My thoughts are what keep me up at night. Everyday, thoughts of my troubles, my regrets and my desires are the ones i fight. Even screams and wispers of actions long ago forgotten, haunt me and my current choices continiously. |
Thoughts of you and me, everlastingly happy. Thoughts of my furture, for someday I hope to dream them into reality. Thoughts of yesterdays happiness only involving you, 'cause i fear non of it was ever true.
The bad ones are all that remain, for me to revisit every single night and day. One day, I pray, these thoughts, these demons of mine might let me go. That they may let me live my life and free these shakles off my soul.
I just hope it'll be in time for me to live life right. Free of the burden i've been carrying around with me. Free of the past experiences that have evolved themselves into painfull 'hard-to-shake-off' memories. Free of the way people perseive and just like what they see without even pretending to try to know me. Free of the new and improved fears that seem to have become part of me.
Free of these neverending wonderings of this lady.
i trace the passing years|
they're like suns setting in my hands
my prime reaching a cusp
like a fireweed blossoming into its name
(beauty now found from winds that once threatened to overwhelm while roots spread into strength)
i recall better years albeit full of tears
while paint flakes fall from fingertips
the mural on my heart drawn in blood diluted with tears
slowly decaying while memory erodes
too many grains of sand slipping through the vortex
i pray each grain passes with creating force
(desert sands swirling around the dunes of time sinking passing feet and stealing souls)
roads paved with blood and gold lead to nowhere
still the trails entice footfalls seeking life mixed with vanity
oscillating reality filling my senses
coursing emotions wax and wane
while the years build and dissolve
yet rise again from ashes of burned lives
As the bullet enters,|
not yet followed by the sound
that it entails,
there is a moment
brief, and crucial,
where a question lies.
and in that moment
the bullet thinks,
but before it can whisper
the gun barrel speaks.
A war withinby She. on August 10. © She., All rights reserved
I don't wish on stars anymore,
Since we've discovered
Are already dead.
Negatives of our ghosts
caught in the afterglow.
And instead I find myself
Lost and Wishing
On track marks,
Gazing I bewilderment
And awestruck wonder
At the world
destroyed in the war,
The war within
Current Music: NIN
We used to be different.|
You were drawn to my ideology
and I to your strong character.
Polar opposites? Yes, but we
both felt the pull, that energy
of a question that found answers.
You grounded me when I floated
too far. I helped you fly, and
we laughed so much I could cry
because in silence, I can’t recall
the sound of our happiness.
When I say I’m happy? It’s a lie.
Hi all, I discovered this poem today and I am at loss for words at how breath taking it is. It's written by an unknown author by the name of J.P.Deibus, however I must say this poem is amazing! like seriously good, I had tears in my eyes. I highly recommend others to check it out, as I believe it needs to be known to the world. It's very expressive and moving x |
Here I go again. Opening doors that should not have even been there.
I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I think I've missed it. Us. Whatever it was. However insignificant to you and impossible to understand for me. It still clicked and I know we both felt it. It was undeniable yet unattainable.
Apparently now though, I'm single, but remain unavailable.
After we fuck,|
we eat dry cereal with spoons and drink Diet Pepsi
in your kitchen.
You have to leave for work by 7:40. It’s 6:30 or so.
We watch the Chicago Morning News from your couch in Michigan.
You miss that city the way I miss the town my mother died in.
I’m wearing my leopard underwear and your Michigan hoodie.
You’re trying, but you’re anxious, and I know. You will
peel at the skin
if I apply enough pressure. I don’t want to rush you, I say, but I have to
because I get scared that the drywall armor around you will harden
if I don’t pull hard enough while you’re still damp.
We fought last week because you keep locking
the screen door to your balcony.
It’s frustrating, the way that you lock all your doors and pay all your bills
and budget by percentages and own more than one car.
You said that should be a good thing, how responsible you are. I tell you
you don’t get it.
Your heart is in Chicago. Your body, here, next to my body. My hand holds your hand
once, in a cab on the way to dinner.
How can I make wild the tame soul, the lonely one?
Your body is in Chicago. My body is getting high in my car behind my apartment complex, thinking about your body, trying to want it.
The hard states between us rip us slowly, like a hang nail.
How did we get this far? Where are we going? Don’t you feel my body, sleeping awake next to your body in the middle of the day?
Aren’t you scared I’m going to leave?
Sep. 12th, 2014 @ 12:55 pm
“Once, I said: you’ve got to live like everything will hurt you.|
Now I believe it.”
--Stacie Cassarino, “Zero at the Bone”
My aunt asked me over the phone, “is this fun? Do you like how this feels?”
Paul had cancelled our plans last minute. Plans are a way to say fucking
without demonizing him.
Yes, I told her. I like this.
There’s such adventure in that kind of pain. The not knowing whether he will show up or call, how late he will be, calculating exactly how much we could drink before he wouldn’t be able to cum. Every-morning hangovers. Showing up to work and wincing as I pressed against my collarbone at my desk, deepening the bruise he had made when he choked me the night before.
The evening I told him to just tell me the fucking truth, he told me I didn’t want to know. Please, I said. He told me about every girl, every drink, the girl from Florida that had made him this way. The vulnerability in him overtook the weight of his infidelities. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, I just gave it to him. I didn’t trust him, I didn’t need to. It was better that way. We were lovers without trust, like surgery without anesthesia. I knew this would hurt. I wanted it to.
There was mystery in the not wanting to know what I was up against, what women he had touched since the last time we saw each other. I couldn’t ever tell if it was his cologne or someone’s perfume that had rubbed off on him, but it didn’t matter because he always smelled good.
More than once, his friends called me other girl’s names. I loved that rush of sadness, the endorphins thickening when I ran my fingers through his damp hair as he vomited in the woods. He fell asleep in my lap on a chair that night, removed from the rest of the party, warm in front of the bonfire. “You’re an angel”, he mumbled in his sleep.
In the wide space of that contrast, the dark of us against the light of his words, I was not an angel.
I was human and I felt everything.
One morning, still sore from the night before, he wanted to fuck and I said no. He pinned me down to the bed and I tried to fight him off, heart pounding from the thrill of it. No, no, no, it hurts but once he was inside, the pain was dull like a butter knife. I never told anyone about that.
Outside my apartment building, a family of deer sit on the side of the road watching cars as they pass. All the cars slow down and stare. Some try to see how close they can get before the fawn scatter back into the trees. They never run. Every animal needs my kind of danger, my possibility of pain.
I’m waiting for the day one of the deer leaps in front of a truck, wishing for a wound that never heals.
Nevertheless, Brahma grew in a lotus|
out of the navel of the sleeping Vishnu…
Are we the consequence of His Amnesia?
His channeling down Who He is in His dreams
--- Not reality, mind you,
But who He is in His dreams?
Are there limits as to how awake
Something can be and still be in a dream?
(Lucifer hated this thesis of course,
Decrying the notion he wasn’t in reality itself!)
But what if the worlds within a dream
Begin to reflect in a perfect way
Those which originate beyond?
Will the borders of reality dissolve?
Will we find ourselves in what Yeats called
“A superhuman mirror resembling dream”
(Where God reciprocally exists through us)
And when we do, will this be our childhood’s end?