Tag Archives: raw

open season

i have never told you a single thing

because i do not want you involved

i do not want you to get in the way

of such trainwreck i have devolved

if it was better for me, i would bite

they all say it’s what’s fucking right

but i know there’s not a damn point

there’s only cliche bullshit to anoint

of medication and invasive therapy

that leaves no personal room for me

and i do not want paid-for sympathy

nor will i waste my time for insanity

six years i’ve been dealing out alone

and i’m still alive right now, aren’t i?

i’ve done everything to keep it all in

fucked in the head with fucking lies

but i’m fighting back, broke apology

i cut my wrists, but never too deeply

i repress depression, relapse, release

i’ve people to pull me out of the seas

i still hope, i still dream, and i’ll love

i’m still disgustingly human by blood

i am damaged, but that does not mean

that i’m not trying to change anything

so please just stay away from this mess

and honestly, this is just all for the best

say it’s help my mind need endures, but

you just might end up making me worse.

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metal & skin (xxvii.)

fuck you

and your

high-flung

dramatic

opinions

you don’t

know shit

about all this

so just leave

me alone.

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The Emptiness

I feel at home with shadows from ghosts of the living
I dance along to melodies as silent choirs sing
I’m sick of always giving when there’s nothing left to lose
That place we’re in is breaking, it’s trying to break me too…

~*~

Another day, another death.

I wake up, empty. Tired to the very bone, despite the fact that I slept for more than ten hours. The bed feels so cosy and comfortable, as rain serenades the windowsill and cold morning air nips at my feet, luring me back into a dull oblivion. As usual, I don’t want to live. I don’t want to get out of my bed and function mechanically, feeling nothing but nothing. But I have obligations. Responsibilities. Projects and procrastinated homework. So I get up sullenly and do what I can. Do what I should. Brace myself through the freezing shower. Dress up, scarf down breakfast, flag down a vehicle, go to school, socialise, do things, and try to make it through another day.

I started the day feeling shitty as usual, but halfway throughout it, things were looking up. I finished my crammed essays. I made some write-ups and started a story that I’ve been raring to write for ages. I got to catch up with my bands. I helped classmates out, actually recited, accomplished my quizzes and seatworks, actively participated in class. I finally got the thing I’ve been excited to receive the entire weekend. I ate great food and hung out and laughed with fine friends. For once, this was an honest to god day where I acted like a proficient human being, where I didn’t act up and was not my usual dysfunctional self. I did everything right.

So why does everything feel so fucking wrong?

I ended the day running halfway to my house, after having a complete breakdown in the middle of the public city and making people have to put up with the wreck that I am, and unnecessarily infecting them with whatever sad fucking irrational bullshit I was going through. I ended up nearly getting ran over by a bus, nearly missing my bus stop, fucking crying on a goddamn bus as guilt and goddamn pain internally ran me over. I ended up lusting for my vices for the millionth time, for a razor and a pill to infest my system, dying to relapse, living to die. I ended up empty, tired, and unfulfilled, the same way I wake up everyday, and the same way I am as I go to sleep.

I thought all this was supposed to make you feel stronger and make you desire for a greater life, not feeling vulnerable and washed out by the sun, sitting in your dark bedroom, anxious and wallowing, curled up in your own contrition and regretting everything, heaving emptily as everything drains the energy out of your existence. In the end, everything, all of it, writing, reading, songs, bands, fandoms, obsessions, friends, love, emotions, momentary bouts of faux happiness and vigilant but futile hope, it’s just mere distractions in the end. All just stupid petty little distractions to make it seem like there’s actually a chance to change. A chance for something better. A fighting chance for me.

But when all those distractions falter and fade away, I’m always left feeling ten, twenty, fifty times more miserable and pathetic than before; flooding at the gaps in my memory, making the permanent patches in my skin ache, intensifying the taste of the fucking bitter sick on my tongue. And I’m sorry. I want to be optimistic. I want to accept those butterfly pastel mantras and keep the faith. I want to keep on keeping on. I want to fight back and achieve something for myself. I want to make people proud, and make those who were thought I’d never be alter their perception. I want to see the glass-half full, not shatter it because I’m disgusted of my own reflection. I want to change. I want to believe.

I never wanted this. But somehow I can’t do jack shit about it. The only change I can see in myself now is that I’ve become more shameless, more degraded, and more screwed up than before. Anxiety, harder-hitting depression, cutting, drugs, invalid pain, panic attacks, mental breakdowns, bad decisions, I am a picture-perfect smorgasbord of everything that should never be put together. And now I don’t even bother hiding it anymore. I’ve given up trying to counter it. I’ve given up. I’ll always be cynical, and I’m screwed in the head and all fucked-up. Life feels like a constantly looming death sentence, and I want to be my own executioner. Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.

And if things went the way they were supposed to be, and I acted properly, did things right, played by the rules for once, and lived a normal, happy, fulfilling day, and the ultimate end of it all is feeling exactly the same as when I do the exact opposite, feeling that same crappy screw-all depression running through my failing system and ruining everything for me, then fuck it, what’s the point of even trying?

Why should I bother looking for something that isn’t even there?

~*~

I built these walls to keep the outside world from me
And I’ll fight to stay in the hell of my own mind
It’s safer on the inside, underneath where
You can’t ever get to me…

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give (up)

i’m tired

of the way

i have to

force myself

to live

(i just want

to hang

out my pulse

and stop)

.

i don’t know

just how

much i

have left

to give

(but i know

it’s not

going to be

enough).

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Problem Child

I’m hot, and when I’m not, I’m cold as ice
Get out of my way, just step aside
Or pay the price; what I want, I take
What I don’t I break, and I don’t want you…

~*~

Oh, problem child

You’ll never be worth

The trouble of anything

You cause your ma shame

And your pa’s in his grave

Still truculently screaming

.

Oh, problem child

You’re just another one

Of those wasted offspring

Ma’s beginning to cry again

And pa tells you you’re nothing

But misery and disappointing

.

Oh, problem child

Why do you have to be so

Rebellious and problematic?

Ma tries to teach you manners

As pa rudely hits you with his

Belt for talking back to him

.

Oh, problem child

We ask endlessly, just where

Did we ever go wrong with you?

Ma’s praying for your black soul

As pa tosses your bags scattering

And he’s sending you a’ packing

.

Oh, problem child

“Grow up; your life’s but a sorry mistake

And you will never amount to anything.”

That’s what your ma and pa and all your

Sneering siblings keep saying, and it’s the

Only advice you’re obediently following.

~*~

I’m a problem child
I’m a problem child, yes I am
I’m a problem child
And I’m wild…

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amico

i wouldn’t

call you

simply a

friend,

honestly—

you’re so

much more

to fit in

such a weak

category.

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Second chances, they don’t ever matter

I’m an impossible person, a total mess

I haven’t got any clue

I lose my grips on foolish contrivances

That much is all true

But I found someone, a damaged man

Though I never knew

You are the only one who understands

And now I lost you too.

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Mütter

This hasn’t been your year. Matter of fact, not a single year in your forty plus years of living, minus a several tenths for when we didn’t exist yet, has been quite too fulfilling. And understandably, it’s been a rough ride. You’ve been flying this journey Lindbergh solo for five years and counting now, and you weren’t always locked and loaded, and the machinery was not always all systems go, and the weather was not always clear. We’ve been ungrateful bastards who act like sweet-smelling pink roses intertwining around you with pretty innocent smiles, and then we bury our lacerating thorns deep in your steel-plated chest until we hit flesh and you bleed. We’re irresponsible lazy creatures, we get that, we refuse the simplest of chores, saying no to refilling the water bottles after downing the entire one litre liquid in one gulp, or slam dunking our filthy dishes in the overflowing sink and then denying appraisal over doing the washing-up. We grate on your nerves at the worst time when they’re already stretched to their limits, and we pull at them until you snap. We’ve been disappointing and apathetic, and you can only scream and reprimand so much before your worn-out voice and the fingers you crossed breaks. We’re no good, and vexingly frustrating, and annoyingly juvenile, and seemingly hopeless and futile…just like any other stupid nose-picking kid out there who needs guidance and care in the gentle yet sturdy hands of a parent. You simply wanted the best for the worst, and some due indemnity and pride, and to set your wayward children on the proper path, not into the ocean horizon to drown in sovereign failure, but onwards beyond the sunset to discover the way and amass all the lights in the sky. Someday, that’s a promise to be fulfilled. But for now, we remain your stupid bumbling companions, building bridges to last longer than London Bridge and making memories on a photo album (or selfies, as the cool millennials say or whatever, since you seem to be more connected with my generation than I can ever be). I feel faintly terrible that after all that you did for us, for me alone, I wasn’t able to get you anything decently celebratory or did anything to make this one hell of a day, except for a greeting card written with a dying marker on used tissue that says ‘congration you done it’, an IOU written on paper ripped off carelessly on the side of a notebook that entitled you to an entire day of my silence (valid on May 14, 2017 only), and doing the aforementioned chores which I should be doing on a daily regular basis anyhow, so I can only offer with what I do best—getting drunk. Oh no wait, that’s a different thing innit, that’s rubbish. I meant to say writing (although the best is not even good, to be bluntly frank). You out of all people needed a cheer upper and a break, and I out of all people should be the one giving you such things. So, here it is. And despite you begrudgingly commenting it several times today, no, the universe does not always conspire against you. Sometimes it’s me who does.

I took the time to write all this down because (besides the fact that I am equal amounts bored and sleep-deprived, which is like 95% of the time, but whatever) despite all the bickering arguments and thermonuclear meltdowns and endless disputes we’ve rivalled against, we’ve also had amusing stories and extraordinary journeys together and silly banter over cups of freshly brewed coffee, and I would like you to know that there’s still someone who cares, that this anxiety-ridden, book hoarding, show obsessing, loud satanic music blasting, three AM screaming, rebellious blue-haired loser with the problem child attitude, a death stare and eyebags thicker than Billie Joe Armstrong and Gerard Way’s eyeliner combined, the general behaviour of a mental patient diagnosed with schizophrenia and severe ADHD, and having the irritating tendency to not reply unlike a complete rhetorical sarcastic twat without getting allergic to formalities, is, insert dramatic Psycho violin chord here, surprise surprise! A sentient being capable of being a sappy little bitch (you may proceed to gasp and wipe away your tears with my greeting card after scolding me for using an expletive). My particular thorn in question is a raging problem that has left a scar tissue in your heart more times than the other roses you’ve cultivated, and still you don’t water my roots with poison laden concoction and shear my stem off ruthlessly with my own disturbing scissor collection to off me and get rid of the nuisance; instead, you spritz my face with more fertiliser, tentatively remove the weeds that stunt my development as it chokes me, and you help me continue to grow. I’m beginning to stop making sense here, and this is getting too sentimentally personal, and you would most likely whale on me the next morning for staying up late because we have to go to school tomorrow to clean up or some crap, so I’m very sorry for all my tribulations and for a million sins (yes, the fact that I decided to tactlessly blast out Mama on full loudspeakers on such a particular day included, whoops), and a thank you, more genuine than pirate gold and your signatures in the excuse letters I forged, for being here all the while and being a total headstrong badass about it. Okay, no, I can’t say the god forbidding L word yet *shudders*, but maybe I’ll save that for a later, less awkward prospect (what is with all the excessive L words in that sentence though?!). Here’s me paying my side of the dice. Thank you for everything and a gazillion virtues, and then some.

Happy mother’s day.

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Souvenir Youth

Not so innocent
On the street hustling
Never be Miss America
In the backseat of a Celica
Crashing with a deadbeat
Living large on a love seat
In a small town, no scene
Turns out it was a pipe dream…

~*~

Daddy’s little princess

Moonlighting as a crack whore

In the dirty streets of LA dark

Her body is a dollar store

And her boyfriend paints her

With bruises every single night

And she cries in her sleep

And smiles at desperate dikes

Mummy’s little champ

With a joint and a tramp

And he earns his rolling dough

With illegal backdoor grow

And he hates his fucking life

And he beats up his wife

And his children are wasted

For luxuries they haven’t tasted

Little Princess and the Champ

Now that they’re all grown up

Saw the harsh reality of the world

As their innocence has burned

And it isn’t all just pink glitter tiaras

And it isn’t all just golden trophies

And sometimes they grow up to be

Just like their mummies and daddies.

~*~

Expectations
Go to hell
Prom Queen, Miss America
In the backseat in a pair of cuffs…

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