>loneliness is relative.
the nights spent in groups, alone.
the laying in bed, alone.
being alone is something you can do anywhere, with anyone, when you are not with the person you really want to be with.
i wish writing a blog could solve my lonely sum, where i always equal one
i wish understanding some concept could crash it into a pile.
i wish the issues i had four years ago weren’t still the issues i have today.
i wish new romances would make me deaf to the sound of my own heartbeat that’s not for them
i wish God had not waited me out, and proved me poor, impatient, impoverished, and revealed how weak my trust in him was.
i wish i could write enough songs to express it and pray through it and fight it, join it, feel it off of me
i wish i didn’t have to try.
i’m so tired of trying.
i wish i could cry it out.
I wish God seemed more of an author and less of a editor.
i wish God would let my heart change, or that he’d change this world
i want to constantly apologize to my friends and family “i’m sorry i’m still such a sad stupid boy” when God wants me to be a man
I don’t know if i know who i am anymore, and i don’t think i like who i know myself to be right now.
i can read the christian type “find your identity in Christ”
which to me sounds like “create a black hole by blinking your eyes”
if i could find Christ, maybe i could find out who i really am, maybe i’d have an identity again.
i realized recently that the problem with being good with words at all is that no believes a single word you say.
The people i’ve ever said “i Love you” to haven’t believed me.
and i find that all my poetic honesty is labeled dishonest simply because it is poetic.
no wonder poets are often so lonely – they are good with words, and we are afraid to believe them.
no one believes me when i talk anymore, and i feel like my mouth is wasted on such a life.
how can being good at communicating and connecting with others alienate you and cut out your tongue?
how does it cause you to end out alone?
it seems everyone i talk to knows a Tony that doesn’t exist, and the sad thing is, is that the real Tony still does exist, as shy, alone, and thoroughly insecure about being alone as ever. If i had some arch-nemesis he’d find this out and play on it to lead me down a path of destruction.
maybe he already has.
i feel destroyed, the best parts of me have all but slipped away.
let me loose of this listless life and loneliness,
or perhaps i’ll pretend to be OK
if you’re lost in the woods long enough every free place to step looks like a path.
if you’re lost in the woods there are no paths.