Monthly Archives: July 2018

Gossamer

Here’s to the boy with flowers for hands

And a voice that sounds like fair weather clouds

Sending angels down the darkest of stands

And tranquil oxygen that ensconces and enshrouds

Here’s to the child with oceans for smiles

And a soul that plays like a perfect eventide reverie

Keeping powerless, the brightest of minds

A wind chime caught in a breeze, the only song for me.

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midnight run

i don’t deserve

your bullshit

and the pants you

couldn’t keep on

so next time

do us all a favour

and fucking walk

your shame back home.

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I Don’t See It

Give me a moment to burn

So I could learn to stay awake

If I had planets inside my lungs

I wouldn’t ever let them turn

.

And I’m making paper cranes

Out of magazines and yellow pages

Pushing back the future I thought

I’ve been building high for ages

.

The authenticity can grow tiring

And the static channels memerising

But I can only wait and wilt again

Feeling thorns wrap around my skin

.

So just show me what you meant

When the promise entered my brain

Like another bad syringe injection

But with a higher dose of pain

.

So I could stop burning dishonestly

For the sake of asking for bad company

If I had room for faith inside the sun

I’d keep it in the dark—that way, it’s more fun.

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win, win, lose

one step

forward

and two

steps back

you did

what you

can carry

and the rest

is up to me.

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Ruby Woo

Sit around waiting for the spark to fade
You can add another face to your pity parade
I can’t believe it, I’ve never felt so cheated
Knock me down, it was all pretend
You set me back up just to do it again…

~*~

I hope that you’re proud

Making fun of the boys on the street

That bruised their knees

And couldn’t get back up again after

While you swallow yourself

Whole, lipstick girl with a lipstick heart

Defending her own jealous

“I’ll be happy forever and ever and ever”

.

I hope that you’re proud

For making fun of the people that couldn’t

Stitch their lungs as well

As you probably thought you fucking did

While no air leaves your

Open lips, lipstick girl with a lipstick brain

Pretending that her beauty

Is nothing more than an ugly kind of pain.

~*~

What am I supposed to do, uh oh
When she’s so damn cold, like twenty below?
That girl, that girl, she’s such a bitch
I tell myself I can handle it…

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A Monomaniac’s Mess

The smell of bleach is strong on my hair, on my hands, on my skin. It spills into my burning chest and bleeds methane all over my viscera, rending me apart, inside-out first. The vivid crimson, it seems, was not reserved for my dyed hair alone. It spread madly. All over my cheeks and my arms and my heart. I saw it coming. But I didn’t jump out of the way to avoid it. And now I’m falling fast. I always thought I was falling for something, but turns out, I was just…falling. Everywhere. Somewhere. Nowhere.

My head is in a new kind of hell right now.

Scratch that actually, since it’s more of a purgatory. An in-between of a restless plague. I don’t fucking know what it is. I really want to be happy for them—please trust me when I say that I sincerely am—and my toothy grin and rather frenetic disposition spells out h-a-p-p-y in capital letters, but my heavily-breathing chest hurts in ways that gravity couldn’t even begin to imagine, and I feel so physically sick of myself that I’ve found myself stumbling to the bathroom and violently rejecting the contents of my stomach more than once. I feel sorry. I feel excited. I feel peaceful. I feel guilty. I feel both paradise and inferno. All that in a span of five seconds before it cycles back up again and screws me up. I’d honestly rather be in hell, because at least I’ll know what to feel there. But in this perdition? It’s an endless stretch of grey. The point where everything and nothing meets. The middle of the middle.

The food is tasteless. The air is coldly warm. Even the music feels somehow numb now.

Why am I even experiencing this? How dare I have even the frayed-out nerve to feel betrayed, when the traitor doesn’t even know my name exists? I’m all fucked up. It’s all fucked up. Fuckin’ A. I don’t deserve this. And I don’t mean that in an “I’m innocent, I haven’t done anything wrong!” kind of fashion, no. I literally don’t deserve to have these emotions. They’re not mine. They were never mine to have, never mine to keep, never even mine to give in the first place, and somewhere at the back of my bluntly-logical mind I always knew that. But I somehow chose the cheap seats upfront and foolishly deluded myself to believe ever so fervently in a phantom’s ludicrous lie. Sooner or later, the ghosts would have to fade away. Everyone would have to laugh at the final act. Someone would have to reveal the deceitful trick to the gullible fool. And now I weep. And now I suffer. And now I fucking hurt. As if it was mine. Selfish, selfish human being.

I would rather be heartless than a poet, because at least I don’t have to wrench out every melodramatic word and verse from either severe tragedy or comedy. At least I don’t have to think and overthink, analysing every single thing like it would even matter at all in the end. At least I don’t have to feel pain just to feel pain. Just so I could write something, because I’ll never be capable of having normal sentiments without intensifying them a million times until it starts to hurt; until I could clearly pick it out from the thousands of other wretched demons indistinctly squirming around in the cesspool of my mind and dance with it for countless infinities until my body burns away. And I really fucking wish that I have absolutely nothing to do with love. The word. The concept of it. The meaning of it. The triteness of it. The very goddamn feeling of it. Somehow, it’s the only kind of pain in the world that’s socially and universally acceptable. Why? Because it keeps our species alive and well, of course. And destroys the rest of us along with it.

I fucking hate it. I fucking hate that I’m a constant victim to it. And I fucking hate that I keep crawling back to it so mindlessly and desperately, bruises and broken bones and wartime wounds and all. It makes me feel bad. It makes me want to feel bad. But what I hate the most is that I don’t want to forget it—to ever forget any of it. I just want to forget myself. Even for just a while. Can I please do that? Please?

Just break away from your brain. Cut all the ties loose and break away from it, like you always do when every repressed problem comes back up to fill the anxious void in those momentarily interludes of emptiness. Just…break away from yourself.

But this time, don’t come back from it.

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Eighteen Years and Twenty-Somethings

I want to throw my irrational fears down my favourite set of stairs

And fade away the wounds that once defined my unsteady hands

I want the chance to breathe without polluting my lungs with ashen doubts

Drag me out of the skin I’ve beaten within until they can understand

.

So take the breakdowns that broke me up and replace the faulty intuition

The devil on my shoulder won’t compare to the angels in the television

Hang up on this week-long hangover and stop hanging my neck by the rafters

Still deluded by bad choices and old mementos and happy ever afters

.

The kids are not alright these days, and their clothes are stained with sad

But I didn’t think I know that I knew until I have it bleeding out and bent-up bad

So there’s a little cold weather, that’s gonna get a little better, maybe there’s a little sun

Maybe it just doesn’t exist in my head, maybe my moon will have someone

.

So maybe hope doesn’t belong to me just yet, and these noisy voices won’t shut up

Maybe I’m suffering from silent anxiety, shot through the ceiling, it won’t stop

But this time I won’t let it win, I’ll catch it by the tail and let myself spin

Spiraling all the way to space, I’ll crawl through constellations until I find that something.

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overmining

It’s funny how
Things work out
Such a bitter irony
Like a kick right
To the teeth…

~*~

your rich words

are as good as gold

mimic the wrong

that’s what you’re told

your cheap words

are too overused and old

but that’s the only

thing your mouth can hold.

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Knight Bright

I close my eyes

And all I see is purple

Like chewed gum

Or a pouting mouth

Trying to prove its point

Unsure of what to say,

It stutters and breaks

Into a torn-up smile—

Speaking like gasoline

Falling apart like an adjective

And dreaming like I’m not

Hurt by the seasick hope

And the disgrace in my blood

Rushing all the way to my

Face; the broken blush

Playing my madness in g sharp,

Counting the seconds until

I can close my eyes again

To see that purple mouth

Twisted up into a kiss.

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tumbler

this utter chaos

gives me a headache

and so many mistakes

it’s such a complete mess

.

but i asked for it

and i got what i paid for

and all of this is even more

than what i need for happiness.

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