Tell me what you want from me

Tell me what I want from myself.
Treat you like a queen and put you on a pedestal. Dresses adorned with pearls and diamonds, stitched with gold lining and wrapped in a rosy pink box with a single silver bow. What is the whole package?

In the summertime you were a dime sent by the divine, a sign that the stars must have aligned. It was a summertime fine, and throughout my tears and whines, you were always able to show me a good time. But father time, he is not your father and you are not a clock because you're timing is never quite right. Though you were polite with sensible insight, my bright shining knight coming to smite any appetite of insecurity, it never surpassed my immaturity that managed to convince me that we weren't meant to be. A chance I never took when you took one for me.

And here I am, already able to underestimate the potential of a prom date when he has the balls to demonstrate his humility by showing his vulnerability and dependability with the ability to voice his circumspect affection; while I'm here thinking it's some sort of misdirection. Because regardless of the prince charmings at the door, I'm baited by the half-baked idea of a guy debated by every other girl. Yeah it's cliche, I must be as thick as a brick to fall for someone a few french fries short of a happy meal. It's odd to find myself fascinated by the gritty sense of style and coarse way he speaks, but honestly that just reeks of a superficial state of mind, underlined and intertwined with a girl that wants to be wined and dined.

Is that what I want for myself?

Laminated Love

When was it in fashion to buy love through a credit card transaction, to show others our satisfaction through yet another trendy contraption? More like a contract, and what I contracted was a trap behind the fine print. And though I tried to hint, you'd always cover your tracks, making sure to not leave scars; buy me cars, take me to bars, smoke Cuban cigars while preaching one of your love seminars, I was secretly sitting behind your parallel bars. A flashy writs and lavish gifts to hide the shady cliffs and dirty distortion of my back alley abortion, when is it enough? Because in a world where deception is easier than devotion and the motion of the ocean crashes down on you and washes you up with every emotion, you no longer question the legitimacy of your feelings that are no longer there. Calling yourself a creator, an illustrator. Please. You manipulator, traitor, dictator, perpetrator; worse than a pair of uncooperative legislators with that "let's just wait" no more. Cause I am pleased to show you the door because there seems to be a paper jam in your laminator.

I've put in so much time, so much time only to be convicted of another girl's crime. Cause while you're out chasing booty and dimes, the real treasure is leaving. And it's little things like that that make me lose hope cause I am no longer simply willing to cope. It doesn't seem to matter the quality, because either way her past still follows me. I'm waiting for my innocence but my trial, it never came. And somehow, I've been enveloped into this game where I'm sentenced to live with the fact that I will always be looked at as the same.
The same as her. The girl that stretched out the truth but shrunk your heart, because your capacity to love is now only a weak flickering glow. Which goes to show that it was never a love story to begin with cause let's face the facts, she was a hoe. And while you were layin' low tryna maintain a status quo, she was out runnin' a game show. Free throws and scores, she was a whore and the only thing that came out was your heart shattered on the floor. But did you really expect more?
 So where does this leave us? I don't want to be forever cleaning up after her dust and I love you but I don't want this to be a bust. And I'm asking you, as your new girl, can you adjust? Adjust from passive trust and momentary lust to loving wholeheartedly and investing real time in me. Because weather it's her story, your story, their story, or his story, let's just make the past history.

You could say I’ve become bitter or hesitant to hand out trust. Unconsciously hoarding onto hallucinatory notions of doubt and insecurity from the lust. What good is the truth if it’s so obscured. Twisting around words as you reassured, never making me good enough with all the shit I’ve endured. See it’s been a while, but lies and secrets aint comin’ back in style. Implanting such self-loathing ideas, it made the line between fear and love barely distinguishable. I let your voice tiptoe into the attic of my head and live rent-free for weeks. I was weak to let you speak with such antique techniques that should have been obsolete but was allowed to be complete because I trusted you. That trust, the trust that was derived from sunny dates and pie crusts turned to lust and disgust and conversations cussed. I guess you could say I’ve become bitter or hesitant to hand out trust.

Two to tango

And then you’re there. Sitting in deep contemplation as to why our verbal exchanges has come to a sudden hiatus. Well you see, it takes two to converse. Somewhere along the line, I was deemed the the under-spoken silence. For as long as I can remember, you were the one that spoke over both our thoughts. You answered for me and assumed I would always be there to listen. I convinced myself that because you could turn to me in times of need, it would be mutually reciprocated.

Never could I be more wrong. I never had a say in anything; and I do care about you, but there’s a difference between putting up with someone and knowing when you’ve had enough. I can no longer assure you that I’ll always be there for you. I can’t prioritize your feelings while you continue to put me on the back burner. My thoughts will never be truly heard through your ears and my words will never be strong enough to convince you not only hear, but to listen. This will just be another friendship severed through time, because no matter doesn’t matter how hard I try, it takes two to tango.

Diamond in the Rough

I’m the girl that’s always tired. The girl that has too much weight on her shoulders. The girl that carries three bags, one to hold the essentials and two under her eyes. The girl that lives for fleeting happiness but wallows in her insecurities. I’m the girl that never completely loves anything. The girl that only cries on her pillowcase but only screams in faces. The hasty, impatient, and imperfect. The girl that is disappointing but dreams higher than cloud ten. I’m the girl that secretly swims through bookshelves and thumbs through every book in her spare time. The girl that doesn’t confide in anyone and sleeps with one eye open, if she ever even sleeps. The girl that has long abandoned preconcieved notions of love at first sight. The girl wrestling to rebuild the past. I’m the girl that will never finish editing her rough draft because in her mind, a final paper doesn’t exist.

The Best Medicine

Sparking the paper and inhaling; out burned smokey words the curled off his lips and it kind of looked like what happy would look like. A few seconds passed and the words dissipate into the air. Nature’s osmosis, her way of achieve equilibrium. What you take will in one way or another be taken from you. All the energy you put into the world comes from somewhere else because you can’t create it. It’s a fundamental scientific law. But I didn’t go to exchange theories of relativity and thermodynamics, I went to take a hit of that dopamine. To have that chemical surge is better than any recreational drug. It is.

You are a gift given. The greatest teacher of all lessons but one that kills their students in the end. You are a fixed income; a problem facing most of us: how to live successfully within our daily allotment. You are an equal opportunist, a non-discriminatory profession that allows us all the same amount. Regardless of our race, color, or religion. You can’t buy or make more of you. You are the doctor, healing us without fancy equipment. You are an inner-city piegon. Always flying away. You are a thief and the money he is after. Being stolen and stealing moments away.


Laughter and time.

It is good to visit the past, just don't stay there. And I do visit, a lot. To grow from my mistakes and pick myself up. To take pride in my improvement and applaud my own accomplishments. Because many times, we always wonder how on earth we'll get by, but in the end, we always do.

And looking back on the good, it was all the things I wanted to hear. The things that gave me confidence and security. All the blissful words that intoxicated my heart and drove me to love whole-heatedly like never before.
But looking back on the bad, it was all the things you did. The actions that betrayed me laced with lies and deceit. There is a difference. Actions speak louder than words and so now I know.

I've gotten over that, in the mental sense that I found myself building bridges instead of walls. Forgiving is important, especially with yourself. For so long I blamed me for not being good enough, but I realized that I did my part, it was you that failed in keeping up with yours. Now I am aware and will no longer be swayed by a sweet word here and there. I am not reckless for that is not my nature. I didn't go crazy over it, but I  learned. Now, I'm learning to love again, and it's never going to be the same as the first, but it's going to be a lot more real.

Admit it, we all hate hoes, but at the same time, go so much love for them.
These homie hoppin' hoes. Home wrecking hoes. Grimey hoes with no morals. Messy bops. Sure they fuck things up for us, but how else are we suppose to learn?

Hoes keep things interesting and provide us with drama to keep us entertained. They teach us what NOT to be like. You know what they say, it's not a party if there aren't any hoes! And guys give these hoes so much love but we all know it's not really love. Life would not be life without such wonderful people to learn from. Some mistakes don't need to be experienced. We can learn from yours.

There are so many pros to hanging out in a group of just guys making you the only girl.
Getting treated like the baby, spoiled, meals paid for, and getting over-protected when it comes to other guys, always warm because someone is bound to have a jacket, etc etc.

And then just straight talking shit about all the hoes together. You think girls talk shit? Haha, guys talk just as much. They're not as oblivious about the bops and hoes as you think.

Kooks

• UC apps are killing me. 
• I haven't even applied for scholarships yet. 
• Only half finished my personal statement
• Fml, I know I probably won't get in but fingers crossed
• The CSU website is being a bitch and won't let me make an account. 
• Haven't even STARTED my bill for mock congress. 
• Stats is actually turning into math rather than common sense now. 
• Lightweight wish I was as artistic as I used to be and had a passion for it, art school seems like a pretty neat experience. 
• Office ladies are saying I only have 10 hours when I know I have at least 50+. 
• I don't know if we're going to do debates and case studies. 
• Need to get materials to build a model of a sacamore? 
• Senior portfolios. 
• Taking SATs once more in December.
• Haven't even taken portraits yet.

Sometimes this whole process is a little overwhelming, it makes me want to just get my GE at COA or some shit and save some money. Then transfer since the reapplication process is so much easier and have a guaranteed UC or my choice. Overall, senior year is so damn easy and stress-free. I'm getting too used to having free time that I'm getting lazy! It makes me wonder what SS is going to be like. I'm really scared about my future after high school. I regret fucking up my junior year so bad, it's so disappointing knowing that I can't do anything about it now. Now physio is fucking me over, it's the only class I have a B in. So close to that 4.0 :(

But in other news, I'm falling in love at the seaside <3

So many things have been going on, I don't know how to get it all down.

I've been feelin' a bit malnourished. Lacking some stimulating food, for thought. You see, I haven't had a wine-and-dine meal in a minute, and all I'm asking is for you to spit it out and serve it to me on a silver platter. You were my chief and my conversationalist, constantly supplying me with a taste for critical thinking. This yearning for a deeper understanding for the socio-culture of this forsaken society puts us in the same first class, three course meal. But as of lately, it seems as though you've been biting your tongue. Was it something I said? I can't comprehend what would be controversial enough to penetrate the unwritten contract of our speaking terms. Wrong frame of mind I suppose.
Food for thought, watch your ingredients.

I've never been one to talk down to my past. You can't say that you love someone and you want to be with them forever and you need them in your life, but add time to the equation, and have a result of pure bullshit. Please, muster up the courage to take a number and order a plate of truth; isn't that what we are all hungry for?
You can't bury your past because that is what shaped you to be who you are today, the best you can do it accept and respect it. Because no matter how good your intentions, society will always look to the past for a judge of character. It may not reflect who you are now, but it reflects who you were, and sometimes that is enough to convince people.

Mad love to all the female lyricist out there.