musical word vomit.

I made the following glorious playlist:

1.”The Fire” by Imogen Heap
2.”The Scientist” by Coldplay
3. “Therapy” by All Time Low
4.”Fix Me” by Marianas Trench
5. “You Be The Anchor” by Mayday Parade
6. “Uncharted” by Sara Bareilles
7. “Break Out, Break Out (Acoustic)” by All Time Low
8. “Porcelain” by Marianas Trench 

and because I’m writer and these are the things writers do, this word vomit ensued, incorporating lyrics from all the above songs. I hope it makes you feel something.

Someone told me once to face the music when it’s dire. It doesn’t matter who and it doesn’t matter when – sometimes all that matters are the words. Face the music when it’s dire. I guess that means when my piano notes can’t drown out the fire, I need to do something. The flames lick the windowpane and press themselves against the cool glass, eager to obtain entrance so they can destroy the ivory shelves I’ve built and devour the pages I’ve pressed of happy flowers and pretty memories. When I can hear that crackle no matter how hard I dance on the black and white, I know my secrets need to come out or they’ll burn me from the inside out. Nobody said it would be easy to spill my bottle of iridescent truths and lies all over the marble floor, but no one ever said it would be this hard. I can’t even pull the stopper out, it hurts too much and my hands tremble. I can’t look these people in the eye, my lungs will give out when I face the crowd and speech will become as useless as the tongue that stumbles to deliver it. I know what keeping this up means, I know it’s dangerous, I know the experts point at my sweating heart and pulsating hands and call it a state of delirium, a fantasy that a fire burns within me that only the truth can put out. But the problem is that I feel battered and bruised, though I can’t tell everyone, I can’t scream it to the world and hope for a kind hand. I just need someone to fix me, someone who won’t breathe a word of it if I just fix me. I just need to breathe, but I can’t.  The wind is too strong on this beach where I stand, the flames licking at the waters, and I realize the intensity of what I’ve delved into; I scream at the skies, hoping God is listening, because I’ll pray to hell if heaven doesn’t do its job. Does He know if I’ll see sunsets and silhouette dreams, or is this deafening silence as frightening to Him as it is to me? I’m scared to death, you see. Someone jumpstart my heart, I can’t make it on my own, as the colors of the ocean fade and wash out into the wintery skies above; I swear they’re tinged with the slightest pinks and greens of spring, I swear it. The colors don’t make sense, but they made me, and I won’t go as a passenger any longer, I’ll set out my own road, my own path. The waves of the ocean wash over and trim the fire, they pull it back, just enough to keep myself going and just enough so I can’t feel its heat burning me alive, making me want out of my own body. It’s at equilibrium now and its warmth is pleasant. The crackling fire, controlled, reminiscent of the times I spent with my family at the hearth in my heart, reminds me that I can’t look back now, I won’t look back now, I’m better now and backwards is not an option because I’ve got these big city dreams that I’d be a fool not to chase. I’ve worked too hard to let them slip away like a kite on a windy day; they’re in my hands, in my grasp, and they know it’s time to break out. I’ve taken my time to find this peace – I know that I won’t fall to pieces and that I can let those old diseases lie in their shallow graves where they belong. The graves are still shallow, and I know a good storm could wash away the soft covering and bring them back again, but I won’t fall to pieces. It’s alright if I don’t know what I need – I am perfect porcelain.