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On Sundays, look at your feet. 

Looking God in the eyes is followed by suffocating anxiety and prayers that lost their way years ago. 

Trace the trails of misperceptions to the end of the pews, and you'll surely find a shell of yourself waiting. 

Waiting, waiting for life to change but too afraid too.

Jesus saves too often and your mom cries too often, 

and people die too often and dreams end too often. 

And waking up is to die, because dreams are the last bits of God to hold onto. 

what really happened to suburbia

the thing is, no one is really all that good at listening. 

because no matter how many times you play an A sharp, 

you keep telling yourself that it is an A. 

and the A sharp won't fit in the key of C. 

for three years I've been looking forward to the next two weeks

but for three years I've been forgetting how to breathe. 

now I've told the story enough times that I'm suffocating on hate and emotions that I can't remember who created. 

music is the only thing I know. 

and I'm forgetting how it sounds. 

all I hear is calls against the few

and cries from the hurting 

and the N word is still funny to you after it has been whipped into submission for an entire population. 

and teachers who don't know who they are block out the music.

because we are supposed to learn from those who have less maturity. 

because we've walked to hell and back and this year 2 of us didn't make it. 

because we are supposed to learn from those who grew up when aids meant being gay. 

for three years my eyes have been closed. 

suburbia ended because music was turned to pride and pride turned to jealousy 

and I just wanted the sounds. 

but I was to worried of losing the notes,

to see that I was always play A sharp,

and not A. 

but you see suburbia is just an analogy to high  school because the beautiful things always fade to sharp. 

and with our eyes closed you miss the music. 

and you miss the beautiful girls in 4th period that you've only talked to once. 

and you miss high school. 

for an old friend

this one is for Abigail. sophomore year we became the best of friends, and she was the first person I ever talked to into the wee hours of the morning. and on her birthday I learned how to dance. and then I developed a large enough crush on her to...have a big crush. idk. but I think it got too big because we didn't talk for a while after we had a dtr. so sorry Abby. 

anyway. 

I love A. and her blog made me lover her anymore. 

it made me cry three times. 

and not like a single tear kind of cry, 

but like streaming down my face kind of cry. 

the reality of ROAD TRIP tugged on heart strings, as if it was written for all those lost friends, not the friend that lost them. and that was incredibly important. 

OVERDUE was the most tender declaration of love I've ever read, and I just loved it a lot. definitely cried during this one. 

COVERED HEARTS. 

TIC-TAC-TOE was the kind of post that hits you in the race really really really hard and reminds you that waking up and smelling the roses is the best thing in life, even though the poem has nothing to do with waking up or with roses. 

HUMANS AND HOSPITALS is a post that should be posted on every wall of every building in every country because everyone needs to smile more. and people need to feel more. 

I can honestly say that I've never been creative enough to do something like this, so props to you Abigail (or Abby? like I know you hadn't decided on your birthday but that was in November so have you decided since then?)

also, coincidentally i read the entire blog whilst watching the rain, and it worked so perfectly.
furthermore, I listened to the album Flaws by Bombay Bicycle Club and it was a match made in heaven. Basically the best soundtrack for your words, ever.

unknown to the outside world, this photo is actually of me and Abby (Abigail), pre-Suburbia.

finally, these quotes are the kinds that will find themselves on tumblr someday, I think. 

but i've learned a sunrise won't break through till morning,

and a sunset won't set till dusk.

so it seems i need to start somewhere or else my words will never spark.

i watched mothers rush in with smiles larger than the baby they had been carrying for 9 months.

maybe mocking is easier than learning to accept.

play middle c like you toiled with her heart

second chances were guitar strings

and you never learned how to play them

because i didn't want to go to that funeral

so, i'll stretch this metaphor across the universe 80 times
40 rounds for you, 40 for me.

she was purple 

but they were blue





Abigail (Abby), your blog graced my eyes in a way that no other blog has, and I can say that in complete honestly. Really this shouldn't even be for a grade, because everyone deserves to know that what they create is beyond beautiful, and MYLOMBARDSTREET is a kind of beautiful that everyone needs.

This is for an old friend.

This is for Ms. Newell.

well

senior year has made me hate writing.

On the Road to Bedwyn

tranquility lends itself in the green pastures,

on the edges of Hungerford

through gnarled trees and moss covered leaves,

one is called to years long dead. 

tombstones bearing names of the abbots of St Laurence 

call as only the dying can. 

come home. 

for 14 miles along the canal,

you learn more about yourself 

than in 14 months in front of a therapist. 

and for three hours slipping into the water seems effortless. 

because I wouldn't even make a ripple. 

calling cards and ringing bells remind of the hour but the deed gets lost,

and iniquity rolls with the hills until the horizon fades into another dreamer's eyes. 

and that's alarming. 

you were born in a dress cut from a velvet cloud,

just above the hills of Eddinborough. 

when the rain cleansed the cobblestone, 

your cheeks so burned. 

and then you passed over the peak and I lost you forever. 

-

in Hungerford, a boy laced up his worn boots. 

among the graves of St John, a man trudged through the grass. 

14 years passed,

on the 14 miles to Little Bedwyn. 

Friday on Kingsburry

lights and rain are the only connection to home.
here time slows down and languages evade you.
and you have to pay to see God.

look for all the answers you want,
but the pews are filled with tired feet and worn eyes.
and prayers only reach him if you pay the bill.

it's 1:46 in Notting Hill and I won't be sleeping
for fear of missing another 18 years.
because the first time around my eyes were closed.


-


if you take a right on Queen's Street,
I can assure you that the man in gray is as alone as you.
head north on Paddington,
and the boy with the worn guitar is signing you back home between melodies.
turn left onto Russel,
and then right when you hit Bumburry.

and I'll be waiting there.
just as I have.

it's Friday on Kingsburry.
dad is on your left with the umbrellas and empty pockets.
memories of you are on the right.
but if you look away you'll miss me too.

ten ways to say I love you

1. good morning
2. how did you sleep?
3. listen
4. je t'aime
5. my silver dreams bring me to you
6. get down, you'll hurt yourself
7. I'm disappointed in you
8. я тебя люблю
9. I'll find you
10. sleep well