But I Still Wake Up; I Still See Your Ghost | The nutritionist said I should eat root...

His name is Robert Paulson Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two And you shall recieve

About: "I can scream as loud as anyone, but when asked to make a point I tend to whisper."
I'm really bad at describing myself...so, um. yeah. I have a blog that I refuse to admit is a blog, and you happen to be visiting it. This could eb considered the chronicles of the trials and tribulations of a restless teenage soul which cannot fulfill its debaucherous desires because it doesn't not have a driver's license, but that seems cliche. but so is my life.
regardless, while I would love to somehow profundly impact ypur life through devastating wit or poignant introspection, I also realize that's incredibly unlikely. That being said, I'd still like to hope that this little project can at least enable you in procrastinating and avoiding awkward real-life interaction.
so WELCOME! it's a pleasure to have you, and I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay.

“The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.
Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away
to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight.
Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling.
You will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho therapist told me to spend
three hours each day sitting in a dark closet
with my eyes closed and ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth.
Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness
when they care more about what they give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.”

The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me
forget what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.
Nobody wants to hear you cry
about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped
from the George Washington Bridge
into the Hudson River convinced
he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poems.” —“The Madness Vase,” by Andrea Gibson