when you are suffering, everyone wants to watch.

"Some children died the other day
We fed machines and then we prayed
Puked up and down in morbid faith
You should have seen the ratings that day"

moon river

life is the most incredible dream i've ever had.

i dont want to wake up.

we will

Play the song, look at the pictures (click for full size).
relax.



"You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold"

sometimes things happen to change your mind...

      i am done asking people to go with me to the cemetery on Memorial Day, or Veterans Day, or any other time i go.

      i don't want you to come to my birthday parties, or see me for christmas, or even come for thanks giving as these things mean nothing to me. i don't care if you ever come by.

      i have become something that i wasn't before, and maybe that's alright.

      i have waited and been disappointed. there is no more wait left in me for you.
i have so well enveloped myself in death that i feel i am the only one left to carry your flag.

      i don't always go to the cemetery to be sad. i don't want you to come if it makes you uncomfortable. but do not get upset anymore if i decide not to placate your requests.


we were two, and now i am one.



       i carry your flag with my bloody hands and i hide my regret with your left over smiles. i walk miles against the loneliness and nothing recovers the space that's been ripped. our eyes flickered at different intervals while i spent all my life remembering something i knew i would miss.

and when it came it destroyed me.

...sometimes things happen that change your mind. this is life.

when i die

i want to hear "ice dance".

i see the wave

"i will be your dixie chicken, if you'll be my tennessee lamb so we can walk together, down in dixieland"

pictures

 In oklahoma i found a wall where people apparently love sticking their gum

in

bricktown.

 In japan i stood on the corner and took some long exposures 

of myself.

another picture someone took of me at the local park in okinawa.

i landed and broke every bone in my foot.

ha. not really.

a line to a song that i didnt end up using

i dont know where you are, but could you look up at the stars tonight so i dont feel alone.

last night i went to sleep thinking

i went to sleep thinking that i wasn't gonna go to any of the viewing areas to see the space shuttle fly overhead.

when i woke up i realized that thousands of people had taken to the areas it would flyover to try and catch a glimpse of the Edeavour.

i watched the awesome sight on TV as it came from santa barbara, flew over griffith park, buzzed LAX and took off over to Orange County.

i sat in regret wondering why i didnt go to see it.

i had given up.

my closest viewing area would be the Boeing plant in Seal/Huntington beach. which happens to be right down the street from me. but i hadnt showered, or shaved, or had clothes to wear.

i sat and watched the excitement on TV and i wondered why i hadn't gone.

then i heard something.

a distant rumble.

and before i could think, it was like i was at the airport listening to planes land and i knew this wasn't just a normal plane flying by.

i put on my stupid bed slippers and ran outside trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

     i ran outside and looked up at the sky like a moron, then ran around the back of my house.
 then i saw it.
i felt it.
i saw the Endeavour on the back of that giant plane and the two fighter jets flying right over my house... most likely on its way to the Boeing plant.

it was amazing.

i felt like a child.

i watched the shuttle as it disappeared over the horizon of houses and stood there for a few seconds thinking about all that the Endeavour has been through, and that this was the only time in history that i would be able to see this sight. the only time in history.

from now on it will live at the science center where i will probably go see it, cause i'm a nerd.

i really dont even know what to write or say right now, i'm so excited.

earlier i thought i would have just missed it and gotten over it, and now i can't believe it flew right over the house.

i guess what i'm trying to say is, if you think about something... when it happens, you never forget it.

june 25 2007

i took my 1st student out to drive today.
yeah.

it is, it is.

writing shit down is brutal.

i have been reading some stuff from years ago that i found in a notebook.

its nothing poetic, or eloquent. just thoughts.

but the simplicity of it all is what makes it more real. the things i thought... the way it explained what was happening at the very moment.

i can remember throwing that tinkerbelle at the corner of the room as if i wanted myself to shatter along with it.

i fucking threw that little bauble, i had so carefully bought in tokyo, at the wall and left the small shards of glass sitting in the corner for what was probably days. since i had no room mates at the time, i used to come home and drive myself crazy with my own mind.

my own mind.

i understand why people dont like to write things down.




all i have left is a little section of broken wing i have kept as a reminder.

...and a book full of the brutal thoughts that make me up.

wisdom 2003

my conclusion... fuck this place and everyone in it.

sept. 18 2003

at work they play music

... so i walk out of the bathroom and "come away with me" is playing in the building.
 i walk down the hallway and i remember hearing someone calling me in that subtle way that people do.
you know.. pssst.
 so i turn around, not expecting it to be her, and of course it is.

 i say nothing.

neither does she.
 she just smiles, and so do i.
knowing we're both thinking the same thing.

it was one of those moments i love.


sept. 2003

can i shit?

a conversation about something important to me.


me: i have yet to find a comfortable place to shit here.
sexualface: ha
me: thats my only concern. i wish they covered that during orientation. everything else i can figure out by myself.
sexualface: its a trial and error thing.
me: Orientation; "if you wanna shit comfortably, you have to go to the bathroom in the technology building because it's a solo one with a lock on the door." hahaha.
sexualface: see, that doesnt work for me.
me: you wanna shit in the stalls?
sexualface: yup... with a one toilet bathroom that locks, someone inevitably knocks and wants in, then i feel rushed.
me: this is true. that's why it's in the tech building, cause it's solitary in there. ha.
sexualface: haha
me: i like the stalls.. i just hate when some (insert derogatory term here) sits in the stall next to me to shit.
me: then i feel like i cant shit comfortably.

august 18th, 2010

in the vast expanses of your time
 one blink is all i had
  pushing through what seemed Resistant
    homeward, haunted, dawn so distant
      a freedom , still, i found

august 17, 2010

i'm writing you a letter with my left
hand and you're reading it in the
dark.

The spark, is gone
    in its place, a song.
burning in circles near the end.
(misspelling life all along.)

a trail, i have followed
stopping only to breathe
      though i'm frail, mostly hollow
i've got something to be.


   i have dreamed about the time
when our eyes dim subconsciously.
     while we are letting down the walls
our fingers touch and then we meet
       and then we meet.

panorama of the fun times

(click pic for larger version)

some place far from home.

redeemeR

i don't know how to say "i love you" to the people i care about.

most of the time i regret my actions immediately after i have said/done what i did.

this week i shot a roll of film through a camera made in the 1950's... i imagined all the people that have held the camera before me. all the family pictures that came from it. all the memories that ran before it and ended up in a box on the curb after life has been blinked out by the world. i imagined what it was like to have paid the 7 dollars and gone home to show the family what a wonderful thing had been purchased. i had successfully bought a piece of the past and cleaned it up, gave it new hope, and secured a few more years of immortality.

i don't understand people -- still.

my lack of frustration control chokes my relationships like the hands of desperation.

i do nothing. i waste all time. i waste myself.

talk to me.

 (I wrote this after drinking too much and fighting with everyone, like i do. 
i went outside to take pictures of the stars by my self. 
This is what resulted from my drunken mental ramblings. i have left all the mistakes and typos just the way it was written.)



My life is one big drunken regret. Even though I though I was being civil and endearing I was apparently being a huge dick. Something like kanye west must feel when he's home and no sippin on some syzzyrup.  I have alienated my friedn from me by being too understanding and never opposijg their friendships and coexistences. 

Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here, the other times I feel like I belong somewhere else. I always feel that I should have died instead of my cousin because he had lived such a beautiful life up until march 23rd that I don't understand why I'm still living. I am drunk as I am writing this and standing in a parking lot by myself taking pictures of the stars and jupiter. It is cold but I can't feel it because I have drank a few drinks, but I am not happy.

I have never felt wlcome anywhere and I do not feel welcome now. I am afraid to understand people as the changes they represent scare me into sumbission and I don't try anymorre.

I have had friends but I have thrown them away. I have had loves but I have thrown them away.

Sometimes I believe I am meant to be alone forever. Even if it means destroying someone elses future.

I went to las vegas and had a sober dream one night... and the womans voice told me... in order to make somones future, you have to make your past. And I never forgot that.

I have ruined my own life to make others' more pleasant and haven't thought a thing a bout it.

I don't understand the world and I fear I never will.

All I can do is sway here in my drunken stupor under the bright mountain stars and decide.

I have ruined everything I have ever loved... why stop here?

Why not fuck the rest of my life up while I'm at it.

I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna deal with it.  I don't enjoy fighting I don't enjoy yelling. I wish I had never met you I wish we didn't have to cause each other pain. There's not enough alcohol to make me feel different.

Thank you.

I really don't understand life and I take every chance I get to lash out at a world that isn't angry at me at all. I was born and found no direction, I can't figure it out.

I just can't figure it out.

I'm sorry if I yell but then again I just want everyone to shut the fuck up. Arguing never solves anything.

The cold air drapes over me like an unwelcome blanket from the east and I wonder where I'm going to sleep tonight.

Echoes in the distance remind me of home but I remember I am not anywhere close. Leave me be and I'll fuck nothing up for you.

Leave me be.


(as an afterthought, i like the whole part about the cold air at the end. i'm pretty eloquent when im drunk. ha.)

girls

she said, " i thought you loved me for my brain".

"nobody has ever loved you for your brain," i replied.

many years have passed

when i was much younger.

younger still.

     my father got robbed while drunk, and hit in the head with something that left him in the hospital.
today, i am a kid again and re-stepping these steps.

My mom, having already brought him home from the hospital, asks me into their room to see him. i am afraid.
     he's sitting up in their big fancy bed with his head wrapped in white bandages. my mom brings me closer to him. there's a shade of purple under one of his eyes, the other one is red.

     i ask my mom what happened. she tells me someone hit him in the head. this is a suitably censored version that wouldn't share its complete truths until later on in my life. i begin to cry.
     in this moment he reaches behind the pillows and brings out two harmonicas. one was an adult harmonica and one was a smaller version of that one. he hands the small one to me and tells me what it is.
     he plays a few notes through his and i stare at mine.


As i sit here writing this i don't really remember what happened next, or even what was said between us. and i don't remember where that harmonica ended up.
     i do know that that little harmonica was one of the few things my father ever gave me like that.
and i lost it, like kids do to things that fathers give them in special times.
     my father got his ass kicked in some back alley for god knows what and when he came home he had two harmonicas with him. one for me and one for him.
     had he gotten them before?
   
     were they an after thought born from the fear of losing his life, alone in some alley?

     i never found out the reason for the gift, but i never forgot it either. it replays in my mind over and over until the grooves wear out and only part of it is discernible anymore.

     when i was a teenager, many years later, i was out with a girl one night at the seal beach pier. we held hands and i stared off into the water in the breeze. it must have been summer. i remember talking about my father, and that harmonica he gave me all those years ago.
     that night i received my first kiss from that girl, after talking about my father all night.

     I've seen my father from behind the glass in a jail. i've seen him drunk and listening to sad bastard music in the living room by himself, crying and telling me that "men don't cry". i have listened as he taught me valuable things about life. and i have listened as my mother told me the stories of his drinking and spousal abuse. but i have always held an undying allegiance to my father.

my father, being the ass that he was, has never stopped me from doing anything that i wanted in life.
but he has never supported me either.

     after my mother and father had gotten divorced, my dad came back to the house one day.
i remember it being awkward and slightly uncomfortable. but as he was leaving, i stumbled out the door to the house where he no longer belonged and stammered "h-hey....m-maybe we can go get donuts sometime."

     the man turns to his twenty-four-year-old son with a slight nostalgia and welling up in his eyes, and tells me that all i have to do is call him and we'll go wherever i want.

when no ones around, i sit in my room and write things like this while crying and remembering the times i wish we had.

my mother has since told me that he regrets his actions and misses his family. i reply to her that it's too damn bad.

    it's hard to miss something you never had.

 (click image to see original size)

    

beforeidieiwantto.org

     today as i was aimlessly surfing the internet i came across a website called beforeidieiwantto.org. i was looking through all the polaroids of people and the things they would like to do before they die. some were thoughtful some where ridiculous. the ones from kids were all sincere.

     i thought about what i would say on my polaroid.


     when i had found what i would write, my eyes teared up.
sitting in front of the computer, by myself, thinking.

     one sentence.

     it seems so simple, and in reality it's probably the most difficult thing to accomplish in my life.

before i die, i want to...

from yesterday 3

“The Curious Incident of the Apathy at the College”

In April 2012, a group of college students in Santa Monica – protesting a new plan to sell courses to those who could afford to pay several times the standard amount for “high demand” classes – got pepper sprayed in what turned out to be a don't-just-sit-there-and-let-this-happen story about standing up for what you believe in. A bit further down the shoreline at Orange Coast College in Costa Mesa, I had mentioned in class (quite angrily) that I didn't agree with Governor Jerry Brown's plan to raise community college tuition from $36 to $46 per credit hour. As I finished my somewhat outspoken oration I noticed that the looks I had earned were those of bewilderment mixed with disbelief and sprinkled with apathy. The rest of the class was busy updating their Facebook pages and replying to texts that were assuredly important. It was at this very moment that I could no longer support the cause to fight for what I thought had been unfairly high tuition fees implemented by the community college system and its administrators. After I started to think about it, finding out that community college students were turds was like finding out there was smog in Los Angeles – no kidding.

In December of 2009 a California Community Colleges Chancellor named Jack Scott, told a room full of people (who live in mansions away from the problems of the poor) that cuts in school's budgets had increased class sizes while making it harder for students to actually get into the classes they needed in order to graduate on time. My daily experiences almost agreed with that. The part that ol' Jack left out was the part where students – after fighting harder than Mexicans trying to get across the border – settled into the American way of apathy and complacency. The part where the girl behind me in math couldn't go more than three minutes without sending or replying to a text message. The part where the masses of turds who couldn't make it to an 11AM class on time managed to leave 20 minutes early despite the class being only an hour and a half in length. The part where every kid with a shiny new Macbook was constantly updating a meaningless Facebook existence instead of paying attention to their instructors in the very classes they tried so hard to get into. I wanted to get behind the agenda to keep tuition fees down, but my motivation swirled down the drain like the sleeping guy with the headphones' interest in learning surely swirled down the drain that morning after taking a painful piss made up of the weekend's remaining regrets.

Before I was willing to dine on pepper spray at the next meeting of the administration I had to wonder if tuition was actually that bad here in California. What I found out was that California Community Colleges have one of the lowest enrollment fees in the United States. Even after the governors new tuition increases take effect this summer, California will still have one of the lowest enrollment fees in all of America. If you don't like paying $46 dollars per credit hour then you can always try one of the following challengers' schools : North Carolina weighs in at around $57, New York comes in at about $150, and Vermont tips the scales at a hefty $223 dollars per credit hour for in-state tuition. Eat that protesters.

Something I did find strange was how the word “rights” had been thrown around so loosely by students when they feared having to tell their parents that it would soon cost them more money to see their children fail and drop classes repeatedly. There was an almost smug sense of deserving the world for their meager contributions to the local street pharmacist's economic betterment. I felt like Mark Twain when he said, “ Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.” Except I was more enraged.

Something about spending someone else's money to take a class (up until the first midterm) only to drop it and sufficiently screw everyone else that needed that class to graduate on time changed my opinion of student protesters. The problem is you. The problem is not the administration. The problem is not the governor. The problem is not some other entity that I'm sure you can place the blame on if need be. Until you are willing to do the following: put down the phones, pay attention in class, wake up, be on time, my eyes will remain free of pepper spray as I surpass students that just couldn't make it into the classes they feel they deserved so much. I am awake; my phone is off.

800

from yesterday 2

“Italian Rottweiler”

When you're fifteen you do things like; wait until your family is asleep, grab the keys to the mini van off of the wall, quietly open the electric garage door by hand, put the van into neutral and quietly push it backwards out of the garage and into the street where your friend is waiting, before you start it and feverishly drive off into the night. Right? This was a typical weekend for me when I was in high school. I wasn't exactly the one doing all the sneaking around: I was the one standing out in the street hoping my friends parents didn't wake up in a fit of rage and kill us both. My friend was Alfredo.

The mini van was a 90's model Toyota Previa (not exactly a vagina magnet). The time was one when nothing seemed right and all the answers could be found in the minds of the boys behind the wheel.

When I was fifteen my four person family lived in a two bedroom apartment in Santa Ana. My mother was always a saint to us. However, I never felt like my father was anything but an arbitrary figure who taught me to be just like him, without actually trying to do anything of the sort. Because of this; coupled with something my English teacher called “angry young man syndrome,” – I never spent much time at home. Instead, I bounced around from one friends house to another like a firefly that couldn't decide which little kid's jar to die in.

That summer, salvation (or anarchy) came in the form of my friend Alfredo's learners permit. As was customary for Mexican families who weren't exactly familiar with the driving rules; Alfredo was now able to take the mini van to run errands and perform the menial tasks that parents want kids to do when they first are able to drive. We on the other hand, had bigger things in mind. Fast forward a few weeks and there I was, standing in the street waiting for the van to roll out far enough so the sound of the engine coming to life wouldn't wake anyone. When I sat in the passenger side of that van I felt like I was free. We were free. Driving down the 22 Freeway with the windows down and the heater on full blast – making the perfect mix of cool night time air swirl around the heat of going nowhere. I remember putting my hand out the window, the way main characters do when they're on road trips in the movies. Listening to “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, knowing that we had to be home sometime; racing past streetlights so that they became streaks against the night sky; trying to be somewhere else.

By the time summer came along Alfredo and I had begun dating a pair of girls from Westminster. It was one of these girls who would deliver me – albeit violently – my first kiss. That night, after rolling the van out and picking up the girls we made our way to the pier at Seal Beach. The night was clear and just cold enough to where you could do the things that fifteen year old's do. She was an Italian girl who's daddy was a cop. I was a virgin who had never really kissed a girl – ever. We talked all night about the things you talk about when you're fifteen and eventually we had to go home before it was discovered that the girls had sneaked out. I don't remember much of the drive home (I may have blocked it out of my mind much like a trauma I have repressed). Although, I do remember pulling up to their house and leaning out to give her a hug as she got out of the van when I felt my mouth being violated by a foul monster of a tongue (one that apparently had never learned not to randomly jump down peoples unsuspecting throats). She kissed me for what seemed like hours in a way that I imagine boys who think they are good kissers kiss girls. I was never the same after that. But to this day, I remember the Italian girl with the slobbery technique. Sometimes in life, the “firsts” we play parts in aren't exactly as we imagined they would be.

In the following years Alfredo and I would have many adventures in that van: several girls, several heartbreaks, first trips, first wrecks, first close calls, first arguments; but the thing I always remember is that unexpected moment on a summer night when a girl I cared about showed me she cared about me – the way your rottweiler does when she hasn't seen you in a few days. I miss that girl.

from yesterday 1

 (A paper from a series i wrote for english class)

Dear God,

Your religion has crafted the very people you created into bringers of death and pervaders of hate; turned the very spreaders of your word into destroyers of innocence. Your followers have picketed the funerals of soldiers, brought violence against the homosexual community, bombed abortion clinics, sold religion on television, and raped children in your own houses of worship while using your name as a shield.

Why would the one who (lovingly) created us allow these atrocities to go on unchecked? The Westboro Baptist Church picketed the funeral of Matthew Snyder holding up signs that read “Thank God For 9-11” and “God Hates Fags.” This doesn't seem like something I learned in church. Another one of your followers – while proclaiming his Roman Catholic faith – blew up several abortion clinics, killing innocent people and hurting many others in his offerings to you. With one hand you threaten to banish us to Hell while you feed your priests more altar boys with your other hand. Something inside me will not let me believe that the grand plan for these little boys was to be raped by the men who are more closely connected to you than anyone else. Your book and word has bred hate into the hearts of people so successfully that gay bashing is an accepted after church activity. Since when is it right to beat someone to death because they are “living in sin”? Your churches have become hulking behemoths of capitalism built on the dollars of guilt ridden sheep in hopes of walking hand in hand with you and your son. There is no reason that money and faith should be connected in any way. Your method of religion is bought and sold while your leaders expand their own empires in a form similar to Hitler's Nazi Empire. Your allowance of these crimes against humanity itself have effectively refused people the very punishment bestowed upon them after being purged from The Garden Of Eden – and still you do nothing. The people who represent you have and continue to: kill innocent people, destroy lives, spread hate, dilute meanings, judge each other, and dine at the table of hypocrisy, all while wiping their disgusting mouths with your name; yet you do nothing to stop it.

If you ask Charles Manson if he ever killed anyone he will say that no, he never did. If you ask his followers why they did what they did, they will most certainly say he told them to do it; the same way your followers will say that you told them to do it. There is a greater good somewhere inside all men, but this cult following of a terrorist and his deity of a creator has all but extinguished the loving hand inside every man's soul; traded instead for a method of trampling on each other, praying on the weak and poor, pushing their terror with the pages of your book and using it as a shield to block their true intentions while maintaining your gracious support. You did this. You made us, then abandoned us when things didn't go your way. I believed there was something out there that meant for man kind to care for each other, instead I was force fed lies and told to behave or else I would burn in Hell for all eternity. What I wasn't told was that the very religion I was being force fed was the creator of all hate and war, and used as an unlubricated condom to buttfuck a twisted sense of enlightened morality into me. I want no part of that.

William Blake wrote, “When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did He smile His work to see?” Did you smile your work to see? I hope not.

Sincerely,

Alex Rowe

645

Grace.

.
.
.























.

this picture is on ghost rider at knotts berry farm. in the back on the right is heide, and an old girlfriend of mine is on the right. i am on the left front, and Angel is on the right. i remember holding the camera out in front of us as we were about to drop down one of the drops. i remember the laughing and trying to hold onto the camera and get pictures os everyone. thats me, always busy taking the damn pictures instead of enjoying the moment.

this picture is also at knotts. apparently that statue is a slut. i'm actually wearing that very hoodie as i'm writing this.

this picture may be from the time a friend of mine was taking a photo class and needed to get some pictures. so we dressed up and walked around the park looking like human pickles.








this picture is my cousin in front of an old girlfriend of mine's house. he had asked me to take his pictureso he could give it to a girlfriend of his. he asked me to do this a few times during this particular stay.

this picture is also part of the park photo shoot. i have no idea whats going on in it. my memory fails me. i only remember bits and pieces of that day.

the last picture is Angel in mexico where my dad is from, in his lap is a goat.



i talk about the same thing all the time.

i can't get it out of my head.

i was thousands of miles away when you needed me.

when i was able to, i didnt reply to your letters.

i could never save you and i understand that. but i miss you.

this is my way of saving you. making sure you live forever.

violet

scream from your heart.

take everything.

take everything.

when i dream

when i dream,

i'm running to save you.

light is fading, but it can still be resuscitated.
blinking i catch myself thrown to the ground,
bleeding, i stand.

missing, i run with everything i've got.
everything i've got.

silence.

i open my eyes to the bright light.
streaming in rivers through my vision, is red.
i'm not going to make it.

i'm not going to make it.


but i still reach,
dragging,
fighting for the air to stay longer.


enough to scream.

enough to reach you.

my outstretched arm meets the earth in a final welcome home.


i cannot survive any longer.

i'm not going to make it.
i'm not going to make it.

i'm not going to make it.






i'm awake.


(read this while listening to the last few minutes of a song called "Oscillator" by The Contortionist)

we will be remembered for this

white wall

when you die

no one thinks of the sweet moments in life they shared with you, until they think of the shit you did .

when i heard michael jackson had died, i remember that up until that time, he was a rapist of children; a joke.

i didnt really feel much until i got in my car to go home and they were playing his music.

now, growing up, i loved michael jackson.

and when i was driving home and "beat it" came on i felt this nearly over whelming wave of sadness. i told my friend later that day that i had never been more sad while listening to "beat it," ever.


i grew up with my mother mainly, and that being said, i watched a lot of girl movies.
i watched 'the bodyguard' several times and even had the soundtrack via my mom. she loved it for some reason. so i grew up with whitney houston and that movie.

today, for shiggles, i decided to look up jennifer hudsons tribute to whitney houston.

it wasnt technically bad, but it wasnt whitney.

no one sings that song like she does. no one.

so i looked up her performance from the grammys in 1994.

the performance blows jennifer hudson out of the water.

but thats not the point.


as i watched the video i remembered that, at one time, whitney houston was the michael jackson of her craft. but all i thought about was the shit times.

i watched whitney sing that song, smiling sometimes, eyes still shining in the lights, and i found my eyes starting to well up.

not because i missed her, or knew her personally, or had some sort of connection to her, but because at one point, the world loved her too.

when you do something wrong, the world stops loving you.

then you have to do something terrible before the world loves you back. wants you back.


i grew up with that song, and in a very cliche' manner, i will always love it.
just so happens that today, it made me sad.


(the music box i take to the cemetery every time i go is a music box i bought for my mom a long time ago. the music it plays is "i will always love you")

sometimes...

you have to fight for the things you love

it appears to me, inside my head, that i am the only one fighting for you anymore.

i make the wishes, and hide the tears, break down and repair

break down and repair

repair.



i will continue to fight for you.

even if it ruins me.


i will hold on to the notes, letters, pictures

life.


from where i was, i couldn't fight.


now i spend my life doing that very thing.

.for you


sometimes, you have to fight for the things you love...

especially when those things are memories.