beautiful headifice

been thinking lately.  imagining my warerobe being something that its not.  imagining myself as fashionable as some, but realizing that my same old jeans with the holes in the crotch, and then tattered up black hoodie that even my mom tried to throw away isn't fashionable, as it is grungy.  maybe grungy can be fashionable on the good days, when torn jeans and boots and computers are coupled with cups of coffee and cinnamon twists and a cigarette.  but i stopped smoking that fateful summer when the negatives became positive and my life simply had to come to a stop.  i had to stop and think and reevaluate my life.  

i threw away all my clothes the next summer.  i dyed them black, but it turned to mauve.  i only wore tunics for years.  i only wore clothes that other people gave me.  i shaved my head and grew it all back again, and haven't cut it in at least 3 years.  and now, i crave a change.  

mom gave me her cream leather dooney and burke purse.  i wear it with my octogonal tinted glasses.  i drive a beaten up previa, and dream dreams that alex does too.  i breath in snores and touch skin so soft that even god had to gasp.  i want to journal it all down for fear that it all disappears in a moment. that friends and lovers leave me, like they did in the past, and i'm left with only a pen and paper and silence.  it was then that i drank it all away.  smoking in parking lots, hidden away from roommates who wanted everything to do with my life, and me nothing to do with theirs.  it was then i learned to talk in metaphor.  feelings tucked away in the labyrinth of my words, weaving in and out of similies and mixed-messages.  

the plight of a poet, and mind-wanderings of a writer.