Tag Archives: exist

Places In My Veins

I’ll lower your body down into an open grave 
And let the vultures have their way with you
We’ll take you by surprise and spill your blood like wine
Scarlet stains upon the flesh will end the night…

~*~

There’s a place for my pulse

Somewhere within my wrists

But no matter how hard I try

I can’t figure out where it is

.

I’ll rest my head in a sea of nightmares

And drown looking for a sweeter dream

I’ll marry a liar just to find out the truth

High on the promise, low on self-esteem

.

And the haze is piercing my blacktop heart

Latent vortex swirling in a negative universe

Rotting with the blindness that I call my eyes

Hides the blood of another paralysing curse

.

There’s a place for the vaguer beat of my soul

Somewhere under my skin, between my wrists

But no matter how many deep incisions I make

I simply can’t seem to find it; does it even exist?

~*~

Everything you say rings hollow
But you will tell your stories again and again
Sell your half-truths with a smile
Take and inject it, inject it!

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Bleeding Eyes See It All

Every second’s soaked in sadness
Every weekend is a war
And I’m drowning in the déjà vu
We’ve seen it all before
I don’t wanna do this by myself
I don’t wanna live like a broken record
I’ve heard these lines a thousand times…

~*~

it doesn’t stay the same

every shredded inch

is just another reason for

you to patch it up and change

just so your bleeding eyes

could do some further damage

.

every lie soaking you in

they say it’s just a futile war

and the darkness is a myth

but you’ve seen it with your

own bleeding eyes, so you

know that it actually exists

.

and they tipped the avalanche

that buried you deep under

but refused to take responsibility

pushing your head underwater

but your own bleeding eyes

have seen it all before

.

and it doesn’t stay the same

every invoice on your shredded arms

is just another pathetic excuse for

you to erase it and start over

until your bleeding eyes could

shed their shallow tears no more.

~*~

We should feel the love so painfully
It hurts right to the touch
I know it stings, I know this cuts
And I wish I could agree with you
But this love is not enough.

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I personally prefer bleach to whiskey or wine.

“And do you really trust your tongue or did you bury the taste?
And is this fantasy real, or is it all home-made?”

~*~

And they don’t know

how many times

i hated myself over

the colour of my eyes

l a c k u s t re

g l o s s e d – o v e r

d u l l e d

by a ton of medications

that i take ironically

to bring a blush into my cheeks

some shade into my flesh

and yet the pastel pink

is far too bright

like it’s drawn on with a crayon

by a colourblind child

but no matter what i take

my blood remains the same hue

diluted into a disgusting

watercolour painting

and i have to create artworks with it

every time i cough

and every time i can’t go to sleep

they all say it’s

d i s g u s t i n g

s e l f i s h

a l m o s t  i n h u m a n

and i know, believe me

i know it better than anyone else

you don’t have to tell me again

the voices in my head

do a better job of telling me

but with every decrepit strand of hair

that falls off my deforested scalp

is another count of another hour

no—another minute

that i continue to waste oxygen

in this faultless fucking world

so i knock back my codeine

and i slowly close the

flickering bathroom lights

avoiding my pale judging gaze

on the toothpaste-stained mirror

as i leave to

continue existing in

w o r t h l e s s

f u t i l e

e n d l e s s  c y c l e s

of this monochrome facsimile

drinking it all in

and hating myself again

over the colour of my eyes,

how it doesn’t have any.

i don’t want to live anymore

and yet i simply hate myself far too much

to even attempt to end my misery

and so it goes.

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Picnics in Cemetery Weather

And your beautiful boy won’t wait for you
Because he’s busy with the stars and the fame
And I don’t know why I breathe
It’s taking too long for me
Can we speed up the process please?
But show me the one I need…

~*~

Vindicated reveries I swallowed down again

Intervals of distorted depictions that harshly glow

Condescending sensations bruise my heart

Tantialising and reminiscent, yet arrogantly so

Obsequious whims that won’t let me speak

Releasing profanities in a dead language, I seek

Valiance and candour, your voice is but a faint pulse

In which I can never fathom how to exist without

Neurotic spills of pain preventing this blood overflow

Colliding your star-laced firmament with my tenebrific doubt

Emollience of your elegance, almost a kaleidoscopic song

Neverminds I attempted to hazard into a remorseful clandestinity

Truculent tantrums terrifying, as cemetery weather rages on

Forever’s not a problem for you, so I’ll wait for you and listen to eternity.

~*~

I need somebody (somebody)
Somebody crazy enough to tell me
“I will love you ’til we..”
I will love you ’til we are buried
Our bodies (our bodies)
Our bodies buried close together
Cemetery weather…

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on recitation #1

attempting to participate

in recitation can be

just a total bitch

because no matter how

tired my raised arms

get, apparently i just

don’t fucking exist.

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See Jane

Jane was taught many things throughout the course of her life. Jane was taught to be a good girl to mummy and daddy. Jane was taught to say her prayers and obey what she was told to do. Jane was taught to clean herself up and clean up after herself. Jane was taught to do her straight auburn hair up in ribbons and pigtails, polish her red maryjane shoes into a dazzling shine, and wear her best cotton pastel dresses. Jane was taught to walk with proper posture, smile gracefully, speak in a soft feminine voice, and to go about with tasks in an elegant finesse. Jane was taught to learn her academic lessons well at the private all-girls catholic school she was attending, and as well as her weekly lessons about faith and God at Sunday class in the town church. Jane was taught not to play too roughly, never to join the bad flock of black sheep, and to generally stay out of trouble. Jane was taught to be polite, friendly, amiable, and to be approachable and presentable. Simply put, Jane was trained to be a perfect girl, and she was taught to love it.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was the epitome of nice. Jane was the classic textbook example of the girl next door; charming, demure, a bonny maiden with a beautiful appearance and personality, living a scripted, sterile, storybook suburban life. Jane was a starchild, excelling in everything and anything, always at her best. Jane was sociable, had lots of friends and could easily make new acquaintances. In the morning, among the company of people, she was quite pleasant, a darling sweetheart in the glossed-over, uncrutinising eyes of the faceless neighbours. See Jane greet. See Jane traipse. See Jane dance. See Jane laugh. See Jane wave. See Jane smile. See Jane happy. But alas, that was the full extent of their limited perception. To them, Jane could be summed up in positive words less than three syllables long. They could never see the actual Jane, dark and complicated. They couldn’t glare past the cracks of the well-practised façade, and take a gander at the real version that’s not made of plastic skin and porcelain eyes, refusing to see the truth of the perfect girl that barely sleeps at night. See Jane depressed. See Jane grit her teeth. See Jane scream. See Jane self-harm. See Jane feel empty. See Jane strut mechanically. See Jane do drugs. See Jane muffle her crying on her pillow. See Jane as a complete fucking mess.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was taught many things in the course of her short life. Be this, be that, don’t do this, don’t do that, Jane never learned to think for herself. Simply put, Jane was brainwashed to be the perfect girl, and she absolutely hated it. In the end, it was not Jane with the fault, she was only the innocent victim. Rather, it was her guardians, her teachers, who missed a crucial lesson that might have saved Jane from self destruction. For Jane was only taught to exist, but she was never taught to live. Teeming alongside the controversy now, the very same life enveloping death that the multitudinous attendees are currently buzzing with. The haughty crowd, all clad in black garb, then proceeds to judge Jane with whispered huffs, gossiping under thin walls and blabbering behind paper fans hatefully, shaking their heads condescendingly with a chorus of tsk-tsk’s, saying stories and telling tall tales about how Jane was such an amazing girl, it’s such a waste Jane had to go this way, Jane always seemed cheerful and no one ever saw it coming, I remember that one time Jane…, Jane will be missed, nothing but senseless argot and unapologetic bereavement. Today, everyone mourned. But today, everyone also saw an accurate glimpse of Jane for the first time, and unfortunately, for the very last.

See Jane die.

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A Mad Boy’s Love Letter

(Written as a reciprocal to Sylvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song. A poor reciprocation notwithstanding, but nevertheless, carry on.)

~*~

Charm that allures in whim

A grandiose wicked scheme

Deluding myself in dalliance

Chemical love, not romance

T’was my best man, insanity

Blackness simpers arbitrary

I dream a castigated fantasy

Pray judge such not harshly

.

If both lips existed out there

Then heaven, it must be rare

If you mayn’t one so tangible

Then hell, it may be beautiful

The stars, t’were yours alone

Though you needn’t bemoan

We shall carry our revelry on

To hanging gardens Babylon

.

I promised I will return warm

And collapse in abstract arms

Yet tragedy, it reared its face

My name was already erased

I mightn’t be the thunderbird

Roaring to my springtime girl

Rather a demigod, a faded blue

Making the world drop for you

.

For nay was I a corporeal creation

I lacked in belief to conjure it long

Without you love, I would be dead

(Or was it simply all inside my head?)

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