Post with 2 notes
I have come to swirl down the same toilet for ages.
The same water, the same place, the same pipes.
I am stuck. I am stuck in the drain.
Time has been racing by. Half of the year is over.
I am a student with half of it left.
Something kept on nudging in my ear.
this “riding the wave” is so stupid.
I cannot ride a wave in Mid West.
I want to go out. I want to explore.
I deplore though. The extent to the horrifies of failure.
It restrains me like a dog on a chain,
except strangers don’t pet me or make me feel less lonely.
Creeping estranged in the moonlight, I feel the tides
begin to bend and fold as the continium falters away.
Science is out the window, clocks are of no use.
and I believed in the notion that this wave could resurrect
the passion so terribly buried.
Post with 2 notes
Months I have suffered from a terrible disease.
A rock formed in the pit of my stomach
causing pain to branch out through my veins.
When I was a child, I always wished to be a tree,
but now that I got a taste, I am not so sure.
I twiddle my thumbs across the other
watching the world spin so slowly and crookedly.
The day before my final cultivation,
I sit here seeing those I care for most.
The instability of this emotion created a cave,
when I expected to build a mountain.
Regardless I wanted something that went up not down.
Either way, I could create a home in either structure.
Whenever I sit alone on the edge of my bed looking
at the ceiling covered in dark paints,
I watch the traces of the paint, The roof to my home,
the top to my house, peel and fold.
I imagine them as origami twisted into paper cranes
flying out onto the night sky never to return.
Their wings so light the wind blows them away,
some get caught in trees, other fall to the ground,
and none ever make it across the fence.
I may as well be a paper crane trapped in the bushes
waiting resting as easy prey.
In my house, I created a forest and a new breath of life.
Whether they’re plastic of flesh, they give me the atmosphere.
I used to sit on a couch covered in ivy with a terrible cough.
The ivy built a comfy niche of nature for me to rest in.
I relaxed as the ivy begin to grow around me.
A human silhouette between the ivy leaves left me
with a feeling that I left my old self behind.
The ivy never grew there even years later.
When I stared at the image I used to portray on that couch,
I left my emotion there with it. I let everything go,
and I let the ivy grow around every other part of the house.
Some would consider it a prison, but I find the atmosphere freeing.
Breathing the clean air from plastic and flesh leaves made me smile.
It held out the muscles in my face longer than it used to be.
I left it all lying through in the ivy suffocating on clean air.
I left it all there while the toxic air is purified by nature.
I left it all there even though I left a whole past behind.
Post with 2 notes
Art is the creation of thought in the visual.
Every thought is like a speeding bullet cracking open
the skulls of the prejudiced and morally corrupt.
Your fingers get Carpal Tunnel when god says
you’ve had enough of eyesight manipulation.
Craving the paintbrush like a needle.
Watching the slow addicted feeling of inspiration
digging deeply into our cancered cores.
Our release, your sensual artistic release
is like the drug that keeps you implanted
in your weak destructive reality between
masterpieces and the mediocrity.
Every poet pours their soul
in hopes of getting that feeling of waking sleep.
The tiny prick that wakes your deaf ears or blind eyes.
We are slaves to the pages of endless creation.
Creativity holds us deep in chastity for our constraints
Are always too deep to fully comprehend.
Poetry is not a mere art form, but a life style.
Only the committed ones know exactly how it feels.
We’re just like any fiend looking for a high.
We’re just like any outcast looking for acceptance.
Only the truth knows how to control our constraints.
Creativity is our master with us as the medium.
We’re all metronomes clicking to our rhythm awaiting
unbiased recognition for all our miseries and ecstasies.
Clinging the thoughts of sanity, we pen out our flaws
only to indulge ourselves in the next overload of emotion.
We all await that day that it’ll drive us insane causing us
to become the next Plath in the oven or Poe in the Ditch.
Post with 2 notes
Lacking the time to spend it slowly,
I’m craving a collapse that wil
destroy both you and me.
Running from the glass
that shattered my departure,
I’m tightened, my muscles burn.
my muscles burn.
In a few short amounts of time,
that I used to spend waiting,
I’ll be gone in a whole new dimension.
A place where people do not look like me.
A place where people do not act like me.
For once, I’m finally an outsider,
but currently. I’m terribly scared.
The boiling of blood shakes my nimble frame.
The muscles spasm faster than I can control,
and I’m left on the floor breathless
gasping, fretting and falling back
to the borders of my own concept of home.
A concept of home that I never thought existed.
It’s a thought that snakes it way into my soul
and takes hold of everything considered holy
in my human human realm.
It’s a feeling that sends me into the air
like a rocket a few seconds before implosion.
It’s all like that and much much more.
I can’t seem to explain myself as a I lug around
a tiny little teddy bear that brings a smile to my face.
I use him as a tool. I give him a personality.
He is everything that I can’t be at the moment
for I’m trembling to filter out the departure and goodbyes.
I know that he’s inanimate, but the thought gives me solace.
It’s a feeling of completeness, a feeling to filter my thoughts
and press them onto an imaginary friend; a friend that cannot
depart before my departure.
I am neither crazy nor insane, because I understand the difference
between the life of mine, and the lack of his, but my emotion
is filling his little soul making him whole and inside my mind
and inside yours too, you know that it takes a piece of my soul.
You see and object can never be alive, but it can have an aura.
I pour my soul into this lonely little bear and it becomes alive.
Not in the physical sense, but it’s soul become a little bigger.
Beneath all that fuzz and stuffing, it has a pulse.
It does not move, but in the metaphysical realm it occurs.
So slowly it moves working it’s way up. It’s listed in minor religions
where the aspect of curses and sinful magic at work.
It’s an ancient tool to preserve the thought of the world
and the thoughts of man.
I pray to you to never repeat these words,
but I understand you will; I will too.
Post with 1 note
The Clock created something
that flowed out of my mouth
like Shakespeare or Chaucer.
It built me a home that I could call a home.
Without control, without blame, without stress.
I laid there in the corner panting and breathing
having another attack.
Everything was perfect, but it shook my core.
It took control and left me defenseless.
Scraping my knees as I forgot my inhaler.
1-2-3 and I was out like a light: burned out,
cracked and deformed.
My eyes became heavy as the blackness became
the place that I call my somber tiny sober home.
Boats washed in liquor sailed to the shore
and landed a shipment of my greatest escape.
I swam like a fish for weeks unwinding the time,
because perfection was just too much.
It was just too much for me.
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All i wanted to do was just become:
a shape without a face.
A frame without a body
A Human without an emotion.