bird by bird

I am water. Am I anything I was before?
the moon was so sweet when we saw our little hands
for what they really were
God made them fly, such little hands, like paper planes that soar
quiet ripples of clouds resound in my mind
I am water, nothing more.
Your petals have crinkled beautifully, delicate and dry
they've withered so flat in the summer grass that
my hands won't hold the sky
i've been mistaken for someone else, someone never found
I sit in a bucket seat, been called your type
I laugh a hollow sound
Well here it is, is it ever endless when the water cuts so deep?
we sit in our planets and count our good roses and
such tiny hands we'll keep
bird by bird i'll make it through
at least thats what he told me

home

I literally stared at the wall for 10 minutes, it was just this naked white. just completely bare. I felt so embarrassed for it, like all of its secrets were stripped and revealed. Not just white walls but all of the furniture is gone but a few tables and beds. Its gone, its like a hollow shell of some part of me that I can never come back to. I sat there and felt the sting, it was like a heartache that shocks you every time it comes, I was myself years ago with a crush on a boy. I was myself years ago when a loved one died. I was myself staring at the wooden door frame that has been slammed shut numerous times because of family fights. I couldn't possibly dive into the pool of memories that were swimming around me, there were so many brilliant moments, so many painful ones. There were so many images coming to my mind that I haven't remembered in years, and how sorry I was for it. How sorry I am for these white walls that were washed clean of their life. I felt so old. I looked down at my hands and saw myself as nineteen. Where did it go? My childhood? Its in a box in the garage. That is the thing about time, it gradually moves who you are with who you will be, and soon you forget it all behind you. I am a ghost in this empty house, I am an outsider in this little town. If those walls could talk of the conversations they held, of the laughter they witnessed, the tears... I will never know. And soon my quiet window will be nailed shut and the roof will be just like an unfamiliar face. 

You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone. 
You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for you kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place. 

- garden state