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BennyStraitwater
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Name: Seth
Location: Shreveport, Louisiana, United States
Birthday: 11/14/1983
Gender: Male
Interests: Mythology, Modern Literature, Joss Whedon TV shows, sleep.
Expertise: Classical languages, sleep.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  sethboutin
Member Since:
7/1/2005
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| I plagiarize everything I write. Every bit is stolen, but not from another author. I lack creativity, so my writings are nothing more than copies or paraphrases of conversations I’ve had, they are descriptions of things I witness. I can only write what I know, so I write my life and the lives of the people around me.
The trees rise hesitantly from the fog, their leafy crowns standing above the soft gray plain. The stars and moon throw down to the earth a light strong enough to cast shadows. The night is visually perfect. But there are no fireflies out, there are no night sounds to be heard. The moon light seems revealing, and if you stand in the open you feel naked, as if you were being watched. The air is far too chilly, and deep inside you can feel it. Somewhere tonight a man is killed by a drunk driver. Lovers are fighting, and hearts are broken. On a night like tonight the only sound you can hear is Sadness stalking swiftly and nearly silently on padded cat’s feet. | | |
| Every time I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I cannot help pouring my soul into my writing. I pour out my deepest self and secrets because I can’t keep them in, but when I do, I am not alone. Every time I write, there is a crowd watching me, and I know every face. So now the actor turns to You, the crowd, and takes off his mask.
Look at my face and see my tears. I still cry thinking of You. I go back to that one night in my mind, and I hear Eric Clapton playing “Wonderful”. God how I wanted to dance with You! If I could have moved heaven and earth for one slow dance, I would have, but instead I couldn’t move my own mouth. You already had your purse in your hands, and I let the moment pass by, but I have never let it go. I still imagine the dashing and charming things I could have would have should have said to You. In my mind's eye You put your purse down and we dance, and You fall in love with me like I had with You. But as I write this, in tears four years later, I know You are gone and we will never dance to that song. And God help me, but if I ever get married, that song can’t play at my wedding, because if it does, I’ll look at my wife and only see You.
Honestly, You have me scared. I bottled up everything I wanted to say to You, and I’m still holding it. I live every day in fear that it will become too much, and I’ll say it all, but not to You. Instead, perhaps, I will give my bottled up life to a girl who doesn't deserve it, after waiting so long to give it away, waiting to give it to You, though that will never be. Maybe I’ll give my whole heart to anyone who just happens along because I was too stupid and afraid to tell You what was in my heart for You. You were the wife I lost in “Renewal”, and You were the muse for countless poems, all gone now. And though You are in my crowd, and I will never be rid of You, I know I will never dance with You again. My relationship with you comes down to one word only: Almost.
And now I turn to another one of You. Because You, You broke my heart. You made me lose faith. You killed an innocent part of me that will never live again. I would have given up that part of myself willingly, though, if by doing so I could have avoided losing You, but that was not to be. You taught me how small and weak I am. You taught me everything I never wanted to know about pain and doubt and loss and You won’t ever even know what you did to me. And still, I can’t hate You, even if I try.
At least one in the crowd knows the other two, You can put faces and names to every word I have said. And yes, You are in my crowd, too. Like the others, You are with me even when You don’t know it. | | |
| I don't know how to describe this one. Just read it, I guess.
Life seems to be empty promises. I hurt for everyone I can’t save. I
know I know I know that my shoulders aren’t wide enough, my back not
strong enough to bear all the pain of the world, they can’t be because
I can hardly bear my own.
So here I am, and I would gladly open
myself to torture if it would get anyone anywhere, if my sacrifice
could do anything. But I am no savior. I cannot be any Christ, any
Messiah. So instead I wish I wish I wish with nothing of hope that I
could be.
I used to think that I could, I used to think that
the waters of doom lapped at nearly everyone else. I saw visions of
myself, standing on solid ground, holding out my hand to save others. I
was the tragic hero, pouring myself out that others could use my own
outstretched arm to find safety. Now I know that dark waters cover my
own body, too. How can I, neck deep myself, hope to save anyone else?
But
in the distance is it only my imagination that sees a light breaking in
the clouds? I am neck deep, but not drowning yet. Do I have enough of a
foothold to find my own safety? Can I wade out of this mire, these life
sapping waters? I know the rock on which I stand is strong enough to
bear my weight, but will I walk on it? Will I have the courage to walk
its path though it cuts my feet to ribbons, and though it will ask me
eventually to emerge totally from the waters that surround me, naked
and cold into the open air? Perhaps I will, and if I do, perhaps I will
be able to hold out my hand to those drowning in the waters next to my
tiny island, able to pull them up to safety, always remembering that it
is not I who can be called a hero, but the rock on which I stand.
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| This is not based on my reality.
Clouds, thin, transparent, and ethereal race in front of the moon,
and I go back to the time when I first saw the glint in her eyes like a
sword.
But it wasn't her eyes alone that cut me to ribbons those
years ago, it was everything about her. Since she destroyed me, I've
lost everything, even the will to care that I'm broken.
Since
then, I decided that this was natural. I tell myself that everyone
wants to get hurt. I try almost daily to believe that it was my fault,
that I needed her to rend me apart. These thoughts run through my mind,
staring at the moon, exhaling the stench of cigarette smoke and whiskey
breath, and even now I am her slave. I'll defend her to the end. | | |
| Who a person is cannot be expressed in words. To learn that sort
of thing takes time, and patience. Patience is from the Latin
word for suffering. Apropos, no?
I don't understand fear. I can grasp love, and hate, jealousy,
nearly all of the rest, but fear seems to me to be a
contradiction. Is it a love for oneself that overcomes everything
else? If that were the case, why does fear so often counteract
real self-interest? And yet, fear seems to be the most primal
thing within a person.
What can't we face if we're together? What's in this place we
can't weather? Apocalypse? We've all been there. What
can't we do if we get in it? We'll work it through within a
minute. We'll pay the price, it's do or die. Hey, I've died
twice.
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