Tag Archives: real

Ouch.

Why don’t you just go home
‘Cause you channel all your pain
And I can’t help you go fix yourself
You’re making me insane…

~*~

I want to feel hurt

But I feel it in the wrong places

My weakness is curt

And I tear myself a new madness

.

I want to feel hurt

But when I do, I’m fucking reckless

I can’t control myself

And I always leave disfigured traces

.

I want to feel hurt

Like that was such a necessary skill

Dying is meaningless

And quickly fades out of initial thrill

.

I want to feel hurt

And I just want it to actually feel real

I don’t care for pain

I just want to know what it’s like to feel.

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The Weakness

And as I’ve aged, the only thing I think has changed
Is that the demons have moved from under my bed
Into the inner depths of my head
I can’t escape the ugly things my mind creates
I speculate that they’ll stay with me ’til the grave…

~*~

I scream to the wreck of my mind on my knees

Pray for death’s innocence for my untimely release

When the hurt is too little, the numb is too much

When I want to feel more but I’m just too detached

.

“The disease is not real, you have no right to be sad”

Their way of caring is not caring when I start to get bad

Waiting to understand, when every time is just a relapse

Swing the pendulum again until lines on my skin overlap

.

And their laughter becomes a never happily ever after

I escape in the bedroom with that ugly mocking mirror

When home feels like choking fingers around my throat

I splash my face with dreams to convince myself to cope

.

Thinking that someday soon I will be just who I want to be

But when I say the words, it just feels like lip-syncing to me

I’m on the brink of the bottomless cliff, but I refuse to jump

Because a fool is just another fool waiting for the right bump

.

So I scream to the wreck of my mind to grow some wings

And pray for life’s corruption for me to be finally released

When giving up is too easy, and it’s difficult to fucking hope

I cling to what little miserable faith I have and try not to let go.

~*~

I can’t help the way my mind
Is hardwired to hate myself
Is there any hope for me?
‘Cause I swear that this is hell
The way I desperately try to save myself
‘Cause I can’t save myself…

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brevity

i could be

eloquent

about the

graceless

pains i feel

but then why

should i hide

in the words

that make it

all too real?

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Filed under Poetry

¿ e m o t i o n s ?

i’m happy

like a ukulele tune

twinkly revelry

all the way to the moon

.

i’m depressed

like a relentless failure

finishing touches

of doubts and unsure

.

i’m excited

like a coffee adrenaline

over the clouds

and no artistry for serene

.

i’m anxious

like a falling red hole

no end seen

nor the starlight it stole

.

i’m this and that

i’m both and none

i’m blues and golds

i’m night and sun

.

i don’t know what

to think and feel

i’m still confused

on dream and real

.

so drag me higher

and fly me down

until i figure out

if i’ll smile or frown.

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Filed under Poetry

blood.letter.

those words

felt as if

they were

cutting into

me themselves…

so just what

is the better

difference

if i b l e e d ?

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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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Filed under Prose