June the Twenty-Eighth of Two Thousand and Ten

Well, here we are yet again. It doens't feel any different this time either. Why is it that everyone keeps saying that word? I can't stand that word. I gets in the way and complicates everything, and basically makes me want to throw up. However, I am not so immature as to say that it sucks; I'd rather say that it was a complicating factor in the romantic field of life.

I have so many questions. Why can't I get over you? Why is it alwasys like this? What am I going to do? What's the truth? How do I feel? And none can be answered. It's always like this too. I'm never able to keep you, hold you close. Do I want to? Or are we destined to stay apart and watch the other from aways? This will never be easy. Every time it gets like this, my life becomes a spiral into nothing-ness. I thought we tried before. It didn't really work. Was that a try at all? And oh...what about him?

Will someone hit me in the head? My hesitation is a clear sign from above, or in my head, meaning my Virgo. I know that this will not end well. It never has. I keep running back to you, even when I shouldn't be running away. I need to sit down; I'm tired of playing these games. I know that this is bad. I know it.

Seperate. We need to be apart. Maybe a day without the other, not a word spoken between. Then, may I sleep at night? Will my heart stop beating so hard? And my last request, is can I stop feeling so angry? At myself, at you, at the world, and most of all at my feelings. I can't believe I've led myself in a circle for the billionith time. Why won't this just go away?

Are we meant to try? Are we supposed to have hope? There have been too many chances for us. We know too much. There wouldn't be a surprise behind the other person. What would hold us together? Duct tape? I doubt it's that powerful... I don't think is going to happen.

Oh, minister,
our confessions hit so deep.
Jagged rocks onto a gellatin wall,
we drive far.
We clash like waves beneath the ocean,
and the ominous gray clouds overhead.
The analytical sense of theory
with a instintual feeling of dread.