Tag Archives: vent

Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from my own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combo my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, but invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Jouska (pointless monologue)

Closed doors, locked in, no keys
Keeping my feelings hidden
There is no ease, I need it to stop
And I want to be able to open up but
My feelings are fatal…

~*~

This much, I know, we will never be alone together.

I couldn’t ever bring myself to attempt to catch up

With you; quietly fearing this trembling uncertainty of

Completely tiring myself down with the futile chase

Only to find out that I arrived in dead-set last place,

So I’ll just allow you to leave me behind instead, as it is.

It just feels like the more happiness you’re getting,

The less of you I could have for myself—and though

I can’t and won’t deprive you of the things you’ve fully

Well deserved for a long time, I also can’t stop

Myself from being such a selfish machine, stupidly

Begging for something far beyond my taut reach,

Inadvertently trapping myself and wailing in anguish

When I have to chew at my own leg just to get out of it—

I just can’t stop myself from giving a damn about you.

But I guess that’s fine. You will never find me out anyway, and

Even if short-lived and shortsighted, I still dearly cherish

What little euphoric glimpses I had of your attention, even

If it meant nothing, I only wish nothing but the very best for you,

And I could only hope that this teaches me a final lesson;

One last acrid pill to swallow, hope I don’t choke this time,

No more. I could only ever endure too much. Please. Not anymore.

The more you feel alive, the more I slowly wither away inside,

But I couldn’t hate you for that. I could never hate you at all…

It’s not your fault I keep fucking losing control of myself.

~*~

How many times must I keep it inside
I need to let go and I swear that I’ve tried
But opening up means trusting others
And that’s just too much, I don’t want to bother
So I’ll keep it inside and bury it deep
I know it’s not healthy, but you won’t hear a peep…

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Filed under Poetry

Call me a sweet tropical fruit smoothie, ’cause I wanna put my thick head through a fucking blender (and other neurotic diatribes)


ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴺᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵃ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ
ᴶᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃˡˡ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉˢ
ˢᵗᵃᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ʸᵒᵘ
ᴿᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢʷᵉᵃʳ ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ
ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ·


The very first time I talked about not talking about things, I hypothesised regarding my sheer inability to open up more and stupidly concluded that perhaps it was one of my greatest weaknesses (yeah, disgustingly yucky, I know). But after a couple years, several hundred other pretentious, maundering posts, and far too much obnoxious, exhausting drama with the wrong people later, I’ve come back with a better understanding of my overbearing privacy and to refute my initial statement. Because oh boy, was I ever right and wrong. Right in the sense that I was right to keep most things to myself, and wrong in ever thinking that that was inherently going to be a bad thing for me.

But before anything else, I would like to go on record and say that this is not targeted at anyone or anything specific. It’s just a crude pastiche of all the incredibly-minor annoyances that’s been silently digging into my brain these past few years, thoroughly compiled into another off-the-rails rant that no one really cares about. It’s therapeutic for me because my broke, third-world, lower middle-class arse can’t afford actual therapy, so y’all have to cut me some kind of slack for that, right? Pretty pretty please with a xanax on top? And really, this is just what happens to the degraded brain of someone who hasn’t interacted with anyone (and I do literally mean any other human being, this is not another piss-poor attempt at severe exaggeration) besides their damned, suffering cat for almost a month now. Long story short (but it’s only ironically about to get longer), there is no personal vitriol intended in this for anyone except myself, and getting affected by it is beyond my liability at this point. And please for the love of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s second head, do take everything I write down with half a grain of salt because these are just my personal angry, self-sabotaging, misanthropic opinions and it should never have to apply to everyone else. Alright, moving on.

Here’s the thing, then. Attempting to make connections in *that* extreme personal way, i.e. talking about literally everything to someone no matter how trivial or private the topic, is a very dangerous minefield to tread. And it’s not as if you could even tell if the person on the other side is completely willing to reciprocate it. Most of the time, you’ll come out of it barely alive with your intestines casually hanging out your bloody camos and wanting of a few limbs here and there, and all the exhausting effort you undertook will simply feel unnecessarily pyrrhic. Risking a thousand detonating devices for maybe possibly not really just one or two fake diamond bullets to shoot yourself in the foot with??? Wow, sounds like a fucking steal to me! And believe me when I say I’ve been there far too often than I’m proud to admit, otherwise I’d still be out there, blindly trying to convince myself to get my entire spinal column blown off to high heavens like forbidden enamel popcorn, just one last time for the sweet hell of it. Advice: save yourself and the other man and keep some defunct minefields in your pocket all for yourself, please. And make sure it doesn’t accidentally jostle or fall out and make you another fool’s casualty. Or if all else fails, just chuck it back to their smug sneers and take cover. Effective, and at least you won’t get hurt.

Here’s how the grueling cycle usually goes: slowly open up about deeper things, some people suddenly arrive, it’s all mac and cheese and good Kraft-brand bliss for a while, but they start overstaying their welcome, cause a lot more petty tantrums and inane misunderstandings as they end up tracking dirt and mud all over your already-messy mind, all before ungraciously storming away from you and never showing their face ever again outside of sleepless nights and cringeworthy memories—but not before knocking down every vase and window and fragile ornament in the house, just for good measure. All you’re going to be left with is more unresolved issues to clean up after and a stranger’s pile of secrets that you don’t have a use for anymore. And worst case scenario, some stranger out there now has your secrets that they might just intend to use to their own means. Not in every case of course, when these things come to a colliding head with a thermonuclear meltdown, it should be for the best for both parties to simply leave things behind and move on. But there’s just far too many entitled, patronising, self-pitying, victim card-holding, choosing beggars out there who would burn the entire solar system to offer their utmost trust and concern to you, just to do a complete 180° as soon as they start to sweat when the climate feels awry, and finally twist your head off and dance on your cremated remains. The sad part of this is, there’s sometimes a strange, lingering, irritating urge to crawl back and have a second go on the classic human burn machine for old times sake, just to fuck things over colossally again ad nauseum. I’d soon as well rather fend off for myself and get well hammered in an Applebee’s carpark at 3 AM on Sunday and throw up in someone’s drive-through meal and get beaten up to a fleshy pulp just to entirely avoid all that nonsense, ta very much. And several well-intended shots of tonic and Robitussin to wash off the terrible hangover aftertaste would also be such a fine treat. Bottoms up, lads.

Also notice that most (keyword is most here folks, I swear I’m not that entirely heartless. yet.) of the longest-standing friends I currently have are the ones that are more so cheery fun and mucking around with each other, and little to no excess baggage dumping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, I do love that rather silly, affectionate, no-strings-attached sort of tango about them, and I highly appreciate my friends for still putting up with me even when I’m an insufferable prick. I’m always there for them even if that sounds terribly subversive, all that sappy yet genuine stuff and so forth. But even then, I’m already beginning to lose grasp of them as I start to think that I’m irredeemably unworthy for them, as they grow up to find newer people and lead better lives and my crummy puzzle piece falls away from their bigger picture, as I realise just how much I never really knew them at all. Back to professional-level sterile kind of friendship, almost. Soon enough it’ll all just be mass-produced cheesy Hallmark greeting cards every birthdays and Christmas and the occasional awkward water cooler small talk about Chad and Stacey and paramour Davie from the next street maybe having their fifteenth baby whenever we run into each other. Welcome to adulthood, bellend. Everyone’s too busy to care.

Even my oh-so kindhearted family’s been doing their very best recently to try to blatantly alienate me and stay out of my way. I say blatant, and I mean every time someone even tries to reluctantly approach my room, they have a twisted grimace poised on their pious faces like they have their own bleached arsehole hairs stuck in between their fingernails and couldn’t wash it out because I greedily took all the soap in the house and shoved it down my filthy trachea. Not to mention my doting mother’s Oscar-worthy pantomime of her third child’s pure nonexistence since two weeks ago for no particular discernible reason, not to use a dead meme but bitch I got Thanos-snapped out of her dense spacy braincells innit. Maybe because of my shallow, repressive, self-absorbed problems, maybe because they just can’t be bothered anymore after 19 years of being forced to put up with my emo angsty horseshite, maybe because more and more they’re resenting the festering fact that I’ve really done nothing good for them ever since I was forcibly carved out of my mum’s belly like a sentient tumour. Yeah, thanks, ’cause I fucking begged to be here guys, I totally wouldn’t want to be aborted off into Satan’s left armpit if I had the choice. Alright, distasteful tangents aside, the point is that there is simply no solace in talking to anyone anymore. Everyone’s got their own worries and difficulties they’re trying to work through, so what makes your pathetic fucking trauma any more special than theirs? Don’t be a whinging pussy about it. Be like the rest. Suck it up and deal.

If there’s one thing I’m finally starting to learn about life after years and years of idiotically bumbling about contrived people and repeating the same embarrassing mistakes, it’s to just shut it the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Complain quietly. Cry where no one can see you. Indulge in a hundred distractions and vices and coping mechanisms if it would give you some form of relief. Scream at a wall, at a black void, on the internet towards apathetic, faceless pixels who won’t give half a washed-up mermaid’s fishy twat if you killed yourself with some cheap petrol and a blowtorch immediately the next day, before deleting it forever. Hide your abrasive goddamn scars behind a million layers of whatever because who honestly wants to see that grotesque attention-seeking slut (slut is me I guess), and put on a grand show of your useless life if you really need to. There’s absolutely no use in broadcasting emotions and airing out your dirty laundry—except perhaps beyond an occasional societally-acceptable grumble about some trivial matters—anymore. Unless of course, if you’re paying someone thousands of dollars per session for it. Ohhh, what a fucking fantasy.

I do get that it’s nice to have an occasional deep conversation with someone every now and then and I will never mind that sort of refreshing discussion with the right company, but hey, just don’t expect to teeter close to the edge and walk out bone dry, is all. And don’t even think for a second that you could always just dip a tentative toe in whenever you so blithely wish, without one day accidentally slipping and drowning on your own blatant folly; and all before stupidly dragging in the other person with you because your untied shoelaces are so incredibly entangled up with each other. So for both your benefit and for the others, deception and suppression is an acquired skill that might feel rather counterproductive at first, but soon becomes a normalised, familiar, welcoming change all in due time. I don’t know about you, but permanent numbness is better than perpetually-constant sensory overload. That, to me, is the definition of engineered paradise. Call it jaded, cynical, poisonous thinking, grab your violently-optimistic torches and pitchforks and scream hellfire while shivving it straight into my shrieking throat for being overtly negative, but damn, that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s more realistic than simply tossing a rusty bottlecap in an old empty well and wishing for the opposite until your fingers bleed out and your jaws seize up from tetanus. If you’re irreversibly tired of existence anyway, might as well just use that to your highest advantage.

So please, just no more flimsy, annoying, uncomfortable support systems gingerly patting each other on the back like fragile little prissy snowflakes for being ‘oh-so brave’. No more “please go find someone to talk to!” bullshit and other sickeningly banal reassurances. No more actively seeking out extremely toxic codependent relationships in hopes of finding temporary comfort and false redemption, and being dumbly surprised when it all starts to inevitably fall apart. It might work for some people in very certain situations and good on them for seeking help in the proper places, I’m not going to condescendingly lambast them for that, but I just personally find that it’s simply always easier to deal with everything alone. And if you can’t do even that much, then well…at least no one’s going to miss you.


ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᶦᵍⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵗᵗᵉᵈ ˡᶦⁿᵉ
ᴰᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˀ
ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ
ᵂᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᶦˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ
ᴵᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ
ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒʷ·


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Filed under Prose

Note to self

(just a bit of gormless self-indulgent whinging, nvm)

Continue reading

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Filed under Other stuff

so what was it that you were hoping for?

just an instantaneous reprieve

i still piss myself off with the thought

that it wouldn’t matter if i worry

you’re just a pretty name on paper

and my stuttering pen refuses to bleed

so my head does all the purging

again and again and i want it to be fine

even if i’m inconsequentially yours

because you’ll never find me out

i’m too shaded but i can’t cool it off

blindsided by your automatic ideas so

i guess i’ll apologise under my breath

every night, just before you save my

nightmares and leave the brake in

your clutch, ripped off like the breaks

in my heaving ribs, mouthing sorry

over and over and i’m not over it

i’ll never be fucking over it anyway

is that all you want? don’t even bother

i’m just the mirror you’re pointing at

and i’m just mimicking your baby eyes

it’s exhausting to let it glint all day

but who will care? you’re the best that

it gets, and i’m half as worse as i will get

and we’re all just a bunch of broken bodies

seemingly set for headfirst collision but

only narrowly missing by a sinew in the end

well i shouldn’t really get my hopes up

you’re far too clever for my cry for help

and my delusions can only cash in so much

before you’re changing your mind again

and i think for a second, maybe, oh

just fucking maybe—falling prey again

to your last instantaneous reprieve

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Filed under Poetry

Dilettante

I just want to stop everything

I want to break all my pens and pencils and paintbrushes and throw away all my paints and burn all of my journals and sketchbooks and books and give away my instruments to someone else more deserving to play it

I want to exhaust every single word from my overthinking brain and let it spill out and completely leave my system without giving a damn, I want to gouge out my eyes and amputate my hands and rip out my vocal cords from my throat, I want to get a fucking lobotomy and be glad that I finally did

I want to stop pretending that I’m good at something, that I’m good at anything, that I’ll actually ever be good at the things that I like, if I try, if I TRY, if I try

I just want to stop trying too hard

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Filed under Prose

Sick Sickly

I go through all the trouble
Of keeping it within my walls
I try to be as subtle as I can
Assume that nothing needs me
All I’ve done defeats me
It looks like you were right again
And again, I let you find it on your own
Then I found myself alone…

~*~

I feel kind of sad today

It’s the type of sad where

I somehow feel physically sick

Of everything and nothing

Of myself and everyone

Of whatevers and howevers

All at once and all I just wanna do

Is curl up until the hurt starts

To wane away—if it ever

Wanes away—and yet I don’t

Even know why I’m so sad

I don’t know why I feel wrong

I don’t know why I’m complaining

When I have scars to remind me

That this is what’s supposed

To be a normal feeling for me

And it shouldn’t come as a

Surprise that I still missed this

I miss feeling like shit, feeling

Like I’ll always miss you, feeling

Like there’s really nothing left

But this miserable stasis I

Locked myself into, and it will

Always be that way, no matter

What I do and how much I try to

Distract myself because it’s

Always going to be what’s left

For me in the end. Just me and

This fucking sickness, the type of

Sad that feels so unreasonable

The type of sad that sticks in my mouth

The type of sad that makes me

Feel okay that it will never be okay

And I should just learn to live with that.

~*~

The more I want in, the more I want in
The less I know, the less I know
But I’m forgotten, I’m forgotten
I’ll be alone, I’ll be alone, I’ll be alone
With everybody watching me
Uh oh, where can I go?
Everybody’s watching me…

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Filed under Poetry

Blind Ears To See, Deaf Eyes To Hear, Mute Mouth To Speak

True friends lie underneath
These witty words I don’t believe
I can’t believe a damn thing they say anymore
Lie! Liar, you’ll pay for your sins
Now! Liar, I know all the places you’ve been
Forgiveness—this taste all but poisons my mouth…

~*~

We all have arbitrary problems

Whether it’s petty or magnanimous

The cryptic remains we wish to seal up

And bury inside a metal sarcophagus

But it could be easily exhumed

Or never even entombed, after all

And inevitably, sooner or later

I shall play the role of the coroner

When I’m contorted in a painful position

It gets to me, red sprites of confusion

To inject dopamine, a blush of adrenaline

But instead I’m simply a machine

Automatic in my messages underhand

Pretending that I could understand

What’s easy is difficult, I go into overdrive

The train of thought which never arrives

I wish I could spill out waves of clarity

Instead of letting the cobwebs gather

In my drying, decomposing mouth

Conflicted about platitudes I muttered

If only I could then convince myself

To cease listening to blaring smoke alarms

Remove the arrow lodged in my trachea

And ask why, it will do me no harm

But instead I end up feeling incompetent

In total oblivion from such a situation

I’m not a companion, but I’m merely a bench

A rusted statue, a broken monkey wrench

Seminal symptoms that cripple and debilitate

Responses taken from a mind that is surrogate

I wish I could confront, interfere, absolve dysthymia

But my tongue is affected by parasaethesia.

~*~

I scream but nothing, nothing will come out, you’ve gone too far
So tell me how does it feel, how does it feel to be like you?
I think your mouth should be quiet ’cause it never tells the truth
So tell me, so tell me why, why does it have to be this way?

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metal & skin (xxvi.)

i’m not

relapsing

i just need

to vent

there’s too

much to be

gone, and

nothing spent.

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Filed under Poetry