Not Famous

When I was little, and even sometimes now, I wanted (and still sometimes want) to be famous. I always would like to be known as this famous writer, or someone inspiring to people my age.

And then I look at my family.

My mom isn't famous, but she's one of the most important people in my life, and my grandma is the nicest person you'll ever meet. My brother is hilarious, and my dad is artistic. People before me worked hard for their food, and went through things I'd never imagine going through myself. I always catch myself looking at their pictures and just being grateful for who they are, and who my family is.

Sometimes, not being famous can be a good thing. Isn't it so scary, and so creepy, that there are so many amazing people out there that nobody knows about? I like to call this The Perks of Being Not Famous. Because they are perks. Most of you guys' (I think that's not gramatically correct. Then again, who cares?) blogs that I read are so interesting, and I really wonder why you're not famous.

All in all, it's a mixed emotion, because I'd love to be known by the world as someone influential. It's like the song Beverly Hills, because he says he wants to be famous, but deep down, he knows he doesn't belong with the celebreties. I don't want to be a celebrety, exactly, just a writer. Someone who tells stories.

...Do you want to be famous?

Realize This

I Call it Home

Why is it that I find myself loving the crummiest places? Why is it that I wish my house were sometimes a pint-sized apartment with low-grade appliances? Why is it that I miss taking down our clothes with my mom down to the laundry room, which has no AC or heat, and smells heavily of old things? Why is it that I love going downtown, even though the air stinks of greasy fast food? Why is it that I wish I were waiting for something? Is it because sometimes we love things dearly that are imperfect, like we crave it?

Perfect things are boring, and flawless. Airbrushed faces, straw legs, pink lips, big blue doe eyes. You see that everywhere. Nothing new.

Wild unkept hair, a girl who's not obsessed with her weight, two different colored eyes, a crooked tooth here and there. Surely imperfect, definetly not in a magazine. But that's the beautiful part of it all. It's real, something simply, and utterly gorgeous all on her own.

I guess it's just those rare moments that are crappy and nowhere near beautiful that I live for. Imperfectings are perfect.

"Dear mother can you hear me whining, it's been three whole weeks since that I have left your home, This sudden fear has left me trembling, 'Cause now it seems that I am out here on my own, And I'm feeling so alone, Pay attention to the cracked streets and the broken homes, Some call it slums some call it nice, I wanna take you through a wasteland I like to call my home, Welcome to paradise."

Missing Rhinestones

Take me to my haven
My haven
My haven
Where everyone is blurred around the edges
And sweet
And flawed
Like a crack in an old mirror
Or sea glass or maybe a brooch missing its rhinestones.

Take me to my haven
My haven
My haven
Where everyone's got a story to tell
Through a grinning mouth of cutely crooked teeth
With their eyes lit up
The whole time.

Take me to my haven
My haven
My haven
Where imperfections are gifts and oppritunities
And your great grandmother's clothes are the choice of dress.
Where sweet children are innocent
And lick great lollypops on long wooden sticks
And don't know everything out there.

Take me to my haven
My haven
My sweet distant haven.
Where animals are equal and can tell you secrets.

Take me to my haven
My haven
My haven
Where I'll get there curled up and floating away.