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are you intentionally oblivious?i told you i couldnt sleep
and when i finally did i had nightmares
it felt as if i was clawing my way out of a well
and i told you through typos that i was scared
phasing in and out of sleep paralysis
eyelids like lead, drowning in a sense of being deep underwater
I told you I was terrified of falling asleep again, of the vivid, awful dreams
and your response was
"yeah, im tired too."
RepetitionI'm going to write about Leo again, but this time, I'm going to be truthful about it.
It happens often that I wish he'd never found me, or I him.
That we had remained strangers,
going about our lives,
Ignorant to what we were missing (good and bad).
Though physical space and mental walls separate us, I still cannot find love elsewhere
You've taken my heart and now it beats in your hands
and though I attract others with unexplained magnetism,
I am not considering them the same way
and I never will.
You make things harder, you dogged and figurative lion
you, who loses English in intensity
you, who loses time to whiskey,
you, who loses music to guitars
who writes in secret, and can't sleep at night
who hates the cold but can't stand heat either,
and leaves into the dark to fall further
into depressive abuse of your own mind.
You are not perfect and neither am I. I still wonder if you even know how to hold conversation,
or if everything is one sided and two dimensional to you.
Talk to me,
To all of you.I wish I could stop stating that I don't know what to say, but I’ve found it is the best way to start something new. Yes I continue to write the same words in different phrases, different statements, yet still just as meaningful. I have found that others look for the connections, the burning trees and drums, the references to oceans and the way I fabricate fire each time (its always changing). They search for the contradictions, find each way I illustrate inversions and start words with the same letters. Its just what happens, and thats really all I can say about it.
I’ve had many tell me that artistry is a reflection of the mind- and I can say this is true.
To you, who say otherwise, you know, its only out of fear of judgement.
I am not afraid to say that this is me, that these words, disturbing, vexing, and altogether strange (yet relatable), are my reflections. Reflections on mentality, reflections on emotions and opinions and what may seem like just-more-melodram
You cant buy my mentality.You know, for what its worth, I have to say this,
that, after everything ive been through
after the exhaustion, that tired feeling that
only few of us share
theres still enough to keep me going.
I may need the rest, and I may endure the
restlessness, but there is no difference between
life getting easier, or continuing to be difficult.
like everyone else and
I write, like many do (yet they refuse to admit)
and I paint, I burn pages with charcoal
I stain paper with ink in the form of
landscapes or trees.
and I strategize the next word to illustrate
no matter which pen I use.
Nights of drug-addicts, keeping me up
dont slow this,
they make me grateful
for what could have been (to other friends)
and I relish the fact that it was me
and not you. not her. not my sister, however metaphorical that may be
and I say
Dear lonely, violent escapist
thank you- thank you for thinking you could take me
so I may warn all the others
who might have been within your grasp.
snowfall beaconsThere isn't much for me to write about lately.
I could contemplate the cold, the mountains and snow
or I could lament the distance between us,
create a metaphorical connection between you and
the way I see my breath
every time I speak
Every time I breathe.
I could draw pictures in the frost
on car windows, begging to be washed,
wander down the main street with smoke in my hand,
again exhaling visibility. Is it you in the air I see?
You're simply farther down the monochrome asphalt,
always a sorrowful step ahead of me.
You know I could sleep at night,
and avoid the insomnia,
but we both know the impossibility behind the sun
how it blinds us in its haze and reflections
and the dark is always easier to deal with.
We are night-born creatures, you and I
We find our lifetimes in the silence of snowfall,
slave to the backdrop of three-hours-past-midnight
and the lack of noise you only find
in small towns like this one.
Still, in the soundlessness and absent light
we'll continue to find one an
Ive found a place to wait
The sun rises every morning I am here,
Over mountains and into the valley
gradually, beams through trees and buildings.
I have blues in my ears and cold hands again,
Though my coffee keeps them warm,
(one at a time)
and the flag decides if I can see,
unblinded by the light
shining over the ridge.
Some nights I'm here for hours,
through since midnight
wreathed in smoke, alone
I disregard my inability to breathe.
Oh, purple shadows and
train steam, rumbling, rambling black engines
golden cars rolling past
tell me this wooden bench will lure you forth
back to me,
what ever I may be waiting for.
I have cotton in my journal,
and a cigarette receipt
and I am sure there is a metaphor behind it
for the waterfalls and fire.
But it does not matter,
I've found a place to wait
And I've got something to wait for.
The train leaves in two hours,
Be there. (I will)
Of that, at least, I can be sure.
breathe deeper the mountain air
I find temptation everywhere
An invitation to stray
To give in
To absent desires and emotions.
I wish it was different,
That I could see you
Without falling, or flying
Through every wave of denial,
I wish you would come find me
Console my longing heart.
I feel you near and it's driving me
To the edge of Insanity.
Your withdrawal from myself is
Pulling the tension farther
Pulling the tension harder
Making this harder to
-Through rivers of salt, and oceans of mud,
vinegar wine poured in frost glasses
from mountain winds and shale and frozen breath
for fire and burning lavendar, and heated clay
passing levels for each step, higher, frigid altitude
beating drums in your direction,
beating lungs in your reflection.
[you make it harder to breathe]
there is a godI look at this blank page and see the infinite possibilities.
I am underwater.
Drowning in white,
fingers wrapped around the pen,
knowing its the only object that can lift me out.
the only source of lungs,
writing with whatever is left
from my faltering mind.
I wait for my deity,
golden eyes behind dark windows
and heels clicking on pavement,
smoke prevelant. fire in his hands.
cigarettes on the cold ground,
cherry still glowing, alone.
I can tell you he does exist as
another god in a lawless reality.
He is in the somber countenance
of every sinner,
in the shuffled walk of veterans
limping, broken, and alive,
a change behind their eyes.
There was a chain around my neck,
symbolic of his presence- gone,
where his own marks used to be.
It left scars. Like him.
Marking my belief, that soon
He will come back to me.
He is near.
I struggle with the feeling,
of tension spread between us
years waiting, longing
amplified, with every hour passing
and every mile descending
i promise i wont forget, the chain around my neckTell me how you wish to be forgiven
spill your lamentations to the floor
grovel at the feet of every sin youve ever spoken
and drill what prayers are left upon the door.
I know you feel so helpless,
kneeling for the smoke, for the burning trees
hanging another masochistic bullet
for the blood on your black sleeves,
in silver chains around your neck.
You carry a cross, I know
chrome, heavy, leaving bruises and
scars with every step, and every second
crucified to your chest in the irony
of your godless world
held only as a memory
for the irony of your godless years,
your endless years.
oh, my love, your endless fears.
I know you feel so helpless,
how you wish to be forgiven,
I know you carry your chains to feel bound
back to the earth, and to me,
I know your fears, and your lamentations
for I have heard them whispered in your sleep.
You walk through flames and come out unscathed,
dont think I have forgotten
what you come from,
in what fires of hell you were so mercilessly bathed.
How to be a better writer!How to be a better writer, or
Even a better artist.
“Trust me”, I have experience,
I’ve been at it for years.
Let me give you a few simple guidelines,
Some that I myself go off of,
And I’ll pretend that my style,
Choice of words, will work for everyone else.
And let’s not forget to mention that
I am a premium member! A beta tester!
A senior member!
Till hell freezes over!
I must know what I’m talking about?
In all my greatness and glory!
I have the authority,
To tell others how to make their art better.
Let’s cut the bullshit here and now,
And ignore those people who tell us our style.
One person, so skilled and great,
With art that all tend to appreciate,
Does not have the right to lead ‘his’ flock,
To determine whose art is worthy or not.
You write one way I write another,
My thoughts are calm, while yours are loud as thunder.
She strokes left, but he’ll stroke right,
Her art his peaceful, but his depicts a fight.
A pencil i
Avoidant Personality DisorderI've never gotten to explain this to anyone before, since every time I try, I break into some sort of sobbing fit. If my explanation sounds a little funky, that may be why.
Yeah. So, I have APD, or Avoidant Personality Disorder.
To summarize, it's a disorder that makes people want to avoid social contact and criticism by all means.
Unfortunately, that includes me.
I didn't know about the disorder until I browsed through psychological disorders for writing purposes, and happened to find it. I matched every single symptom.
Every last one, period. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that I have it.
This isn't your WebMD diagnosis, not when you feel so badly.
It's a really difficult feeling to describe.
Whenever you so much as try to make conversation with any person, you feel like chopping your head off. In my case, you're afraid to say hello. Or goodbye, or thank you, or I love you, or things that people should be able to say without stopping to think.
You feel unworthy o
Entry Four- Step One Almost CompleteStop.
Stop comparing myself to others.
I am different from you, him, her, them, they.
Just because I believe differently from you doesn’t make me a horrible person.
anyway.there are things i know too well about you, and most of them break my heart just remembering them. i knew the look in your eyes right before you would cry, or how it would snap and change from a look of swelling tides to unfiltered rage, aimed directly at me. cause i was the closest thing that you could bruise or throw your words at that wasn't a wall, or yourself. it wasn't damaging you, and as far i was concerned, that was worth a few flourishes or a swollen eye.
the alternative just wasn't worth mentioning or comparing.
there was something not right in your head, maybe the vodka or whatever you drink dissolved a synapses or two, because the notion of cause and effect didn't seem to make any sense, and empathy was just completely lost on you. i did love you, the best i knew how to, the best i could with the cards you gave me. i don't know if you returned those feelings when you were sober and weren't forced to be honest. drunken words are apparently the truths we can't admit when we'
Magic HourMagic Hour
by Kit the Wolfy
I always keep a cool and sunny place in my heart.
A place where the sky glows with the rich blue and pink and yellow of dusk and dawn, and everything is in picture-perfect clarity.
It's my own private magic hour.
And in this magic hour where everything is clear and bright, I take some time every day to reflect.
Reflect on the people I love.
Even if it's hard to continue, and even if I have scars,
My magic hour always heals the pain.
So, every day, I take a little time to retreat into my heart, into my magic hour.
And in that magic hour, I sit down in the grass, lie back, stare up at the shining sky...
And I think about how grateful I am that I have the people I love.
EmotionalA lot of people say that emotions is what makes us human because it's healthy for us to stay happy, joyful, and to always smile. But, what if the table was turn? In fact, is it turned already? Because some people can't feel that way.
What if instead they felt the opposite? What if they felt sad, pessimistic, and always cried tears every day in their lives? Some of them can't help, but feel like that. They feel like they're hopeless, mistakes, imperfect, or not good enough, anxious, depressed, bipolar, tearful, broken, and never going to be the person they dream of being.
So the real question is: Is being any other emotion besides happiness make us human?
NothingAnd the preview shows Nothing, just like the title of this poem.
But what's behind the "Nothing"? If you come closer you will see anything that is, paradoxically, "The Nothing."
Lost!Meandering through a dense jungle, lost in my own thoughts.
Climbing through the thickets, beating back the vines!
The path ahead with its twists and turns, seems to lead nowhere!
Now standing stock-still, scanning the forest rooftop, I feel so alone!
Is there no one who can hear me, as I cry out for guidance?
No one to reach out to, so as to take my hand?
But wait! Is that a sliver of light I see, shining through the darkness?
It is my angel, here to comfort me!
There is so much cynicism in regret
And so much sadness in azure clouds
and plum washed horizons.
Sweeping skies and
cherried burns beyond the atmosphere leave me blinded
I spiral every time I remember the sun,
branded in the walls lining my eyes.
[More charcoal on the fire-
run faster, my iron horse.]
I don't wait for trains-
screaming through timid valleys and fearlessly over centuried bridges.
Cast the mountains in their slurry,
(They live forever too)
so do you.
I keep your hurricanes hidden and
covet them until I can hold no more
And I too will scream over cast-iron bridges,
seeking sunlight over the next ridge
seeking solace over the next bridge
dropping ash and polluting trees with more...
and salt water.
With every stone I have ever skipped
I have hoped for a new outcome,
a longer trail of success,
carving valleys there too, in waterlogged earthquakes
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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