led me in the right direction in order to pretend my life was storybook

but like all lies, those had to come to an end as well.

my room is my own library

where i can revisit the same stories

night after night.

my dreams, hopes and aspirations are coloured by these pieces of fiction in ways fiction should never be considered.

storybooks and fairytales are cautionary -

build houses out of stone, not straw, and don't rest until you've finished the race - 

so why am i reading them with a comparative eye?

books make sense.

life and love make sense in books.

they aren't supposed to in real life.

at least, i hope not.

because then otherwise,

i'm reading the wrong books.

sometimes i wonder what will happen when i'm gone. who will be the one to end up going through my things? read my journal pages? will they mean anything? i've left a lot of names out...hopefully i'll remember who i talked about so vehemently, so passionately. when i go, whose eyes will scan my pages? someone i've written about? if so, i'm not sorry. i didn't make anything up. i accept your apology, though.

swift fingers plucking a piano,

that's my soundtrack.

mostly single notes, a couple chords,

make up the intro.

but eventually the single plinks

escalate and blend

into both hands

spewing a melodic tune

at an increasing pace.

faster and more beautiful,

the music goes on

until it stops.

don't give me flowers,

flowers eventually die,

and i see signs in everything.

don't give me chocolate,

it gives me stomachaches,

and i see signs in everything.

call me atypical,

but all i want is your kiss.

indoors and out

morning noon and night

kiss me in the rain

or on my doorstep while judy garland

sings in the background,

"somewhere over the rainbow

way up high

there's a land that i heard of

once in a lullaby."

i see signs in everything.

tears fall

as a mind races

history is revisited

without any traces

of a smile

that vanished

along with ideas

of a "you"

that never materialized