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The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

phoenixrhys said:
This is so beautiful. I've been perusing this thread from the beginning. I love the way you write, and the way your mind whispers. I was the daydreamer, too, and my mind still whispers to me, even when I don't want to hear it. :heart:
Click to expand...
The rough rocked river, the stream of consciousness: can we hold on to the slick rubber boat? Will we fall out and crack our heads on a floating tree log? Do we wear a life preserving jacket? We know at the end of the roaring frothy rapid is either a waterfall or a dead dry river bed. It's the whispering in our head.

And we can swim with the words because there is no sense swimming up-stream.

Thank you Whisper-Go. :heart:
 
/walks by on the shore to catch a glimpse of time flowing by.

Is it because it is Springtime and the snows have departed, withdrawing from the glare of light and the media light of the sun?

Or does the reason for an appearance or disappearance matter when this binary switch operates on such a small scale?

Perhaps it matters least of all as all I can observe from the shoreline is the polarized light reflected from the waves, and my consciousness streams along like the drops of the river.
 
In these street gutters the water doesn’t trickle dirty in drops, it floods the stormy drains in our brains.

I don't have the answers, but surely they matter. I am splashing around in the sick sewer with boardwalk rats. Where is the shore?
 
I have become rather promiscuous as a cyber lover including two married women seeking me out on the twitters but the best is a student midwife I message on tumblr that I make come with my words.

I'm just not so good at getting everything together in real life. I've missed out on the fun of youth but I've also dodged some bullets. I know more now and I don't have the guilt.

I need a chance to get it in. I want to penetrate that grad. I'm sick of the last woman who had me and used me once being two years ago.
 
Forget about the user abuser and focus on the getting in the grad girl. She will be the lucky one. :heart:
 
Collar_N_Cuffs said:
I'm never sure if later has arrived.
Things change and my perspective... morphs.
Click to expand...
Later is here every minute. My hair changes, and I change my underwear.
I don't think my perspective has changed much since childhood. I know more now, there are facts, skills, and experiences learned. It's just that these young eyes won't grow up. It's always been a problem and a solution. It's an adaptation syndrome for the life.
 
LoudFastHarley said:
That is good news
I hope you share some here, I enjoy your way with words
Click to expand...
I read what I typed today and wasn't too happy. It can't be forced. It's like a damn virgin. I can't pop my asshole story cherry with a gallon of lube.

It's going line by line like an ounce of coke up some man's nose. He's got a limp dick.

I dropped the water on the macbook pro and it was fucking pissed. The fucker won't turn on and it doesn't have a cock to suck, but I got a memory stick.

I can't stick the stick in my dicked head. I'll keep writing words here, there, and everywhere cause you know words are just letters on a string cut out on the construction paper we build our life on. It's easy to write when read.

I cut my hair short and made some big curl bangs. I dumped a fiver $ of cheap color liquid jet black on the top. It's fucking crazy wild and I like way it looks.

I am headed out some day not soon to the dive where the men grease their hair, and light up smokes with the Zippo flame. I will be wearing a dress, or some pin-up style shorts. I really don't know.

Where do the poets speak? I will stand up half blushing and read out loud hoping someone will understand simplified expression. It's a joke. I have been writing to myself all these years in my head.
 
I could float down the Delaware in a rubber raft with a book lover, but I will always want that river worthy home-grown sail boat and six of blue ribbon that I wasn’t old enough to drink. I was always old enough to remember the scent.

All the small sails weather the life storm. It doesn’t matter how big the swell. Are we a dinghy, or are we a tall ship? That depends if we make it to the shore alive and back to the truck with pink sun faces and baby oil slick skin. That depends on how we face the river ripple.

It was a dream that seemed to take forever to make true because there are jobs to do, and it’s not easy to build any boat, but we float. We don’t bail, and we don’t fetch life preserving jackets that don’t exist. You jump off the side and swim. It’s the only way.

And what’s a girl to do with this life? Write qualitative themes and saturate the data to find meaning to questions that are not well formulated?

We sail on in our dreams because there will always be red skies at night, and red skies in the morning. It’s a storm. And we take booty like pirates that work without stealing.

We don’t anchor this ship. There is no leash in this water.
 
The Innamorati

We love to be in love. There is no loving each other, we just want to love desperately. So, we make it all up. We extreme make believe that there is no living without loving. We love ourselves more and more, but we want to love each other even more than that. It’s the pursuit of love like young love. I will pout and it’s not attractive. You will slap my face off. There is great acting. The playwright lives in our heads. It’s the idea of dramatic loving that we love. We are the innamorati. It’s all very funny. It’s a comedy and we laugh to the tears.
 
The psychiatrist prescribed me the love potion number nine. It’s a controlled substance. I looked into the mirror and fell in love with myself.
 
The Rings of Love

eclectic-artwork.jpg
 
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