I have to sit in the car with gram for all of like 40 min and I am dreading this.
She bitches about things that depress me.
I say nothing.
It is easier to not say anything.
Shut your trap, button you lip, can it.
All that crap you hear on TV about communication and expressing feelings is a lie.
Nobody really wants to hear what you have to say.
I will get home, and vanish into my room.
Art follows everything, like a dream follows a nightmare.
I have this dream art room.
It is dusty in a clean-dirt sort of way. The floor is layered with dry sploches of paint, the walls plastered with sketches of tormented teenagers and fat puppies. The shelves filled with clay pots. A radio plays my favorite station. Cups filled with markers, crayons, pencils, chalk, charcoal, and pens of every color.
Art is the only class that will teach you how to survive.
This is where you can find your soul, if you dare. Where you can touch that part that you’ve never dared look before.
So pretty much I spend hours inside my room with my art. Not many really see much of it.
Alot of my drawings just get thrown out.
My writing, well I don’t show hardly anyone all of that.
Photography is a little more open. Still I don’t show all of it.
I’m trying to find a way to express how I feel about life.
I’d like to be able to tell someone what I thought about the time I’ve spent here.
I’ve made it this far into life without a nucular meltdown.
Probably because I hide away.
I hear the garage door open and her car pull in, I quickly put things away and bolt into my room.
By the time she walks in everything is how she wants to see it and I have vanished.
Alot of the time even art is not an option once I escape into my room.
My bed sends out nap rays. I can’t help myself.
The fluffy pillows and warm comforter are more powerful than I am.
I have no choice but to snuggle under the covers.
I won’t take a real nap.
I have this halfway place, a rest stop on the way to sleep, where I can stay for hours.
I don’t even need to close my eyes. Just stay safe under the covers and breath.
I bite my lower lip. I watch myself in the mirror across the room.
Ugh.
My hair is completely hidden under the comforter. I look for the shapes in my face.
Could I put my face in a tree like a dryad from Greek Mythology?
Two muddy-circle eyes under eyebrows, piggy-nose nostrils, and a chewed-up horror of a mouth.
Definitely not a dryad face.
I can’t stop biting my lips.
It looks like my mouth belongs to someone else, someone I don’t even know..