Wake,
bake,
take a break for the sake of sanity.
Vanity, feel great for your mental amnesty.
Some day,
even you sunshine,
can master the art of verbal alchemy.
*
Yell if you feel the sharpness of reality moving its way slowly through your outer shell. Into the void where your soul rests, then into the middle of your heart. Scream if it kills you, otherwise, no one will notice.
*
Someone once told me that we were alone in this world.
There was no such thing as God.
There was no such thing as Milaclagetis.
It made sense, because I'd never heard of Milaclagetis before, but it didn't seem like something that would exist.
*
Nonsense.
nnsns.
n.
Butt.
*
Monday, December 24, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
So thin, they're see through.
Skin salivating on skin.
Red lipstick smeared on your chin.
Wonder where you've gone and how you've been.
Then remember why I'm here again.
Sensory overload, here comes the trouble on Wonderful road.
Sorry, mistook a little bit of rain for a storm.
Yet sometimes I wonder if calm weather's only here to warn.
*
Soft porn star, subtle lips,
thick hips,
stuck in the 90's wearing jeans with knee rips.
Big hair, small heart.
God, to think she was a work of art.
*
Lead fingertips grind hard against the page.
Sinking into the wood firmly finished; white and blank.
The horror, no ink left to complain.
Much to my disdain.
*
For me the brown eyed daughter, once you made it hotter...
*
Page stretching. I'm fairly good at that. Seems like I have a lot of empty space in my mind. For once, and I think I should be happy about it.
'cept, I'm kind of not really that happy about it.
*
Fumbling with buttons on the outside of your chest plate.
Cover up that heart string or else it's 'check and mate'.
*
The hurt that the head forgets,
the heart will always remember.
The hold that the hand regrets,
the heart remembers forever.
*
I could hate God and blame Death.
Flip flop and you don't stop.
Slide back into that fat stack of cushioned reality and thought.
All the things you bought thinking that alone was what you sought,
when material advances tend to mean very little,
not a lot.
To think those objects can make you what you crave,
when on the shallow side of hell it's the presage of your grave.
*
Mindless crating magnificent,
fluent substitute in the art of missing it.
Small fry grasping for the havoc,
mayhem misread tangent.
Keep keeping on the river that's been stagnant,
and you can convince yourself high worth upon this planet.
*
I walked into the room dripping in silver,
liquid movement to the motion picture sliver,
quivering in your pantyhose to take the mold of the viable.
Twisting torment dripping of the lips that you kept kissing,
sickness emitting it's sordid poison on the living.
Feet slipping into a pool of your own sweat,
from all those times in bed,
the kids who threw empty plastic bottles at your head,
nights filled with self hate and incoherent feelings,
swigs from the jug and pill junkie dealings,
broken home issues,
and fans humming from the ceilings.
It turned from a shit show to a disco, in less than ten minutes.
The attitude check and alcohol breath controlled with a spinet,
add a digital delay to help the hips swing with it.
Dig it, you like it or you don't,
in the end it's either an attack or a joke,
the real thing or a hoax.
Propose to laugh or die before being coaxed,
to expand on your smile for a moment with a slight vocal episode.
How long will it be before the ruins of the free are discovered by the beings that encounter us in our dreams?
Left behind is tarnished gold, broken seams, slight gleam from the sun that fed the trees.
If there's torment in your soul, will you torment to feel whole?
Or will you flounder in your misery then pile up the coal to exterminate the body that ruined your soul?
*
My brain is dying slowly.
All the things you bought thinking that alone was what you sought,
when material advances tend to mean very little,
not a lot.
To think those objects can make you what you crave,
when on the shallow side of hell it's the presage of your grave.
*
Mindless crating magnificent,
fluent substitute in the art of missing it.
Small fry grasping for the havoc,
mayhem misread tangent.
Keep keeping on the river that's been stagnant,
and you can convince yourself high worth upon this planet.
*
I walked into the room dripping in silver,
liquid movement to the motion picture sliver,
quivering in your pantyhose to take the mold of the viable.
Twisting torment dripping of the lips that you kept kissing,
sickness emitting it's sordid poison on the living.
Feet slipping into a pool of your own sweat,
from all those times in bed,
the kids who threw empty plastic bottles at your head,
nights filled with self hate and incoherent feelings,
swigs from the jug and pill junkie dealings,
broken home issues,
and fans humming from the ceilings.
It turned from a shit show to a disco, in less than ten minutes.
The attitude check and alcohol breath controlled with a spinet,
add a digital delay to help the hips swing with it.
Dig it, you like it or you don't,
in the end it's either an attack or a joke,
the real thing or a hoax.
Propose to laugh or die before being coaxed,
to expand on your smile for a moment with a slight vocal episode.
How long will it be before the ruins of the free are discovered by the beings that encounter us in our dreams?
Left behind is tarnished gold, broken seams, slight gleam from the sun that fed the trees.
If there's torment in your soul, will you torment to feel whole?
Or will you flounder in your misery then pile up the coal to exterminate the body that ruined your soul?
*
My brain is dying slowly.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Winter Upstate.
When walking the streets of this city you learn to wear a perpetual look of anger, not that is proactive to look at all your fellow New Yorkers like you wish they'd burn in hell. It's more for your own protection from having to give up money to a junkie, keep sketchy older men from hitting on you, getting you across the street even though 'someone' intended on running that red light...and a plethora of other things. It's just a common scare tactic that seemingly every person in this God awful place learned and now we're all just leering at each other like scum. Don't get me wrong, Albany is a very tight nit place when you make it that way. But this state seems to have a way with disassociation, and most of us were raised to feel as though we were not allowed to trust people. My Mother was a parent that taught her children caution in any situation, coincided with my Father's concept to give people a chance.
Born in 1993, I was a pretty pleasant 90's baby. I grew up to enjoy all the things my generation had to offer including Brittany Spears, Rugrats and Pokemon. Back yard birthdays, bountiful Christmases and big basket Easters. Mentioning all this I should also let you know, I was never well off. No, my family, in particular, lived in the Albany Downtown area that used to be the neighborhood of Italians and Pollocks, slowly turning into a black ghetto as the years progressed. My Nan was always bitching about that. The change in inhabitants over her lifespan living on the corner of Sloan and Second had not quite suited her taste, being born of the Depression, she was never a person of wealth although socially that did not change her rural distaste for black people. Mind you, my Nan was racist but she was not prejudice, a woman of the neighborhood she had made friends with everyone on her block, including it's black residents. She knew a good person when she saw one and the color of their skin nor the connotations of her childhood were going to prevent her from seeing that.
-
Born in 1993, I was a pretty pleasant 90's baby. I grew up to enjoy all the things my generation had to offer including Brittany Spears, Rugrats and Pokemon. Back yard birthdays, bountiful Christmases and big basket Easters. Mentioning all this I should also let you know, I was never well off. No, my family, in particular, lived in the Albany Downtown area that used to be the neighborhood of Italians and Pollocks, slowly turning into a black ghetto as the years progressed. My Nan was always bitching about that. The change in inhabitants over her lifespan living on the corner of Sloan and Second had not quite suited her taste, being born of the Depression, she was never a person of wealth although socially that did not change her rural distaste for black people. Mind you, my Nan was racist but she was not prejudice, a woman of the neighborhood she had made friends with everyone on her block, including it's black residents. She knew a good person when she saw one and the color of their skin nor the connotations of her childhood were going to prevent her from seeing that.
-
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Sitting sitters sit,
Yelling in the streets. Weather it's about Christmas or the end of the world s we know it, I cannot decipher. The crawling fear of something bad always lurks over things happening around me. The uncomfortable ache I feel around people I hardly know, although I am capable of being warm and kind to them like they were someone I was comfortable with.
How am I able to do that? Just love unconditionally, although these people may harm me. Emotional,...maybe even physically. And that aspect always seeps into my ideas; my train of thought conjuring worst case scenarios based on past occurrences. No wrong, no right. Just in between, and eventually you become that way about everything. Your love life, the food you eat, and how often you do or don't consume proper sustenance. Malnourished, full of chemicals. It's hard to move around, small spaces scary you, full rooms do as well, as do the empty ones. You start losing control of where you are and who you were and who you want to be and who you're supposed to be.
Everything's crumbling yet you're still putting pieces together. How can you be building when everything around you constantly starts to crumble? It's a world where you're allowed to keep a piece of what you desire, bu only one piece. And to keep it you'll have to constantly build and dream of the entire thing, although you will never have it all. A torturous existence, yet one we're all afraid to leave.
Then you think of all the glowing wonderful lights around you, presuming their appearance in reality, showing themselves naturally and purely. They watch you constantly build that wall to your amazing fortress, or marvelous paradise that no one will ever see or understand but yourself. And they warm you with their love and their essence. The feeling of them and the moments you share. Alive and inanimate. First breath taken...or last one mustered.
O
I walk around this city, another staple girl to holler at. Another staple victim of crime. Another nobody, doing nothing for no one, not even themselves.
I wonder some days if my importance is measured in dollar bills or the words I can hardly manage out of my lips. Or maybe it's how I carry myself, how helplessly kind I can be, or nonsensically cruel at other times. Weather I'm capable of picking one, or forever cursed to see both sides of my horrible mentalities. Can you break the circle? Or are you doomed to see yourself cycle without fail, never ending?
There aren't answers...or maybe there are and I've been incapable of finding them.
Perhaps, I have chosen to keep them away from my eyes.
I started to wonder weather this was me helping my creativity,or it was just my idea of dying.
Never leaving my home, constantly filling my head with history and strange facts.
Where will that get me? Should I be concerned that it does or doesn't bring me somewhere? Or should I just be happy that it makes me feel happy and fulfilled?
Questions. And to think, xanax normally ruins my train of thought. Perhaps it just one of those days, where I'm so full of it and too tired to speak.
I'm even too tired to type.
I've had dream where all the people I've grown to love surround me and don't talk. They all just blankly smile and surreptitiously assume their position in the grand scheme of this scenario.
In other dreams, faces I've known follow me through a world filled with death, and grotesque creatures.
We all meet our fates, and I wonder if it's my subconscious warning me of something.
Or maybe I'm just insane, and they're just dreams.
O
I used to have a strong idea for how I wanted my future to turn out, like any young adult in this country I had a dream. The perfect layout to the beginning of a perfect life. Of course, I fell out of that path very quickly and swiftly, getting quite lost from where I would like to end my travels.
O
How am I able to do that? Just love unconditionally, although these people may harm me. Emotional,...maybe even physically. And that aspect always seeps into my ideas; my train of thought conjuring worst case scenarios based on past occurrences. No wrong, no right. Just in between, and eventually you become that way about everything. Your love life, the food you eat, and how often you do or don't consume proper sustenance. Malnourished, full of chemicals. It's hard to move around, small spaces scary you, full rooms do as well, as do the empty ones. You start losing control of where you are and who you were and who you want to be and who you're supposed to be.
Everything's crumbling yet you're still putting pieces together. How can you be building when everything around you constantly starts to crumble? It's a world where you're allowed to keep a piece of what you desire, bu only one piece. And to keep it you'll have to constantly build and dream of the entire thing, although you will never have it all. A torturous existence, yet one we're all afraid to leave.
Then you think of all the glowing wonderful lights around you, presuming their appearance in reality, showing themselves naturally and purely. They watch you constantly build that wall to your amazing fortress, or marvelous paradise that no one will ever see or understand but yourself. And they warm you with their love and their essence. The feeling of them and the moments you share. Alive and inanimate. First breath taken...or last one mustered.
I walk around this city, another staple girl to holler at. Another staple victim of crime. Another nobody, doing nothing for no one, not even themselves.
I wonder some days if my importance is measured in dollar bills or the words I can hardly manage out of my lips. Or maybe it's how I carry myself, how helplessly kind I can be, or nonsensically cruel at other times. Weather I'm capable of picking one, or forever cursed to see both sides of my horrible mentalities. Can you break the circle? Or are you doomed to see yourself cycle without fail, never ending?
There aren't answers...or maybe there are and I've been incapable of finding them.
Perhaps, I have chosen to keep them away from my eyes.
I started to wonder weather this was me helping my creativity,or it was just my idea of dying.
Never leaving my home, constantly filling my head with history and strange facts.
Where will that get me? Should I be concerned that it does or doesn't bring me somewhere? Or should I just be happy that it makes me feel happy and fulfilled?
Questions. And to think, xanax normally ruins my train of thought. Perhaps it just one of those days, where I'm so full of it and too tired to speak.
I'm even too tired to type.
You are my dreams.
I've had dream where all the people I've grown to love surround me and don't talk. They all just blankly smile and surreptitiously assume their position in the grand scheme of this scenario.
In other dreams, faces I've known follow me through a world filled with death, and grotesque creatures.
We all meet our fates, and I wonder if it's my subconscious warning me of something.
Or maybe I'm just insane, and they're just dreams.
I used to have a strong idea for how I wanted my future to turn out, like any young adult in this country I had a dream. The perfect layout to the beginning of a perfect life. Of course, I fell out of that path very quickly and swiftly, getting quite lost from where I would like to end my travels.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Pause.
I should be attempting to write something here.
A fantastical story, a wonderful rhyme, a tale of tails even.
I was told by an ex-lover to write a book on all of my ex-lovers, seeing as they were and still are very interesting people and the things we encountered together were all very strange and interesting.
Honestly, it's an awkward topic to just write about. Especially with someone that makes me forget even the one person who never left my thoughts, even years later. It was almost instantaneous, a thick white light pulsing into each of my arms and into my heart, melting, seeping into the rest of my body. I turned just to see him, smiling, lighting his cigarette with wide eyes and purely having the time of his life.
For nights, I was not haunted by the words or the expression given to me upon reminding me that I am no one. A lover from the time of year where snow and ice freeze over everything alive, is definitely not a lover that would be kind in leaving you. And would not be kind when you still find yourself conflicted at the thought of them. Therefore, he was not very kind when he told me to never come back.
But after that first kiss.
It was cured.
I could sleep, and smile and enjoy things. I found myself forgetting all the times in my life where I'd felt betrayed or unloved. Because finally, someone had found me and appreciated me more than anyone really should.
Yes, writing a book about all my past lovers would be awkward. None the less, plenty of those stories have been written and they all play out the same way.
Mr.,
Mrs.,
Someone "Right",
comes along and they live happily ever after.
And what kind of person am I to write a story that conventional?
A fantastical story, a wonderful rhyme, a tale of tails even.
I was told by an ex-lover to write a book on all of my ex-lovers, seeing as they were and still are very interesting people and the things we encountered together were all very strange and interesting.
Honestly, it's an awkward topic to just write about. Especially with someone that makes me forget even the one person who never left my thoughts, even years later. It was almost instantaneous, a thick white light pulsing into each of my arms and into my heart, melting, seeping into the rest of my body. I turned just to see him, smiling, lighting his cigarette with wide eyes and purely having the time of his life.
For nights, I was not haunted by the words or the expression given to me upon reminding me that I am no one. A lover from the time of year where snow and ice freeze over everything alive, is definitely not a lover that would be kind in leaving you. And would not be kind when you still find yourself conflicted at the thought of them. Therefore, he was not very kind when he told me to never come back.
But after that first kiss.
It was cured.
I could sleep, and smile and enjoy things. I found myself forgetting all the times in my life where I'd felt betrayed or unloved. Because finally, someone had found me and appreciated me more than anyone really should.
Yes, writing a book about all my past lovers would be awkward. None the less, plenty of those stories have been written and they all play out the same way.
Mr.,
Mrs.,
Someone "Right",
comes along and they live happily ever after.
And what kind of person am I to write a story that conventional?
Little of this, little of that.
Through out the day my brain moves certainly,
straying away from reality,
slipping into mentality constantly pushing to prevent a sense of disarray.
o
Say,
have you heard that little bit about Mister Parker?
Some say that he raped and killed his own daughter,
cause she'd wander into the darkness of night and learn all about flying from a boy with a bike,
who spent way too much time talking about something wrong being right.
o
Or what about Sister Imogene?
Last time I heard about the bride of Christ,
she was learning a lesson from a man with a knife.
The orphan of a Christian ward had learned the truth of what had been,
and asked the sweet old sister if 'morality' was a trend,
or was she just not thinking when she locked him in that closet,
for touching another boy with the tip of his pen.
o
It's truly been a while since I've witnessed Jerry's smile.
Yeah,
the man was a wimp but who'd be one to stand on trial.
It was said his mother never really treated him nice, because she always made him sit for hours on a block of ice.
And when he grew up it had been the reason he's infertile.
It forced his wife to leave him and caused his reasoning to curdle.
One night while she was asleep in her bed,
Jerry made sure he went straight for her head.
o
Now fictional characters are the things I admire the most, because as a writer or an artist, you develop a personality based on the ones you've seen or met or even things about yourself are portrayed.
Therefore, somewhere in the world that combination will meet the person of it's exact type and they will be mind blown.
At least one person will love what you wrote.
o
Inspiration.
Productivity.
o
...
o
Something was supposed to be said, end note.
straying away from reality,
slipping into mentality constantly pushing to prevent a sense of disarray.
Say,
have you heard that little bit about Mister Parker?
Some say that he raped and killed his own daughter,
cause she'd wander into the darkness of night and learn all about flying from a boy with a bike,
who spent way too much time talking about something wrong being right.
Or what about Sister Imogene?
Last time I heard about the bride of Christ,
she was learning a lesson from a man with a knife.
The orphan of a Christian ward had learned the truth of what had been,
and asked the sweet old sister if 'morality' was a trend,
or was she just not thinking when she locked him in that closet,
for touching another boy with the tip of his pen.
It's truly been a while since I've witnessed Jerry's smile.
Yeah,
the man was a wimp but who'd be one to stand on trial.
It was said his mother never really treated him nice, because she always made him sit for hours on a block of ice.
And when he grew up it had been the reason he's infertile.
It forced his wife to leave him and caused his reasoning to curdle.
One night while she was asleep in her bed,
Jerry made sure he went straight for her head.
Now fictional characters are the things I admire the most, because as a writer or an artist, you develop a personality based on the ones you've seen or met or even things about yourself are portrayed.
Therefore, somewhere in the world that combination will meet the person of it's exact type and they will be mind blown.
At least one person will love what you wrote.
Inspiration.
Productivity.
...
Something was supposed to be said, end note.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Ambient Bullshit
Some nights I dream deeply of hanging myself from the shitty wooden balcony of my shitty second story apartment. Others, I dream of apocalyptic worlds devour the people I love. Sometimes, they are of just me, alone.
Some days I just want to write myself off. Then I think of all the pages already filled. How many more there are to fill. It stops me. That and the sad look in the eyes of people that matter. The fact that I am a staple in that sadness if I commit such treason. That killing myself, is just me being a bad friend.
It's bad enough I hardly call, let alone recall where my telephone is. I live in this false reality in my head. A faux complex of things going alright to cloud the indefinite tragedy that is my existence. Yeah, it's gotten pretty bleak. But for some reason I pursue my daily chores and eat at least one meal a day.
Existing. I guess that's all I'm doing, and perhaps that is all I am good at. Perhaps this whole writing thing was just another fun thing to add to my fun world filled with awesome things I do and for which I have talent. Or perhaps, this is all wrong and I'm just insane.
Maybe this is a journal entry. Maybe this is the start to an novel.
Who knows now?
Some days I just want to write myself off. Then I think of all the pages already filled. How many more there are to fill. It stops me. That and the sad look in the eyes of people that matter. The fact that I am a staple in that sadness if I commit such treason. That killing myself, is just me being a bad friend.
It's bad enough I hardly call, let alone recall where my telephone is. I live in this false reality in my head. A faux complex of things going alright to cloud the indefinite tragedy that is my existence. Yeah, it's gotten pretty bleak. But for some reason I pursue my daily chores and eat at least one meal a day.
Existing. I guess that's all I'm doing, and perhaps that is all I am good at. Perhaps this whole writing thing was just another fun thing to add to my fun world filled with awesome things I do and for which I have talent. Or perhaps, this is all wrong and I'm just insane.
Maybe this is a journal entry. Maybe this is the start to an novel.
Who knows now?
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