I can finally say it without getting scared of what I'm commiting to, or what I'm confessing. I love to sing. I won't doubt myself, but I won't flaunt either. Some days I draw a blank when it comes to writing, and other days it just comes to me. Like a man who's spent years in a desert, singing is my first gulp of water under the beating sun. I'll just have these days where anything that comes out of my mouth has a beat to it. I'll sing in the car while my mom's getting groceries. I'll sing in the shower. I will sing anywhere. And some days, like today, it just bubbles inside me. Like a tickle in the back of your throat, or an itch you have to scratch. If I don't let my thoughts down onto paper, and put those thoughts with a melody, I might explode. The passion for a beat inside of me is amazing... I feel that if I don't sing or write something, anything, even if it be horrible, I will go crazy. I'll lose my mind in the sensation for words to flow from my lips. And that's what singing's all about to me, just like poetry. It's about flow. Not the kind of flow where your fingers hit the keys gracefully and you type like an elegant egret. Like the type of flow where everything goes to together, even the beats of your heart somehow go in rhythm. I only wish that everyone could get a taste of the spark I feel in the back of my throat, right now.

Okay, the rant is now complete.

We went to the amusement park today. Josh, you SUCK! Well, your dad sucks... -_-;; My eyelids have sunburns on them. No joke. Same with under my cheeks. *whines* Bleh. I'm sleepy.

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, Page 82, Subject Nature, Paragraph 1, Poem V

The day came slow, till five o'clock,

Then sprang before the hills

Like hindered rubies, or the light

A sudden musket spills.

The purple could not keep the east,

The sunrise shook from fold,

Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,

The lady just unrolled.

The happy winds their timbrels took;

The birds, in docile rows,

Arranged themselves around their prince

(The wind is prince of those).

The orchard sparkled like a Jew,-

How mighty 't was, to stay

A guest in this stupendous place,

The parlor of the day!

                                     -Emily Dickinson

once again

Oh! tis another

a closed door

shut by heartache

drown sorrows

a vodka on the rocks

no sense of pride

Oh! tis another

reason for breathing

you wallow

sit and seek out

sympathy

Loquacious!

you speak only of

your trouble

known for misses

you make no hits

Oh! tis another

an open door

opened by opportunity

expect the unexpected

no attempt

nothing gained

and nothing ventured

drown sorrow

and kill angst

sadness sits

Oh! It settles in!

watch your back

you have no sense

of pride

like a great force

Complete!

Finally walk through that

Oh! tis another

a chance at

Transformation.