INSTRUCTIONS: 

1. PRESS PLAY

2. READ THE POEM WITH THE SONG PLAYING. 

3. ENJOY.

Day after day,
at the top of a hill,
She stands next to a grinning man, keeping perfectly still.
She wants nothing more than to know him,
She can see he’s more than a fool,
but she’ll never get an answer

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

Maybe some day,
she’ll say something aloud,
And the one hundred thousand voices in her head will be proud.
But it’s likely she’ll never tell him,
there’s not a sound she feels she can make,
And he never seems to notice

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

And she’s never spoken to him,
But it’s all she really wants to do.
She’s bound to explode with feelings,

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

But everyone can see them,
they say he’s turned the girl into a fool,
and they don’t seem to like him

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

I'm embarrassed, for more than just the obvious reasons. Sometimes I wonder if people read between the lines I write. I'm going to stop typing now. 

"i am the wanderer's wandering daughter

take all my pain and i mix it with water"

Italics imply a character is thinking. What is being said is not being said aloud. No one can here what said character is thinking to themselves; no one but you, the reader.

I have a story to finish. I mean, real incentive this time. Not just people actively reading what I'm writing. My grade depends on this. For some reason though, I'm still not motivated to write. It takes a lot to get into this guy's head. He's an alcoholic. He's real fucked up in the head. Totally doesn't care about anything. Doesn't have a job. Doesn't have to pay rent. Doesn't even have to worry about filling a kitchen with food. All that matters to him is his alcohol and writing down whatever the hell he feels like. Hot damn, he's got the life. Anyway, my point here was that I have to finish a story. I actually have to. But I haven't. I don't know that I want to. It has a lot to do with neither of my professors reading what I've given them so far. I feel like they think I only think I can write, but I'm starting to realize other people really think that do.

Anyway, I'm curious.

You see, people tell me they read this (even enjoy it sometimes) but the level of feedback I get (which is almost zero) suggests otherwise. I want a conversation with people. If I say something you like, or don't like, or if you just have anything to say SAY IT.

There's a place for comments, and they're always very appreciated. I would love to know what you think, what you like, what you don't like, all that jazz. So please, feel free.

And now I feel like I'm begging.

The clock says it's 2:16 in the morning.

I know I should sleep but I had some real vicious nightmares last night. It makes me anxious to think of turning out the lights.

i have one of those headaches where everything is bright and loud and i can't remember what i did last night.

beneath the aching cloud hovering right over my eyes, i think i'm thinking about my life and exactly what it is at this exact moment in time. i feel incapable again, and with that feeling comes the other feelings. the ones i don't necessarily talk about. my mom said she'll talk to her doctor for me. i'm trying not to be hopeful: she likes to deceive. aside from that, i have my failing academic career. i have not been to class in over a week and as much as i want to go tomorrow, i'm afraid of not being able to. stress stress stress in a five minute recipe; just pop it in the microwave and watch it spin.

and then there's the rest of me. that 90% of Iceberg Stephanie that never sees the light of day. its itching for an unsinkable boat to come sailing by so its not the only thing hiding in the sea. the 10% of me that the sun does touch is really praying that boat never comes.

anyway, i'm positive none of that makes sense and i would re-read it but this headache is just not conducive to re-reading.

i hope nothing in there is too obvious. or too embarrassing. or too inappropriate.

i can honestly say i don't remember a word of what i just wrote.