obscure_one's blog

This is a new song I wrote a couple of weeks ago. I'm going to eventually podcast it, but I recently broke a string on my guitar and haven't been able to get a new one yet. So, I thought I'd just post the lyrics in the interim.

She cried & cried
that day she left you
she left behind
all she'd wanted
she buried deep inside
all her longings
she closed her eyes
stepped out into the

cool grey sky.

She cannot listen
to her thoughts again
she won't let open
all of her mind
she was broken
was not an easy fix
now she doesn't circle
every atom

with her eyes.

She awoke in the night
wandering around
said wouldn't you like
some

peace of mind?

She ran so far
so far ahead
she's moving at
the speed of sound
she's settling in
into her seat
she's wasting time
spinning

'round this room.

She awoke in the night
wandering around
said wouldn't you like
some

peace of mind?

She cried & cried
that day she left you...

It is a strange phenomenon:
not existing for you any longer.
It was said once I existed
because of you;
perhaps it is more
in spite of you sometimes.

If it is what I fear:
a return;
it is only because I was
attached to my thoughts
and dreaming is much
easier than being expected
to live in reality.

Maybe it's better now:
I am not so nervous.
Maybe it is better to have you
hold the pieces together
than for you to unintentionally,
unknowingly break them
in the first place.

I.
I like hands;
their ability to grasp,
build, form, create.
They are machines
built with delicacy
and strength.
They represent so much about
what separates us
from other species--
their power.
We take for granted these
necessary tools,
practicing in grace and beauty,
commanding attention with their
expressive nature.
And yet,
one tiny movement and
their destructive
abilities are released.

II.
I like to watch her
wash her hands;
massaging the soap in,
erasing any last traces of
chemicals or
germs.
I marvel at the
lack of discomfort she
seems to find in
never removing her ring
to do the dishes.
The ring that confuses
so many people and only makes
me laugh as they argue a
point they know nothing of,
with that ring as their
only proof.

III.
Drawing my right hand,
I build an idea out
of a few curved fingers
and a gentle reaching;
I turn gentle into
desperate and wait
to find the rest,
exploring parts of me I
hadn't yet acknowledged.

I wrote this song yesterday. I'm going to podcast it when I get the guitar part down. I made it really really hard for some reason, so when I can play it better, I'll be podcasting.

You said wake up
forget your troubles
wake up new
like I wait for you.
I said grab my hand
we're goin' down
down this dark path
gonna find some truth
and I don't know when
I'll see your face again
it's cold in here
back where it all began.

I'll tell you mine
deep, dark and sweet
just like the river
that flows beneath our feet.
There once was a girl
who knew what it meant
to say "goodbye" to him
"next week" was all it meant.

So I'll wait here
for you to lean back
into me
tell me all you've got.
Tell me all those tales
about all that pain
that's never really
washed away...

I said wake up
forget your troubles,
wake up new
like I wait for you.
You said grab my hand
we're goin' down
down this dark path
gonna find some truth...

Obscure takes another crack at songwriting... This is really rough and I wrote it in about a half-hour. It's extremely slow and reliant on the guitar part. More like a spoken poem than a song, but I'm going to call it a song anyway. Any suggestions would be immensely welcome. I'm not sure about a podcast as my source of quality vocals/recording has just left for college today...

I wave a flag for
your safe arrival
home
and I wake up everyone
with my screaming
thirst
and I can't find a way
to say all these
things I
think when I'm alone.

'Cause when I'm without you
I
can't find my own way
home
my back aches for your soft
form
and I can't let you go.

And as the space grows
I
want you here
I miss how you smell
miss how you feel
miss how you
breathe...
I grow so weary of
waiting another week
so I
wave a flag for your
safe arrival
here
with me...

So what if I bend over
backward and brush my fingers in the
dust covered shoes haphazardly lining
the hallway?
I'll trace intricate patterns,
tug at the soles with their caked-on mud
from that walk in the woods.

I'll tilt my head back and look through
my legs,
imagining the perfect arc
of them coming to the other side so I can
stand back upright;
walk heel-to-toe,
shoulder-to-shoulder,
elbow-to-elbow,
hip-to-hip with your pensive memory.

I put the mud there myself:
I dug my hands into the wet earth,
stepped my sneakered feet into the holes and
slapped the two fistfuls on top.
I trapped my feet and hung my head back,
arms outstretched.

I was a tree.

I fell down, knocked the wind right
out of me as I heard the
squelching of my feet coming free.
I stared up at the sky and in the
clouds I saw your shape dreamily
passing in front of my eyes.

I went down to the stream,
washed my mud-splattered
hands and face, took my mud-soaked

The window in that
awkward space reflects
the stairs at night.
If you stand in the
right place it doesn't
reflect you,
just the stairs.
Up, up, up, up,
up,...
until they end.

They look like from a
horror movie;
you can almost hear the audience screaming,
"DON'T GO UP THE STAIRS!"
Hear them groan in
frustration as you
turn your back on the window,
on them,
and make your way
deliberately up the stairs
having decided facing your
fate is much better than
the anticipation --
mystery -- of what's waiting for you.

Waiting for the sound of your
last weary footfall on that
connecting passage between
down and up
up and down
before reaching out from the
shadows and grasping at your
delicate neck.
Forcing you onto the
floor where you look up and
see the startled
face of the audience

and you look
down at that window,
and you see the
stairs reflected,
and you think you look rather
absurd just lying on the
floor at the
top of the stairs,

I run the water so hot
that it turns my hands red
like your blushing ears.
I rinse the cups and bowls
from meals and snacks past.
They were left for me,
called mine,
some were.
"Clean up your own messes!"
"Hey,
why don't you
wash your dishes?"
echoes in my head;
his arrogant tone reverberating
inside my skull.
"Hey,
why don't you
leave me be?"
I scream in return
like a ventriloquist
(mouth shut);
like a ventriloquist
(a dummy).

My bed lacks the
comfort of an empty house,
no longer serving to
envelop me
within its warm fingers.
The dip in the mattress serves
as a trap for anyone sleeping
alone.
A depressing thought that it would only take
one other person to even out the
spread and save me from the
inescapable contours
of my single bed.

His scent sometimes
descends without warning.
The mixture of cologne
and cigarette smoke,
detergent and beer
permeates everything
for just a second and
reminds me of you.
Reminds me of
your bravery.
You asked for help
like you have so many times.
So I held your hand,
I comforted you when your
fears were too overwhelming
and I told you,
I told you
you would not end up like
them;
you would not end up like
him.
It was okay then,
it'll keep being okay,
and maybe I'll go back some time
with you,
and ask about my story, too.

Remember when we used to
knock on the wall separating our
rooms during the summer?
That meant we'd go to our
windows and talk because if they were
both open at the right angle
we could see and hear each other.
We'd talk until we got tired
of standing there and then we'd go
to bed. That was back when I could
stand to sit through a movie with the
family and went to bed at the
same time as you.
Back when the only thing keeping me
up ultra-late was a book or writing --
both done in my room.
Back before we had cell phones and an
internet addiction each.
Back when we were a team and could
talk for ten minutes without screaming.
It was back before you hated me so much,
before we knew the truths,
before I ran away so often.
That was back before everything changed.

I can still feel the ice water on my head where I emptied my ignored glass. I didn't want to waste it, so I took off all my clothes and stood in the shower, already freezing. As I raised the glass above my head I wondered what it would feel like running over my naked body. I wondered if I'd have the guts to tip the glass at all.

I did. As if it had a mind of its own, my hand slowly tipped the glass until I was standing with it raised over my head, empty and upside down.

The ice water glided over my head and down onto my body. A glass of water isn't very much, but as it poured over me, the seconds seemed to stretch into minutes as I found I couldn't breathe. I panicked, but almost enjoyed the fear as if I were watching a horror movie for the fun of being scared.

Today I saw a
man being arrested.
He'd fallen -- passed out off his
bench into the soft grass.
The police
and paramedics came
and revived him.
They didn't wheel him into the
ambulance like we all
thought they would.
Instead they stood him
up and cuffed him.
Yanked his limp arms and
led him to the cruiser.
He was drunk, I think.
Maybe homeless, too; or
at least too poor to afford a
hospital bill. Like my dad.
Couldn't afford much but a
six pack and some smokes.
He fainted too, but took the
hospital instead. Opted for the
debt in place of the cuffs.
Maybe he figured he wouldn't be
around long enough for it to
matter much anyway.

I have been torn away from the best place on Earth and these people in this house don't understand -- don't want to and won't ever learn. I'm a different person now but back in the same crumbling house as before. A house I should call home but couldn't even before. Other people have chosen this house as home, these people as family, but I can't.

I believe that home and family are chosen. Some people end up feeling at home with their defaults, but others don't and they search out some place to call home; some people to call family. They find bonds that are stronger than blood. They understand that although blood keeps you physically alive, it's not the end-all and be-all of strength.

This torn feeling in my chest, this sense of uncontrollable loss and lack of understanding from those surrounding me won't cease. I have now experienced a real family, a real home, and I can't go back to this house without kicking and screaming.

I grabbed my bag
and guitar and slung
them over my shoulders.
In my hand I took hold
of my sticker-covered water bottle;
a declaration of so
much of me.
These things weigh me
down the stairs with
dropped eyes, watching my
steps so I don't fall.
I see a couple coming up
the stairs and hear the
girl worry about her
boyfriend being caught in her
dorm. He looks up to see
me and says to her,
"Don't worry, see?
There's another boy."
A small smile creases my
lips as I continue downstairs,
my little secret safe from them.

Later, sitting under this tree,
I see the couple walking idly
by on the sidewalk.
She rushes over to apologize.
"I'm sorry we thought you were
a boy earlier.
My boyfriend, he just
blurted it out before I could
stop him."
I tell her it's fine,
that I don't mind being
mistaken so much.
"Don't worry about it"
issues from my mouth,
although she continues to feel
sorry, I'm sure.

I don't blame her.
Usually these sorts of things,