Sometimes I get really sad and need something someone to help me out, I am happy now but I know it is just part of that sine curve and that the sad will come back down, I just need to figure out the frequency and period so I can prepare, graph my instantaneous mood. m sub i.
I'm not sure what I think about, but I think that if I try really hard I can be really good at everything, except maybe getting enough sleep when I have to wake up early the next day because sometimes things like that cause me to think more and I can't think the way I want to when I sleep.
I wonder about having "crazy" parents, what that does/did/willdo to me but I don't really mind it I guess, I'm just watching out for myself in this soupy world, subatomic particles here, there, and nowhere all at once just like my thoughts. I'll allow myself run-on sentences and to not maybe write poetry in its true sense but in my mind floating through between wind tunnel ears stamping around leaving again not really prose how it feels. I'm trying to write a play but what if none of it is good enough, why do I feel this way? Maybe it's true, but I shouldn't really care.
All I want for christmas is straight As.
I was looking through oldish papers cleaning out my desk before I moved out of my room in my house at school, not the house at school I'm in now, the real one, and I found a poem I wrote but my computer science teacher had said all the words, it was poetry reading in between the lines. Because everyone speaks poetry if you take out some words, I'm no poet when I try hard, hardly trying I'm not much either, but everyone's got to make that dent in the world somehow.
Stream of consciousness is bullshit, that makes it sound like the way we think is some sort of line, stream, only one row with one thing after another. I think it's more like an ocean, with everything, animals inside, waves crashing on the beaches, tides pulling in and out but that mass of water goes on far beyond what the eye can see and is colder and darker than you can imagine, that's where the strange fish live.
Sans serif is never as beautiful, even if it makes smaller text more clear.
I'm not sure what I think about, but I think that if I try really hard I can be really good at everything, except maybe getting enough sleep when I have to wake up early the next day because sometimes things like that cause me to think more and I can't think the way I want to when I sleep.
I wonder about having "crazy" parents, what that does/did/willdo to me but I don't really mind it I guess, I'm just watching out for myself in this soupy world, subatomic particles here, there, and nowhere all at once just like my thoughts. I'll allow myself run-on sentences and to not maybe write poetry in its true sense but in my mind floating through between wind tunnel ears stamping around leaving again not really prose how it feels. I'm trying to write a play but what if none of it is good enough, why do I feel this way? Maybe it's true, but I shouldn't really care.
All I want for christmas is straight As.
I was looking through oldish papers cleaning out my desk before I moved out of my room in my house at school, not the house at school I'm in now, the real one, and I found a poem I wrote but my computer science teacher had said all the words, it was poetry reading in between the lines. Because everyone speaks poetry if you take out some words, I'm no poet when I try hard, hardly trying I'm not much either, but everyone's got to make that dent in the world somehow.
Stream of consciousness is bullshit, that makes it sound like the way we think is some sort of line, stream, only one row with one thing after another. I think it's more like an ocean, with everything, animals inside, waves crashing on the beaches, tides pulling in and out but that mass of water goes on far beyond what the eye can see and is colder and darker than you can imagine, that's where the strange fish live.
Sans serif is never as beautiful, even if it makes smaller text more clear.
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