licensetowrite's profile

Road trips are made up of moments that baffle the human mind—a boring trip through blurred images that causes us to pass the time by remembering, by daydreaming, or simply just by singing along poorly to a favorite song—loudly and with gusto so that we can pretend fame. I guess, for myself, it brings to mind a poem by Robert Frost where he talks about looking into the windows of other people’s homes, their existence. What’s more inviting than peering through a sheer curtain to see the lives o...

It's like raising the dead Walking through the darkness to unknown venues The world is an alleyway I tread Suspiciously--painfully--it’s something to get used to. Chorus: I don't belong here My world's spinning out of control And I can't hold on Yesterday's gone, tomorrow's yet to come I won't fade away Like ghosts into the past I'm here to stay Like a rock and just as steadfast These are so much more than empty words Emotions like the fire in old movies I pluck out the chords Reveling in the...

© by Regina 8/27/2006 Sitting in a café’ on a corner Strumming on my guitar I write the song that marks my soul As I watch the world go by—the people and the cars. Look at me, I yell at the top of my lungs There’s a human behind this façade Behind the songs I have already sung Here I am. My voice begins to fade. And then I start to watch the people as they go, to and fro Talking with each other Hanging onto lovers as their faces start to glow Caring for one another Chorus: Smiling at the wait...

© by Regina 8/27/2006 Maybe it was a dream on my part; the kind where nothing ever happens the way reality tells you it should. Or maybe it just happened so fast that it merely appeared to be something I only conjured up in my imagination. God only knows that I tried to stop the madness. But it only spread like some unidentified infectious disease, taking hold and catching fire until everything was consumed. Some said I was faking, pretending to be unwell only because I wanted attention, some...

Tequila Twilight, Daring Dawn © by Regina 08/27/2006 The bar was a place made for the lonely—for those whose dire romantic circumstances just seemed to pour out of every pore in their bodies—for those whose lives reeked of failure, of lost opportunity. Or so it seemed. Because, then there were people like me who fought that description—who turned to anger instead of melancholy. Why should I let him get to me? Why should I let the fact that he not only hurt my pride but stomped on it soundly t...