Capture.

If I could have anything, impossibility set aside,
I would ask to have a camera set behind my eyes.

Lenses unable to blur void of tears, free of fingerprints and streaks of castoff memory life unrecorded. One mind can only store so many eyebrow scars and perfectly traceable lines found along the hardly predictable curves of uncharted territory.

Nothing, it seems, can capture the moon. Light gives between the accumulation of so many sunny, cloudless days. The city lends a hand, sheeting the stars with opaque halos, each its own. Imperfect views hindered by power lines and oil on car windows become hazy mental pictures we couldn't adjust lighting, lenses, and technology to store for us. Every night we look up at the same moon. It appears in different shapes according to pattern and keeps company with varying swirls of the weather while we guard silence and fluttering eyelids. Disregard dollar signs; the most valuable memories never will be those with witty captions on public profiles.

Few remain as clear as brown eyes lined with tears as a brow-brushing brunette holds a rain-soaked page containing far more than words on college ruled lines. The moment you learn what it is to love and lose is one of the last things you give up to age. As detestable as love is, the portrait of its first appearance is each owner's best kept secret. The way you wear the blank peace of sleep unraveled the complicated ambiance you worked so hard to build; youth makes us honest, and we're all the same when we're set to dreaming, forgetting. I have so much of you figured out; game over. Catching you off guard, voice lighter and eyes less hesitant, letting a smile spread from your eyes to your lips, keeps the assurance that you've embodied honesty.

The shame in this mental memory card is the slowly dissolving past, like the way ambition colored your skin and broken bits of leaves catching along the beaten strands of carefree hours. Missing everything about you doesn't prevent me from coating old memories with a rotation of seasons. I'm in constant motion as the colors I've memorized blur around me. Each second stored away runs into the next, and it's moments like these that I wish could be immortalized outside the confines of blurring pasts and prominent presents.

Approach wishing your time away slowly and keeping a sharp mind earnestly. Therefore, I want to line my walls with the exact images my eyes take in between rapid-fire blinking. I wish only to remember in motion.

Stereotyping.

I get pretty sick of being grouped with my gender.

Stereotypes: Females are emotional, clingy, hold on easily and let go almost never. I've seen screaming fights, pathetic letters, and unhealthy relationships that have me unable to debunk these completely, and this is my hang up. My best friends and I are constantly reminding ourselves through burps, beers, and I don't cares that we have a tendency to defy our anatomy.

Beer over a pink martini. Hookups over relationships until the right one comes along. Not caring if they want to see you again. Self-respect is my most prominent female characteristic, and yet, it's hard to come by in your true bred drunk slut. Just another way we females like to mindfuck.

I've decided to quit my player mentality. After my own taste of colossal failure in the face of love, I couldn't do it anymore. Emotional detachment and devious smiles were the norm for awhile, and that kind of power is hard to throw. I once wrote I'd hate to see what happens in your mind when my face flashes within it. I'd leave you for dead with no second thought.

Now, it's time to quit being a coward and start utilizing the optimism I was blessed with. It's time to stop being so damn scared. I think I'd like to figure out exactly what I've been hiding from.

Post.

"The only reason I'm letting you back into my life is because I know you'll fuck it up again, and frankly, things have been boring."

A long time favorite in a long forgotten pastime. This is how I've grown used to operating, but today, this serves as my reminder that one burst of thought is turning into a brand new mindset. I'm not the same person I was when I first read those lines. I refuse to identify.

I needed to say this, if nothing else but to keep believing.

Mix Up.

Something new for your viewing pleasure. Poetry/song never has been my thing, but I caught a stride with this one. It's still in the works, so expect a finished product on an as of yet undetermined date. Feedback is very, very welcomed. Disclaimer: I've just been a bystander for most of the bits that inspired me.

Why do we insist
on believing with all we've got
that love's worth searching for?
Seems like every time I chase it
I come out worse for wear
The bearer of broken hopes
and wasted nights

Yet it's the one thing we hold closest
The one thing we really know
Waking up with bruised eyes
Under sun stained skies
We remember what it is to fight

I've found the best part of this time of year: You see exactly how much you have, and if only for a month, you don't take it for granted. I know I'm packing up to head to a new room and eventually, to head home, with a far great understanding of exactly what this life is all about, the most beautiful part being that I would never want to fully understand it. There are people I intend to get to know better and those I hope will stay right beside me no matter how far away they may geographically be. It's times like these where I let myself dream up big hopes and no plans. Sometimes, everything just falls into place. Sometimes, it just takes a few words to stop sweating a lack of them.

Sometimes, you need nothing but yourself to feel completely, falling asleep with a smiling face happy.

Pocket Change.

This familiar routine never ceases to seem like anything less than a miracle. Crack open sleepy eyes and unlearn the hazy off position. Five minutes to departure are motivation enough to roll out of sheet-covered feet and a warming collar of bunched-up fleece. The cold creeps on from bottom to top, and it's easy to dress on a time crunch with such an eager opponent. Eyes still weak, body still dented from folds in blankets, it's time to trek in unkind sun.

Hands find a home in designated pockets and assess their contents. One all-important cell phone, one addictive device aimed to feed an obsession with instant gratification. We're constantly reachable and usually prefer it that way. Do you ever ignore the ringtones you've memorized? Opening beats and jingles send your most convenient hand flying to its cradle. Sometimes, I tune out and turn off. If only for an hour, it can wait. Our ability to stomach such a word is incompetent at best. Slow down; for once in your life, taste the air you breathe.

One balled up gum wrapper long kept in your pocket, the by-product of three extra steps worth of laziness. Cast out and ranked by numerical value, yet kept to remember every time your hand falls where its been forgotten. You underestimate the value in things that seem so easily crumpled between your fingertips. Daily, we're possess by an unexplainable pull to cut corners and easy ways out. My friends call me out on my shit; where's your moral compass when it comes to this? It's hard to be humble when you're anything but honest. Go all out. Get caught up in the details. Someone's bound to notice.

Fidget your left hand, fitted around a loop of fabric, college's favorite way to remember. Identification is everything, even two years shy of the age that seems to define it. Identity is access, strength, and food. More than a number and less of a prominent presence your own hardly ready, confusingly sideways smile keeps you honest. Passing glances remind you where you call home, where you fall asleep, and the undeniable reality that they've grown increasingly plural. Home is where you make it. Appreciate the places your skin can settle and raise with ease. You'll find more than just a place to pass the time; you'll learn who deserved to be called family.

I'm learning to take notice of every change of scene, color, and shape. Surprises have always been a personal favorite, so I'm letting the smallest discoveries surprise me. The choice I made one year ago is creating an increasingly endearing location to drive this state of mind that's sewed to my skin. Sense is easy to come by these days, and ease as a result is simply sensible. I can handle anything that is to come from situations I've just begun, the ones I'm knowingly continuing, and even those that I'm completely unaware of. Shape yourself to the lines carving out my palm, and I'll carry you.

You and life remain beautiful.

Muster Up.

Have you ever just had too much to think about? Where you just can't isolate one thought, one hope or crisis, and give it your full attention. At times like these, I let the songs I hide behind do the talking for me.

"Tonight I'm finding a way to make the things that you say just a little less obvious, I confess. Tonight I'm dressed up in gold; you've got me fucked up and sold. You talk like you're famous; you're shameless."

There's a point between want and need that is nearly impossible to communicate. I'm amazed at how many hours of the day we spend playing games. Straight answers are hard to come by when everyone is just trying to say the right thing. To dreamers, it's taking a leap without the fears we keep in purses and pockets. To the critics, it's letting the pain set in, swearing off and finding our way back, using the trials to make art worth believing in. To cynics, we forget and keep to ourselves. One storybook ending is sure to leave someone disappointed.

"We dance along to empty beats, filling time with body heat."

All that really seems to matter is this mood that refuses to be shaken off. So much sunshine's reflecting off my teeth despite the covered ground I woke up to. Don't take my first words of the day as my state of mind. Every single menial task you fill your time with now will save you some sort of trouble later, so stifle your sighs and shoot an energy drink to spite those sleepless eyes. Time is hard to come by with the last days of knowledge drying up. What's the use in suffering through completion?

Cross your fingers; count nothing out.

Covering.

Too many drafts and nothing itching for completion; maybe this is nature's way of telling me it's time for beginnings. I find myself adding to the work-in-progress total, spiting what is natural like the lack of snow in December. Weather may be inevitable, but I'm fighting its increasing layers. My creativity is caught up in creation; new beginnings should know they'll need a number. I think of you nightly -daily- I confess. I care. Cryptic and honest pens find their most fruitful battles here. You'll know what you're looking to take from it all.

I'll get these endings written, but the story between then and what's begun is worth delaying a finished project. I'll muster the courage one of these days unless you find it in you to beat me to the punch. This morning, I spit your name like a profanity. Tonight, I whispered it for shame in still giving it a home. Now it and I both need to sleep sound.

It'd be an honor to know you.