Goodbye

I guess here is my goodbye to all the people I once knew. We shared classes, songs, and laughs together. I’ll miss your faces when I walk the halls of our high school. When I watch a football game and I don’t see your faces up in the stands I’ll think of us. I’ll hope we get together but this truly is the end. Graduation told us to grow up. Graduation told us to go to college. Graduation told us to find new friends. Graduation told us to move on.

Time never said goodbye to me, why should I say goodbye to time? Time always wins. Time made me say goodbye to some and hello to others. Time slowed and sped up but it never stopped. The time conundrum that is life took me to limbo and back. Maybe the grave never actually waits for us. Maybe I've been too blunt with the poems i've written. Maybe the readers won't understand them. Maybe the poems don't understand me. Maybe Goodbyes are better unsaid. Sometimes the closure doesn't change anything anyways.

The past of the Priory

I'm slipping.
I can't show this to you.
This was not meant for you.
This was meant for me.
This was my vent.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
But I can't deny my feelings anymore....
I can't deny my past.
I can't deny this post.
I can't deny the punishment.
I don't care about how much trouble I could get in at this moment.
I'm slipping,  and I'm reckless.
One man's trash is another man's tears.......

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_A2nSrU95cA

Why do I hurt myself so much.

like the red life pumping out of my arms yesterday.

I thought about the songs you played me

I thought we were different

You missed a few lines in my last blogposts, some things i was too scared to say so I wrote them in black on my blog.

I thought I could stop picking the scabs after my friend branded me...

I want the scars.

Why can't I look at you and see a friend anymore.

Why can't I look at you and see a lover anymore.

Why can't I even look at you...

every time I try the water blocks my vision

I thought music would have the answers

Night terrors gave me them instead

I thought the song I wrote might transfer to some other lover...

You thought the church bell sounded holy when I thought it was haunting...

Maybe i am just messed up....

I drew the same picture again, the one of the cemeteries 

the one of the char beast

the one of the house of saint give me

the one of the kiln

Sometimes the scary things in life are the ones that keep you coming back for more.

"Are you a demon?" the skitso asked me

Maybe he was asking me directly....

Maybe he was talking to something behind me...

but he stared right into me and asked it

either way it's true

either I'm the demon...

or something behind me is...

The music was killing me that day by the pond

The music is the only thing keeping me alive now

I forget my dreams every morning because I need to...

I remember my scars because I have to...

I make new ones because I want to...

Every night I fall asleep to wake up and I wake up every day because I didn't die in my sleep like I wish I would have...

Sometimes the scary things in life are the ones that keep you coming back for more.

Santa Monica

with his rustic jacket of patches the old man boasted of his journeys

he played chess and guitar at the park

a younger man would ask of his wisdom

he never ceased in giving

the books smelled like home to him

the fruit trees smelled like grandma's

the bakery smelled like mom's

the rain felt like first love

the wind in his hair cuffed his memory

he came here when he was young

he missed his mountains

but his seashells and journals kept him company

he longed to play on a nice piano

the sunshine loved him back most days

he still wrote to her

but the letters never made it home 

to his sweet sweet wife

lying beneath dirt.

future missionary.

It started the day we were born. The ongoing fight that all men lose. 

The girls, they know, but they don't understand. 

Somebody told me

"you're a human if you look once, but you're not a missionary if you look again"

See, the girls know, but they don't understand. 

"keep your eyes up"

Let me start by telling a story about a kid named "every dude ever". Your walking in the hallway, your on twitter, your at the store, your anywhere, and there it is. We see it, we look again, and again, again, and again, because 9 out of 10 guys are in the same boat that I'm in, and the ship is sinking. 

Anybody that graduated high school/college before the internet has no clue what they're talking about.

Try growing up in a world where everybody including yourself destroys your mind every day, all day for living with the strongest instinct you were born with.

The weekly reminders that you aren't good enough takes a toll on you.

I've tied enough "slip knots" to know where the toll takes you.

I don't know why i'm writing this. 

Maybe i'm mad?

Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission.

"so when are you putting in your papers?"

I don't know.

One day she asked me "am I a temptation?". 

Sometimes I feel like you don't fully understand that word. 

Sometimes I feel like I wouldn't last as a missionary, between the sleepless nights, the psychotic episodes, wandering eyes, untreated depression, and struggling belief.

Is god out there?

I feel something.

I don't know.

I've never tried harder at anything before. Bishop says im fine, the voices in my head say otherwise, all the while he's telling me to end it.

I don't know.

All I can think about is you.

So until I meet you I'll keep my eyes up and my future missionary tag on.

Be this sunset soon forgotten

Ignorance is bliss.
So im just gonna ignore myself writing this.

I care way too much about my life.

I care way to little about my life.

I love you so much that I've never met you and I still love you.
That is literally all I have here.
P.S.
I'm still waiting.

Im always either 99% introvert and 1% extrovert  or the opposite.
 #stolen

I'll always want to make my mark.
I'll always have more ideas.
I'll always drop my paintbrush before it hits the canvas.

I'll always get knocked down.
(you can see the stars better on your back)

The music is always exceptional.
The food is better unspoiled and home-cooked.
Your smile looks brighter in the forest.

The sermon is always calling to me.
The sunset soon forgotten is always the greatest.

I'll always think of where you are when I lay to rest.
and I'll always crush juniper berries in my hand for the scent.

Sincerely,
Joshua Weston Hill

Gold is for fools

The wisest man was chess man.
Drunk as all.
Waiting outside the cafe for another game.
His ragged clothes topped with an expensive sunhat.
He challenged us kids to a game.

"Where are you from chess man?"

"Father was a rolling stone wherever he laid his pack was home."

His crooked board and un-kept beard.
All covered in booze.

Chess man was a master.
He wouldn't answer hypotheticals, only situational questions.
He never played for money.
He never needed approval.

"How old are you chess man?"

"Old enough to know better."

I think his name was destiny but when we asked him he told us his name wasn't relevant.
I feel like my name isn't relavent thats why I want to be fool's gold forever.

~

The happiest man was music man.
Taji was his name.
He played under the Newport clouds by the pier.
Seafood and butterflies in our stomachs while he played to us.

His strings kept breaking, his passion always broke them.

His guitar case gathered his living, but his guitar gathered his life.
His living kept his life safe and sound.
Just enough to keep strumming.
He used to dream about music at his part time job.
He said his part time job was his ball and chain, and he was holding the key the whole time.

The genuine tunes only came because his life depended on them.
Dollar by dollar was earned, but it was never about the money.

"Happiness never came from another dollar in the case. It came from another song in the air"

His name he boasted.
His name was important to him and to others.
His name was destiny as well.
His name was relevant.
His name meant something to him.

I feel like chess man too often.
Does my real name even matter?
You already know the real me.
The real me is Fool's Gold.
Why should I give you my "real name" I hide behind at school?

I should have known better.

I've never before been honest about myself to anybody but my notebooks and blogposts.

Nobody knows who I am.
Not even me.

If words could choke on the keys Im typing on, they would be doing it now.
  
Im choking on the air I breathe too.