Pale Blue Eyes.

Pale Blue Eyes, I am in love with them. With the song, with all connected to either thing. I am being mercilessly pelted with thoughts and things and anger and it's pouring itself forth into prose-like poems, and I'm not sure if I'm ok. I was fine when I was with my lovely friends. I was better than fine. I was amazing. And quite on top of the world. And it was awesome and happy. And it makes high school seem like a much less formidable foe. But alas, all comes crumbling down.

But first, the good.

"My doorbell don't go ding dong, it go dong dong!"

Two drunk college guys telling us we were invited to the party at Clancy's.

"This guy's straight! WEIRDO!"

It's just awesome being with such awesome people.

Awesome has no feeling.

Let's try again.

It's euphoric,

It's ridiculous,

Enlightening,

Lovely,

Stellar,

Rad.

All of the above, please.

And now the bad.

I want to be an artist?

It's a question.

For I'm not sure.

I don't want to be a teacher.

I don't want to major in the Classics.

I don't want to go to OSU.

I want to live while I can and do what I love and not care if i get paid or not.

Being happy is why we're alive.

Life should bring us all the happiness we need.

Also, the hardship, but the happiness too.

And that's what worth living for.

The love, the passion, and the happiness.

I want to be an artist for that reason.

There's passion there.

It's fiery.

Do what you love.

Because you love it.

(Or do who you love, as a friend would say...)

So let me be who I am.

And let me speak freely.

I am angry.

And obsessed.

And it's awful and horrid and sublime.

Here's a poem to enunciate what my speech cannot put forth.

I found the sea

In Pale Blue Eyes.

And whose eyes were they

But yours?

And guitar riffs

Chords, and strums

Sound like lullabies,

All broken,

Like the 45,

I smashed against the bedroom wall.

It was Pale Blue Eyes,

And I thought of you,

And I slumped

Down the wall,

All pale blue like the sea,

Like the eyes

That you trained on me,

And I can't get past the color,

Can't get past the lullabies,

The lyrics that held whatever

I forced onto them,

And your Pale Blue Eyes,

I cannot stand,

They've got the depth

Of all the seas,

My favorite things.

The 45.

The color blue

And my sea.

You've taken them from me.

And I can't get over how you look.

When you look at me.

[Yes, Pale Blue Eyes must be capitalized, it's a song. A 45 is a type of record. I'm writing about a boy. In case your deductive reasoning skills are off.]

Ok.

Yeah, it's obsessive.

Goodnight.