Word Vomit Whilst on an Emotional Rollercoaster

Lately, I've been on a poetry binge. Pouring so much of myself into these poems. I posted a particular poem called Screw You and I got a response from a woman, Serah. You kind of have to read the poem for some of this to make sense, or so I imagine. As a person of logic, I find it hard to see emotion is text. As a poet, I find it easy to put my emotions into words. To others, my poetry seems far more powerful than it does to me, but I suppose I'm not the only person to feel that way. Serah told me that from that poem, she sensed that my sense of peace is tied to my lover, to Scott. When I read that, I stopped for a second. I'm sure that reading my previous posts could tell you the same, but she got it from one poem. She also told me to keep what I have with him alive. If it's movies, watch movies together, if it's eating pizza together, do that. And when I read that, I had to stop and think, what do Scott and I have? What is it that bonds us together? We don't really have that. So far, we just have sex, and we haven't even had sex with each other yet. Sometimes, when he's horny or fantasizing, he'll tell me what he imagines doing to me. I kind of like it honestly, but it seems like we talk about that more than most anything else. He told me that he just wants to be with me, but that the desire tends to manifest itself into sex.
I can understand that.
Yesterday, in my sorrow, I posted a status on my facebook, which I later turned into a word vomit. What a word vomit is, is a ramble or sorts, it's a daily practice of writing. You write whatever you want, vomiting out your thoughts into words. It's something I'm going to do on the days I don't write a poem, or so I hope. The purpose of the word vomit is to lose structure, and connect with your words emotionally, allowing flow from your heart to your words.
The word vomit read:
"I feel like a little kid playing with a toy that's broken, but I don't know that it is. I just keep banging at it and tweaking it trying to make it work. Why won't it work?, I whine. Eventually, someone will throw it away. I'll cry because I loved that toy, even if it didn't work anymore. I'll still wonder why it didn't work. Did it need batteries? Was a screw loose? Does it matter? I still love that broken toy.
I wanted to keep it. Keep it with me forever. Who cares if it didn't work? The memories would be enough. I miss it. That broken toy. I wish it was here. So I could apologize for not protecting it. Not playing with it anymore.
I'm sorry, my broken toy."
Scott read my status, which was just the first paragraph, and he told me that he wasn't a broken toy. For some reason I thought it was ironic he said that, and I wanted to know what he thought of me calling him a broken toy, even though I didn't mean it that way, and telling him that I loved him in a facebook status.
I told him that I wasn't calling him a broken toy. It was a reference to our relationship. The broken toy was our dysfunctional relationship. He asked me how was it dysfunctional. I lied and told him that it was me, my inability to understand my emotions in relation to my logical mind and how they clash, which stresses me out. Granted, that isn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth in answer to his question. Only half. The other half is that I hate how he keeps secrets and how incredibly vague he is when I crave details. Especially in a situation as complicated as ours, I just want to be able to know and understand everything. I could beg him to explain things, but it will be general, vague, "big picture," and unspecified. And I would be left unsatisfied.
Trust me, I know, because he then had to explain why our plans yesterday got cancelled. He intended to break up with his new girlfriend. I finally learned that he never stopped dating the previous girlfriend, the one who he told me he wouldn't leave for anyone. The only reason he was with this new girl was because she's in love with him, and he could tell how miserable she was. He wanted to make her happy, so he began a relationship with her, whilst dating his previous girlfriend and having me on the side. Insane, is it not?
When he tried to break up with her, he couldn't do it. She pleaded with him, begged him not to leave her, he told me the look in her eyes, the fear, crippled him. I didn't know what to say. He still plans on leaving her, but he has to find a new way that won't hurt her so much. I asked him that when he broke up with her, what would happen then. He told me that he would eventually marry his previous girlfriend, the one too fragile to leave on her own, then one he can't leave. I sent him a sad face. He seemed confused. He thought that it was understood that even though we have something, he can't leave her. I knew this, I know this. I just want him to be happy. And that's what I told him. In response, he told me that that's the reason he has me.
On my emotional rollercoaster yesterday, I was so deeply negative, I wanted to add salt to the wound. I posted a status asking people to tell me if I've ever wronged them, if I've ever disappointed them. In my negativity, I, for some reason, just want to dig deeper into the sorrow, to sulk in all I've done wrong. No one commented. Who would? Scott told me, in chat, that he wasn't disappointed in me. That I made him happy. He said that I don't have to feel for him anymore than I do and that I don't have to tell him what I feel. He told me that our relationship wasn't a broken toy, that I'll see that it isn't and to keep my chin up.
Honestly, all I wanted was a hug from him. I find that hugs are the most comforting thing in the world and that it was all I wanted. But I couldn't have it and that only made me more sad.
Somehow, I am able to make him happy. I seem to be his escape from his fragile women. And yet, I seem to be the least satisfied. I'm unsure what to make of this. I have to be patient, I suppose. In two or three weeks, we'll be leaving for college together anyways, so if not now, it will be then.

Craving Something More

I vehemently believe that I'm not creative.
I can create things that no one can seem to imitate or even comprehend how it's done, but I don't see it as creativity.
Click here to see my art gallery.
I only call it art because other people do. Art should make you stop and stare at it, even if it's only a second. It should make your eyes wander over it. I don't think my art does that. It makes people say "Oh that's cool," and move on. It's only "cool" because I'm their friend and because they've probably never seen anything like it. I need to learn how to create my visions into a reality. Photoshop is something I'm pretty good at, but I'm not that talented. I know enough though. Even so, I don't have the patience to learn how to draw in photoshop. I'm one to take shortcuts.
My poetry is ok, I suppose. I keep hearing that it captures emotion well, or something of that sort, but it's not exactly what I feel. If anything, my emotion is understated. I could be feeling a fiery rage enough to light my keyboard on fire, but as I type my poetry, it's just a bit more than a smolder in my poetry.
However, how are my readers to know that? In my poetry, that's what it seems that I'm feeling.
I seem to lack the ability to translate what I see in my head to something I've created. It's my own fault for not trying harder. For not doing more to learn how to do this or that. However, I've learned that I'm not so bad at drawing a woman's profile, of their face that is. Shading is my weak point. To the untrained eye, you don't even notice it. To someone who knows art, well they can tell you that there needs to be more contrast and more shading.
I crave to do something less abstract, something more meaningful. Something I'd be proud to show someone. Is it sad that I've been getting more and more ashamed of my abstract art? That I've become less and less fulfilled with it?
If you talk to any artist who can draw something they see in a room in 10 minutes, they probably wouldn't see much fulfillment in it either. It was just a quick sketch to them. To others, it's detailed and captured the image perfectly. For me, every single one of those abstract artpieces took me about 10 minutes, some times more and most times less, and I find it frustrating that it's not the kind of art I want to create, but it's the only kind I'm good at.
Is it obvious I'm self pitying? I really can't help it. It's one of my character flaws. One of the many.
I ramble about the same old stuff don't I?
If not Scott, then college, if not college, than friends, if not friends than family, if not family than art.
Sometimes drivers ed too.
I suffer a life of monotony.
It could be worse. It could be a life of hardship.

First Post

So... this is the third blog I've made. I've already deleted one and am about to delete the other. I tend to lose interest quickly. Just call me HL or H.L. or Aych Ell or other variations of it haha.
I've called this blog "The Lonely Stalked Stalker" because I think it somewhat describes my current thoughts. I facebook stalk people all the time, though currently, my facebook has been deactivated. Why? Because I find it's easiest for me to get over drama or being hurt by friends to to completely block contact with them.
I had these three friends, they were great, lots of fun. Two of them where guys, one a girl so it was always the four of us. One of the guys worked at a movie theatre so we always watched movies for free almost every week, sometimes more than one movie at once. About two weeks ago, we all went to a neighboring state to spend three days at a teacher's cabin. That's when I finally realized what state our group was in. The four of us had become the three of them. I felt completely left out. When we got back in town, we went to see a movie. My dad got upset because I told him that we'd be home sooner than we had ended up being. We left later than intended. I then promised I'd be home in 30 minutes. The movie ended 20 minutes later. I'd asked my friends to drive me home. The other girl laughed and said she'd never heard me say I'd be in trouble before.
If anyone's reading this, understand that I consider my friends better than me. Harder working, more honest, purer, better than me. Also understand that I do not respect my mother whatsoever. So that's why she'd never heard me say I'd get in trouble. My dad isn't usually home due to his job and since my mother isn't a figure of authority to me, I don't listen to her.
In the end, I got home in an hour. I got a huge lecture about how my friends are bullshit, how he doesn't trust me, fun stuff like that. My dad, despite our opposing views, past drama and heartaches, I still find that what he says truly matters to me. He gave me, a seventeen year old that legally has no curfew, a 10 o'clock curfew, every night, weekend or weekday.
I went to my room and felt utterly upset and depressed. I didn't know if he was right. That my friends didn't care about me as much as I thought they did or if he was wrong to judge them because I've misled them to believe that I don't care about the authority of my parents.
Even if that didn't happen, I'd still be upset because I felt as though I was being squeezed out of my little group of friends. I haven't been happy in a while. I've been letting them affect my mood too much. Even when I deactivated my facebook so I couldn't see that they were still doing things without me. The three of them still hang out without me. I call them The Tricycle. Because of a poem I'd written about them in an attempt to get over my pain. It's called Wheels. It was futile because I'm still allowing them to affect my mood. They still make me sad when I think about them. Perhaps I'm being nostalgic.
Anyways.... back to the subject.... I was talking about why I'd named this blog "The Lonely Stalked Stalker." Oh yeah, I facebook stalk people. I also feel lonely this summer because I hardly talk to anyone. Without facebook, I feel a bit isolated in the world considering I used to be on facebook everyday, all day, of course I'd also be doing other things whilst having the facebook window up. And lastly the stalked part of the title. I'm not really stalked. I joke around with a friend that he watches me sleep at night. That's as close as I get.
I sometimes think that if the right stalker came along, they could totally be my best friend. I have a constant need for feedback, opinions, and to vent. I tend to hold it in because I know people don't need to know everything.
I think that's about it for tonight.
To those who've read, thanks for reading.