i'm so exhausted right now.
mentally and physically. for some reason, i've been having problems dealing with... life lately. like everything in life is a do-or-die situation, and instead of tackling my problems and wrestling them to the ground, i've just shied away from everything.
maybe i'm scared. i think that's what happened in wyoming a couple years ago. there was too much going on that i just didn't try. at all.
and that scares me, cause i was in a really bad place back then.
but this time it's different. in wyoming i was literally cut off from everyone. my girlfriend left me, my friends going to school with me wouldn't talk to me, and i just didn't really feel like i had anything to live for.
now, however, i have people in my life. friends, family, even ex girlfriends that all buoy me up on their shoulders and let me smile and relax and remind me that life is good.
because of the people in it.
and i guess what i'm trying to say with all this is, yeah, i'm not in the best of places right now. i can feel life's waves tossing and turning over me, sometimes i can hardly breathe.
but i know i have people in lifeboats looking for me. willing to pull me up and wrap me in a blanket and tell me everything's ok.
and that's what makes life worth living right now.
thank you, i love you all.
-michael howell.
6.27.2011
6.25.2011
i'm coming home
for anyone who didn't get this on facebook, i wrote a new poem!
this one's called:
I'm Coming Home
Oh, hello, old house
I'm coming home again
Stepping out of my car
and onto the curb
brings back floods of memories
that rush like a river down my
throat and leave
an uncomfortable lake to
roll around in my stomach
Everything's exactly as I left it.
The door's broken, still,
I had bent the know from the inside,
trying so hard to break it off.
To either escape or trap myself forever
I'm not sure.
The hallway's as dark as
ever, extending well beyond the
light or my eyes can imagine
It's amazing how the hallway
seems untouched,
it still smells of paint
and cheap alcohol,
yet there's not an inch of
dust anywhere,
as if people have never
really stopped walking down the
hallway.
I open the first door on my right,
and the smell clubs in the head.
A mix of blood, sweat, tears and
paint. Paint most of all
So much paint I can't breathe
So much paint not an inch of the
white walls are visible. Canvases
hang from the ceiling in solid colors
No real images anywhere.
Most are tattered and wrinkled
Only the black and most dark survive
There's a depth there I can't even
comprehend.
Next room I go to is a furnace.
So hot and so loud
I can't decide whether to plug
my ears or wipe
my sweat stained brow.
In the midst of the fire
lies a wooden bench
How it hasn't
burned by now I guess
I'll never know.
I can remember this is the
room I stayed in
the most,
completely covering my body
in sweat,
beating my hands on the bench
until I had splinters in my
fingernails,
burning hair from every part of
my body
trying so desperately to spark myself
into something else.
Because maybe if I was different
I could leave this house.
Another door leads to
a room completely made of
glass. Hard, unbreakable glass
that overlooks a busy
city street.
I'd come here to watch people
react with one another in ways
I couldn't handle.
I'd just look at them
and they'd look back, concern
striking their face, knocking on
the glass and just looking. Nothing.
I would kiss the glass in front of them.
It was all I could give them.
The final room is where I set
my bag down. One where I
can relax. Not because I'm
happy, but maybe because I'm
comfortable. It's the room that
smells most like me. The room
my eyes are permanently adjusted to.
I know this room in the most
intimate way.
In it lies a bed with a wool blanket.
In front of the bed a white screen.
Projecting the movies I
wrote and starred in. The ones
about heartbreak. The one's I've
re-lived so many times I refuse to
beleive in anything else.
I close my eyes here
letting the smells and sights
and darkness enfold me like a blanket.
Behind me the movie screams two
lines:
"Is this the way it ends?
With my hands holding your broken heart?"
this one's called:
I'm Coming Home
Oh, hello, old house
I'm coming home again
Stepping out of my car
and onto the curb
brings back floods of memories
that rush like a river down my
throat and leave
an uncomfortable lake to
roll around in my stomach
Everything's exactly as I left it.
The door's broken, still,
I had bent the know from the inside,
trying so hard to break it off.
To either escape or trap myself forever
I'm not sure.
The hallway's as dark as
ever, extending well beyond the
light or my eyes can imagine
It's amazing how the hallway
seems untouched,
it still smells of paint
and cheap alcohol,
yet there's not an inch of
dust anywhere,
as if people have never
really stopped walking down the
hallway.
I open the first door on my right,
and the smell clubs in the head.
A mix of blood, sweat, tears and
paint. Paint most of all
So much paint I can't breathe
So much paint not an inch of the
white walls are visible. Canvases
hang from the ceiling in solid colors
No real images anywhere.
Most are tattered and wrinkled
Only the black and most dark survive
There's a depth there I can't even
comprehend.
Next room I go to is a furnace.
So hot and so loud
I can't decide whether to plug
my ears or wipe
my sweat stained brow.
In the midst of the fire
lies a wooden bench
How it hasn't
burned by now I guess
I'll never know.
I can remember this is the
room I stayed in
the most,
completely covering my body
in sweat,
beating my hands on the bench
until I had splinters in my
fingernails,
burning hair from every part of
my body
trying so desperately to spark myself
into something else.
Because maybe if I was different
I could leave this house.
Another door leads to
a room completely made of
glass. Hard, unbreakable glass
that overlooks a busy
city street.
I'd come here to watch people
react with one another in ways
I couldn't handle.
I'd just look at them
and they'd look back, concern
striking their face, knocking on
the glass and just looking. Nothing.
I would kiss the glass in front of them.
It was all I could give them.
The final room is where I set
my bag down. One where I
can relax. Not because I'm
happy, but maybe because I'm
comfortable. It's the room that
smells most like me. The room
my eyes are permanently adjusted to.
I know this room in the most
intimate way.
In it lies a bed with a wool blanket.
In front of the bed a white screen.
Projecting the movies I
wrote and starred in. The ones
about heartbreak. The one's I've
re-lived so many times I refuse to
beleive in anything else.
I close my eyes here
letting the smells and sights
and darkness enfold me like a blanket.
Behind me the movie screams two
lines:
"Is this the way it ends?
With my hands holding your broken heart?"
6.23.2011
6.05.2011
i love people too much! and every single time i've been fucked over. i usually refrain from using profanities, but i'm so... mad, and frustrated, and sad and depressed right now to give a damn. i hate loving people so much, i can't stand getting hurt, and yet it seems like i don't know how to make a single thing work in my life. i've failed at EVERYTHING i've ever tried, i suck at this thing called life. i need to get away, i need to... join the military, or find a fucking commune and forget about who i was or why i've done all this dumb shit in my life! i don't think the people i love realize that every single "mistake" i've made to them or because of them was because i loved them so much i couldn't stand to hurt them. and i guess that doesn't cover the fact that what i've done was wrong. i don't ever wanna fall in love again, because the only thing that comes of it is two heartbroken souls. and memories i wish i never made, because they're what's eating me alive. fuck love. i'm sick of regretting.
if anyone's still reading this sad, depressing, fucked up blog, thank you. i love you.
-michael howell.
if anyone's still reading this sad, depressing, fucked up blog, thank you. i love you.
-michael howell.
6.04.2011
Catch 22
i don't know what to write about. surprised? no, because i start pretty much every entry on this blog this way.. i don't know.
i woke up today at like.. 7 p.m. and i was just really... sad today. i don't know why. well, i guess i do, i just try and pretend that i'm ok and that those things don't really depress me.i pretend i'm strong so my friends don't worry about me and so my parents don't worry about me, because no one wants to see someone they love sad. and i understand that. i just don't like having to lie to everyone about it. because there are things that are bugging me in my life, things that constantly weigh me down and make me depressed or sad or any other synonym of those words. and with my depression and everything, i'm finding it really hard to cope with some things. i don't wanna go into too much detail, cause i'm on the internet and everything, but i just... never feel good enough for anyone, and in the end they'll always abuse me and leave me for dead. and i go along with it, because i care too much about how they feel to stand up for myself and try and make myself happy. that's the catch 22, isn't it? making others happy is what makes me happy, even if making someone else happy makes me miserable. is that even a catch 22? or is it like a paradox or something? i guess it's really just sad.
please feel free to ignore this post, i just read it and i depress even myself, so i understand not paying attention to it.
thank you, i love you all.
-michael howell.
i woke up today at like.. 7 p.m. and i was just really... sad today. i don't know why. well, i guess i do, i just try and pretend that i'm ok and that those things don't really depress me.i pretend i'm strong so my friends don't worry about me and so my parents don't worry about me, because no one wants to see someone they love sad. and i understand that. i just don't like having to lie to everyone about it. because there are things that are bugging me in my life, things that constantly weigh me down and make me depressed or sad or any other synonym of those words. and with my depression and everything, i'm finding it really hard to cope with some things. i don't wanna go into too much detail, cause i'm on the internet and everything, but i just... never feel good enough for anyone, and in the end they'll always abuse me and leave me for dead. and i go along with it, because i care too much about how they feel to stand up for myself and try and make myself happy. that's the catch 22, isn't it? making others happy is what makes me happy, even if making someone else happy makes me miserable. is that even a catch 22? or is it like a paradox or something? i guess it's really just sad.
please feel free to ignore this post, i just read it and i depress even myself, so i understand not paying attention to it.
thank you, i love you all.
-michael howell.
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