I can feel it spark in the pit of my stomach. It spreads to my thighs and under my rib cage. Evaporating the blood and cauterizing the undertones of my skin. Deep down it hides. And now I wait. I hope I dream of you. It’s taking my life away.
Posts tagged "writing"
just stop just stop just stop[do do do]
now i have to answer
dug myself into a real big fucking hole here
cant find a ladder
ill carve stairs into the dirt
that was okay
deeper man, deeper
just go maddy you fucked yourself over with your petty little words[do do do]
stairs fucking backfired
you’re one of those things that exceeds the limit of the human imagination
like the vastness of space
some how the wind died in this bland land and i can see clearer
but you’re still not visible
I was afraid to breathe. Afraid I might disturb the chairs balancing on two legs, drown out the mere tick of the clock or the silent hum of the computer left to rest. Only then the footsteps came and the voices and the change. They not only shattered the stillness but also the illusion that there might possibly be such a calm out there, such a hope that only exists when the clock stops ticking and the door is thick enough that even the cries of the lost can’t break through.
My lemon is my life, and you are my lemon. You’re my bittersweet lemonade with only a little fake sweetener. My sour little lemon boy, you are truly a star. “A lemon,” you say. “What good’s a lemon with no sugar and no water?” A lemon, I say, had no false admiration. Acidic, to warn away unwanted guests, with the select few who love you for your citrusy taste, your bold exterior, for you, entire.
You, my dear, are nothing short of pungent. Your causticity, descending from the wondrous variety, gives a lovely tang to my days and an evocative aroma to my nights. Because of you, I now have a golden twist to my life and I welcome its remarkable flavor with every flaunting endeavor. Much like the characteristics of a lemon, your idiosyncrasy, your every aspect will leave a secret stain on the parchment of my life. But unlike a lemon, I would never grind you into juice and sell you on the side of the road.
They stop us. Try to control us when all we want is to be free. I say be free. Be all that you want to be because part of being a teenager is not listening, being free, being all that you want to be. Yes, some if it is dangerous and we could die but so could everyone else. What’s the purpose of living on the edge if no one tells you not to?
The thing I love most about summer is not only the lack of routine and responsibilities; the main reason I love summer so much is because I’m just by myself. You don’t have to put in an effort to be social - yes, it still takes effort to be not social, too - no sensory overload walking down the hallways. In summer you meet the most amazing people because that’s what everyone’s out to do, meet new people. You don’t have your past hanging off your back like dead leaves that just won’t fall; you’re free to be whoever you want to be with no one noticing any different. I feel like when I’m old and married, possibly with kids, I won’t ever get that feeling, of being alone with no one to hold your past above your head and say, ‘Hey, it’s my job to remind you of how you once were, how you’ll never change.’
it’s weird to think that everything is just a mass of particles. i mean, if you really think about it, particles happen to attach to other particles somewhere along the line of their flux, thus creating masses of plasma, gases, liquids, solids…
and it’s even more surreal to think that every particle started as a star (star, meaning a big ball of fiery gas in a mass of explosions). all the particles inside of you are the same particles that were once that of a star. of course altered and twisted, but a morsel of igneous debris, none the less.
We listened to Jay play guitar and he gradually brought in his voice. The room was silenced and not another sound was made until the last chord was brought down. It was one of those moments that could be shattered by the slightest of movement; I only prayed that the door remained closed, that our breath remained held. As Eva in weaved her voice another blanket was brought down; extraordinary and unified. Only nothing lasts for more than a fraction of a-
The thing that kills me the most about all of you is that I know I can’t rely on you to truly make me happy anymore. I mean, no matter how long it had been, whenever I saw you it felt like the entire world could do no wrong; an extremely rare feeling. For years you were my light and I guess we’ve come to our senses somehow because you’re just not there anymore. I want to feel it and I’m trying so hard but all that I remember is the person you used to be and how it used to feel. I had a theory before but just recently you proved it to be true. We were in love with the idea of each other, only the notion that we’d never change and our lives would forever run parallel in a world where everything else is so unreliable. I guess the latter took control and gave me yet another reason to put my faith somewhere it can quietly die.
Something brutal and sinister like spilled coffee left to dry on the table. Something heaving and haunted like a swing with momentum in the twilight of morning. Something cracked and forgotten like the paint in the attic of a house left to the dust. Something like me.
we could die a happy couple
with full hearts
white would seem brighter
and black would seem darker
my life would seem greater
and my death would seem sweeter
its not love that blinds me
its the colours of the world
when you are so close
Is it just me or does it seem like every adult-adult meaning generally 35 years or older-is a total air head. I mean, I’m a teenager and I guess we’re generally narrow minded but I think I’m pretty well within the knowledge of knowing what normal people my age know verses what I know. If that makes sense, I’m pretty drunk. What I mean is that I know teenagers are generally ignorant; does that mean I know a bit more or am I just as naive? Fuck these are the things that keep me up at night. What I’m trying to say is, if you’re going through a drive through and you tell your dad you want a double chocolate brownie blizzard they’re going to say something like ‘uhh I’d like a blizzard… A chocolate one, or something.’ Am I going insane or do other people notice this as well? Like their brains have already started decomposing and aren’t as sharp. Most of them anyways.
Sometimes I wonder, if people really do have past lives, what I would have been. Tortured? A black slave, maybe. I don’t think I came from wealth; or if I did I hated it and ended up killing myself. I think I must have lived to be old; old enough to see the rawness of the world for what it was. A soldier, maybe. Yes, a veteran who fought for or against Hitler who had seen things no human should see. Maybe I went insane and had to be locked up before I could dig holes in my arms. Maybe. In one way or another, I was brought down to my knees and abused. This soul could never have been through any better. It is too torn to be anything more than just a stray.
What is that feeling when you see someone working so passionately on something, putting in so much time and effort into one special thing for one special someone only to have them leave town for a year before they get the chance to see it? What is that feeling you get when you see the horrid disappointment on their face when they realize how utterly wrong and far they’ve been shot down?
I don’t think this is entirely empathy because somehow it’s worse when it’s not you. When you see someone genuinely trying to help, being so tremendously innocent getting treated unjustly… This will be the entity to kill me.