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I can't begin to portray to you
the feeling of a dream coming true- I know it sounds corny, but it's so
true. And useful. I
was just a girl who was tired
of waitressing and people believed in me and fed me by coming to my shows.
Without my
friends in San Diego, and now
this incredible new group of people across the country I would still be
hungry in my van.
Now I'm just hungry in a rent-a-car
in 48 states in 40 days- but my heart loves it! 24 hours of this a day
is better than
three hours of waitressing.
Sometimes record labels think they sell albums- but they don't- they help,
but it's you guys
who help me. So often our dreams
become our hobbies and it deadens our passions. I love my life and want
to thank
you all. I know our lives are
separate and that none of you have to care about my happiness, but that
you do things like
taking the time to call radio
stations means a lot to me. I hope I can give back as much as I'm given.
I wrote a song I'd
like to dedicate to you all.
It's called "Deep Water." I hope you can all hear it one day.
Jewel Kilcher
I think of the scrutiny
and shrink beneath
its million eyes
has she gained weight?
does blue become her?
is she losing her light?
Never "My I believe her intent is growing, if not her skill"
Never noticing deaths
Misfigured face in perfection
or beauty in the awkward struggle of a new direction
We've become fascinated
With the fixed
We possess all the curiosity
of a cul-de-sac
as though the honor lied in
the
mastering of the menial
It can not be the end for which
we live
That is death,
But for the struggle that keeps
us young
Daring to make mistakes
Knowing there are none.
As a child I walked with noisy fingers along the hemline of so many meadows back home Green fabric stretched out shy earth shock of sky I'd sit on logs like pulpits listen to the sermon of sparrows and find god in Simplicity there amongst the dandelion and thornCRITICISM
The savages are upon me and I feel my flesh Burn beneath the teeth
I don't know how to do anything I am trying to move mountains with words But I am an ant I scribble I drool I move like a worm whose world (words) encompassed a mile How do I rise above? Where will this worm find wings? I look in the mirror and I see filth Who is that? Where did The Angel go? Why is there dirt staring back at me? Why is the soil of incompetence beneath my nails Why does doubt paint blue rings beneath my eyes and stain my skin Why does my spine assume failure Why do my lips flirt with they sky; why do I try to lasso Beauty with such a pitiful rope? Where is the hair of Rapunzel or Samson? Where is my sling Where is my stone, My gun? Where is the weapon with which I may fight this apathy that feels like sleep in my limbs that loosens my brother's smile That kills my neighbor's daughter This pen is scrawny and hardly seems able to ink out or erase this plague that infests my Generation This Giant, This Ogre This Beast, This Death that assumes a million faces, that borrows my own.
There she sat, a mound of flesh with just two eyes to comprehend the extensiveness of her being. She made a mountaint of herself, so no one could look down. So no one would miss or fail to see the tiny woman hands that talked desperately of delicate things. Through a fist full of rings to all who would stop and listen.
Everytime her hands began to stutter he became enraged. She threw these fits sometimes, and he never took the time to understand what they meant. Her words were wasted on him. Her hands useless birds caged by their quietness, and he would immobilize them, tying her wrist together so they'd jump like awkward fish, gasping at the shock of air. Uh-heard they'd dance like that for hours, her eyes full of silent desperation, on the other side of the closet door. He never even knew what they were saying. I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here!
I miss you my teeth ache my bones are confused they'd grown so close my flesh cries like children I speak to them in hush it's not fair they say bring him back! beg him stay! it's not up to me. I try to explain but mind can't make heart understand it does not whimper its one lashed eye keeps blinking it insists simply with quiet disbelief LOVE IS NOT WITHOUT YOU I go back today back to where I must move from my toothbrush no longer welcome my clothing canker sores my altar a wound whose bleeding can only stop when there's nothing left to remind him of me (I don't wanna go)
It has been long and Bony since your willing ways since those thirstful days of summer nights and Burning Beds
I am not from here my hair smells of the wind and is full of constellations, and I move about this world with a healthy disbelief. And I approach my days and my work with vaporous consequence a touch that is translucent, but can violate stone.
You don't call I check again I become uneasy--is this a frame? Suddenly I'm not so sure I check my sources each conversation becomes a crumb how easily I'm led how stupid I've been to believe you could be loving me you who can not be seduced by anything other than the temperance of need each one facilitating the next and suddenly I see my place the phone rings you say hello but I don't believe you
I say to you of carefully studied disillusionment And you worshipers who find beauty in only fallen things that the greatest Grace we can aspire to is the strength to see the wounded walk with the forgotten and pull ourselves from the screaming blood of our losses to fight on undaunted all the more
Infatuation is a strange thing. A bony creature thin with feeding on itself. It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination. It's humid couch and sweaty palms. It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest. But when conquering is complete, the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted. Disappointed even to the point of disgust with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk, emptied of its precious cargo and left to fade like defeated naval ships. A seed relieved of its transparent husk, to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.
I miss your touch all taciturn like the slow migration of birds nesting momentarily upon my breast then lifting silver and quick-- sabotaging the landscape with their absence my skin silent without their song a thirsty pool of patient flesh
Lost is a puzzle of stars that breathes like water and chews like stone. Alone is a reminder of how far your acceptance is from your understanding. Fear is a bird that believes itself into extinction. Desperation: the honest recognition of a false truth. Hope: seeing who you really are at your highest is who you will become. Grace: the refinement of a soul through time.
Women who suck their cigarettes as though they were giving their hatred head
I have blonde hair I pluck my eyebrows I have my father's nose my mother's hands I have crooked teeth and green eyes I play guitar I used to get sick alot I like the color of wine I've cheated on boyfriends I've owned fake ID But my hair is still blonde and my teeth are still crooked and I probably won't always like the color of wine II I have firm breasts I have lips that always smile I have veins that bleed I laugh when I'm nervous I feel the pain of others but cry for no reason I like open flame I've been selfish since a child I'm from Alaska but hate the cold I've cheated on diets I've faked applications But I still bleed and my lips still smile and my breasts won't always be firm III I have strong shoulders I have olive skin I have a Swiss face I borrowed from my grandmother I have long nails on my right hand which break regularly My little toe is strange I write I used to make wreaths from dandelions I brush my hair before bed I cheated on tests I faked flirtatious French accents But I still have gold skin and my nails still break and I probably won't always have strong shoulders and I may not always write But maybe I'll start making wreaths from dandelions again
Burn her eyes, without hope of understanding them. Kiss her mouth, that you may fathom its strange tongue. Indulge in her brown skin because it reminds you of mother. Rape her mind, because it is not your own, but so sweet, so familiar. Like coming home to a native land your pale and inbred hands can only faintly fathom.
Joy, Pure Joy, I am What I always wanted to grow up and be Things are becoming more of a dream with each waking day- The heavy brows of Daily Life are becoming encrusted with glitter and the shaking finger of consequence is beginning to giggle Grumpy old men have wings Burns sport Halos and everyday dullness has begun to breathe as I remember the incredible lightness of living
I guess what I wanted was to hear you'd stay with me always. I guess what I wanted was to see those hands vowing never to leave my own. I guess what I wanted to know was I am not loving in vain.