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Ughhhh. Never mind. I need to get rid of the DRM (or whatever) on my copy of Star Trek purchased from itunes if I want to export it to Windows Movie Maker. I’ll figure out how to do it tomorrow. I’ll just go curl up under the covers and stare at the ceiling or something.

I have two Silversun Pickups songs that I would love to make videos with. There’s “Sort Of” and “Catch & Release”.

Oh fuck.

Add “Surrounded (Or Spiraling)” to that list.

 
 
 
 
 
 
I can’t sleep. I have cramps. I’m thinking about the dress I want to make but can’t because of the lack of a sewing machine here in California. To occupy myself and keep from tossing and turning under the covers I’m going to attempt to make my first Kirk/Spock fanvid. Who knows how this will turn out?

I couldn’t help it when I heard the song, though. It’s “Sort Of” by Silversun Pickups. The vid will probably suck and I’ll toss it, but it gives me something to do.
 
 
 
 
 
 
I know I haven't posted anything here in a very long time. I've hit a writer's block though, so it has been difficult for me to compose any poetry. I went to a convention this last weekend and because of the sheer amount of people I gave my LJ to I decided I should update it. It would be terrible if people just came and there was a gaping hole where my blog used to be, haha. (:

Anyway, I'm still a lurker and that's mainly what I've been doing around LJ. You never really do read every story ever posted, because more are always added. It's my never-ending quest, I suppose.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Some say life is a one way street—

you grow and grow and then you meet

an empty silence and a musty grave

where you have no memories left to save.

I think not and I like to believe

that life is more than a simple sieve,

for when all my good deeds trickle down,

I won’t be left with a pregnant frown.

I’ll know when my life is all used up,

that I gladly gave all I had of love

and somewhere under the deep blue sky

someone is there living for me when I die.



(Bleh, not sure I like the flow at the end, but whatever.)

 
 
 
 
 
 

Bloodshot, tired eyes— much too tired I realize

to commit to memory all these little myths and ties

between members of some royal or other bloodline.

I’m waking in a dream and sleeping when I wake.

I’m not sure how many more words my poor brain will take.

Until morning I’ll endure and then toss it all away

to be recovered some other, dreadful day.

 
 
 
 
 
 
Heavy With Rain

The tired skies droop and open their mouths so wide—

frantic people below scrambling to find a place to hide.

Vicious lightning flashes and violent thunder sounds

and there’s no one to be seen for streets around.

Such a sight to see—those clouds and me—

soaked to the bone and sagging with rain,

both weighed down like a ripened stalk of grain.

We bow to the ground and look below,

though our burdens have no place to go.

We’ll only gain them back in the end

and then we’ll be straining to stand tall once again.

 
 
 
 
 
 

I’m all out of labels and I cannot grasp the name

of this stupid, petty feeling clawing in my brain.

I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I wish it would go away

because it’s making me feel lost and in a disarray.

The sun is shining. The wind is blowing. I am smiling through it all.

Why can’t my insides match my outsides? Why does my smile fall?

 
 
 
 
 
 

Can I trace you? Can I trace you?

Can I trace all of your lines?

Can I trace you? Can I trace you?

The slope of your shoulders meets your spine,

and my fingers, oh they travel

across those planes I cannot see

and in the darkness I can't see you,

but I can feel you next to me.

 

Your skin, it draws me closer  

like a moth unto the flame.

I see the imperfections but don't give them a name

because they're you and they are real

and oh, I revel in the feel

of your skin molding to mine

until we make one single line.

 

So, can I trace you? Can I trace you?

Can I worship all your skin?

Can I trace you? Can I trace you?

Can I pull you taut and thin

so I can feel you next to me

and even feel you in my dreams?

Because I am loathe to part

from this striking work of art

and I stroke and I redefine

all the wonder of your lines.

 

We fit perfect.

We won't part.

We are a work of art.

 

We stroke color on wondrous skin.

We draw jagged shivers from within.

And we take our sweet, sweet time

because I am yours and you are mine.

 
 
 
 
 
 

I never know quite what to say

and the days keep making their way

past, trudging through the moments of silence --

approaching our end, our separation, our very last

spoken platitude that really doesn't mean a thing at all.

I'll speak the words spoken a million times before and find them lacking.

 
 
 
 
 
 
Do I speak in riddles?
Do I speak in rhymes?
Is that why you don’t seem
to understand me half the time?
Am I being unclear?
Have I been at all vague?
If I have then kindly please,
just turn to the next page
and move on with your life,
because I’ve moved on with mine.
I’m tired of this obsession.
I’m losing precious time.