my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room

ever since i first knew you, babe, we've been ‘slow dancing in a burning room’
we know that what we both feel, and it isn’t right yet we carry on.
we ignore the turmoil around us, fires and arson and chaos and we’re going down and you can see it too.
you're trying to keep me away, pushing me and looking away, he who won’t look me in the eyes
he won't have the alarms raised
yet we're slow dancing, here, in this burning room.
we can both feel the temperatures raised
we're scorched and burning, as we know that together will never be a true together
except in
the ashes of our hearts.


I’m waiting. Smoked out cigarette stumps and piles of musty old books; she read them over and over. These are occupations of waiting, waiting for him to return. Die waiting. Waiting, forever.

I was thinking of writing in my novel about a girl who regularly visits a psychiatrist, however reluctantly, and gets annoyed when he speaks to her as if she is a crazy person. She also hates it when the furniture always looks the same and sterile hospital smells. She’d rather walk on a beach and let her trousers get wet and sandy. She wishes she could let go and not have to hold them up as she walked.

I’m scared because I don’t know myself. I can be fire one day and water the next. At full moon I feel off, and then I’m down and then I’m bored and tired and frustrated, I will never say ‘I’m happy’ because happiness is fickle. It comes and goes; it’s really just you saying that everything is swell when actually it’s not so just get that into your head and deal with it. Fuck it. Lately I have thought people are very stupid. I say this several times a day. "God, he’s so fucking stupid." "What the fuck."

P.S. watch Garden State