words to myself

love is a passionate addiction.  I mean this in the sincerest form.  The word addiction must not be viewed in the negative connotations for far to long.  Love is a person’s habitual reference point.  It brings you from down in out days, the ones that feel if everything is going wrong, to that mean, the reason we are living state.  The person you love, the thing you love can open, better yet unleash that wave of relief right out from under you as almost that rotten day never resided in you, in the first place.  If you want to embrace, and feel that love, that inner freedom toward ourselves, you must stroke that addiction.  We are all slaves, in a good way.  No one ever said love was wrong, except the ones that never had it or appreciated it.  And if love isn’t wrong then your addiction can’t be either.  Some times you need that support, some thing to lean on when the day, like all days, eats you alive.  It’s easy for a therapist, or any one else that works in the field, to call it an addiction because first, it is their job and second, they don’t appreciate the requirements of life.  Who cares how we all live especially if it doesn’t harm anyone else.  We only live once, don’t live it trying to be something you aren’t, covering up who you actually are.  If you desire, take. 

The New Stranger

Coming outside, breathing this new, white picket, suburbia for the first time was like a new beginning.  My yard looks identical to the others.  The grass looks so green and it really looks fake like those artificial grasses you see at football stadiums and on some city streets.  I glance around, taking in all the two story, blue bordered houses that parallel down Chestnut Street.  Each one are duplicates but they all have their own identities and they live in breath like us humans.  One yard is celebrating there trivial rose garden then another one has obviously the home and garden network and has color palettes bricking lining there front with different ferns that look dead and stone statues lying about but mine, still fresh and crisp is burdened with weeds signalizing to all the neighbors that I was new and also a stranger.  These carnivorous plants cut away at my grass and started to mark off its territory by the fence and along my yards boundaries while the sun burns formless circles of yellow, hanging blades.  Before I am talked about in this community for lowering their property value I must take action and remove these weeds from their rightful habitat.  Who am I to say that these weeds aren’t supposed to be here?  Oh yeah, they look awful.  And looking awful isn’t really in style these days not like in the 18th century.  I don’t want to lose anyone’s superficial money for them so I must apprehend to these societal pressures.  I’ll do this murdering with my hands.  I went out last night so I didn’t look silly picking dandelions.  Someone will come over to my house and want to shake my hand but not with someone with green and yellow patches on his palms.  That would be disgraceful in such a this honorary country.  At the local hardware store I got gardening gloves that were $25 bucks for just work gloves with daisies for the print and this weed killer which was really cheap and ineffective and made me wonder what was actually in that opaque bottle and if they killed weeds what did it to my mind.