I listened to a heartbeat and realized how comforting…

ba bump

ba bump

365 days in a year

ba bump

ba bump

through every sigh and tear

ba bump

ba bump

when I’m wrought with fear

ba bump

ba bump

it is always here

ba bump ba bump

never giving up

ba bump ba bump

even when I erupt

ba bump ka thump

till death draws me near

ka thump

ka thump

ka thump

it shall be my cup

it won’t shed a tear

My heart never stops beating for me

Why do I give up on it?

Rain in a town without

There are only so many words that can come to mind at this point in my life. But only temporarily, that’s my anti-strife. I am compelled to exorcise the demons that once again prevent me from sleeping, the unfulfilled fears, the non-regulated negative fantasies that I hold with all my heart. For the last few months I’ve been tapering myself, from my sisters and my brothers. I have been keeping my cloudy mind locked away from others. Perhaps I view it as mercy, out of fear I’ll never recover. Every time this phase comes I’m reminded of the fact that I am sick. My mind plays tv static interspersed with the imagery of me being a dick. Perhaps it’s idolatry, an ego lacking euthanize. But I am compelled to prod my very being regularly with a stick. When I was growing up I was given a story my family would capitalize, about a girl who never was happy with herself, an image that never would crystalize. Spending hundreds and thousands on surgery scar after surgery scar, never seeing the beauty in the flaws of the natural art. Fear-mongering as it was I think I claimed a clear ideal well, everything has limits, checksum your ideals well. Have a capacity for the person you want to be, rationalize it with notions of what you’ve seen. Frankly I’m starting to like myself well, which means I’m starting to see what I really could dispel, a bit of fat from some gym-work and house-cook. Some unpleasant hair that makes me feel like a space-wook. Add a bit of heft to my front-load, slight aesthetical improvements that I desire feels like easy homework. I know I’m continuing my studies and this new life I’ve been given has so much room for new or improved buddies. New makeup tips, new hangout spots, new habits to engorge, new styles out, new clothing shops, new risks I can adore. My arts getting better because I can’t stop killing fear, from tracing to reffing to letting my mind travel without steer. I know now I have to do the hardest things alone, but when I’m clear I will not veer my self-image onto a throne. I love you.

Testing Theories, testing myself.

Turbulent times ahead.

Suddenly sharply so many simple tasks to succeed in.

I’m interested in interacting with inconceivable challenges.

Especially examining every external effort I expect excruciating difficulty with.

Challenges constantly change and create character.

If I intend to create an impact.

Lots lack the levity and lefthandedness to let their limits lose their power.

Anyone after all, can attempt it and acquire the ability to allow themselves to be alleviated of it all.

I have to believe in this.

Push Me

Each strand under each limb. Close my eyes. Sing me a memorable hymn. Drag me across, jagged sand. Above a mountain, wishing for wetlands. Whisper secrets in my warm ears. Feed my logic, kill my fears. Hold me caress me, pull me back. Treat me like a rabbit and reality, a hat. Keep me sober, give me dreams, push me and push me and push me till I wake. Wearing a smile that rivals the dawnbreak.

For Future Finales

Forever fastidious and flowing,
that’s how I’d like to be.
Perhaps frequently I’d like to feel,
flying among others somehow never faltering.
For as often as I can dream, I am compelled.
Compelled to wish for fleeting thoughts,
the first steps often always being so shaky.
Folklore finally sinking in.
For as much as I can read, meaning never found,
I can only fixate on the few functions I can accomplish.
Factions seem so clear, far from where they used to lay.
I want to find something, perhaps fantasy but never final,
aspiring to fictions that can never be my own.
My own life a grim hard fairy-tale, one I escape with faded glory.
For every falling figure skater, I only see a large finite fortunes being told
for many of the figures that compare their failure seems to hard to pin I wonder if I’ll have my own.

Romance of the fonts

As the bitter winds bite my flesh, soft strings clip against my hard heart. Oh how these days seem so bleak, always tangentially familiar. Closer than family, more common than friends foreboding and sharp. Comforting and fuzzy. Often times so much bigger than myself, dwarfing all I have and want. I feel held hostage by them, thusly, I feel others are held hostage by me having them as well. Ideation another friend that I just cant stop flirting with, always there, always an escape option. No matter how grim these tunnels are its there, mocking me. My own personal ultimate enemy, so then, why don’t I hate it? Why is the shadow so attached to me? Where’d it even come from? If my own most hated enemy is a part of me then what does that say about me? Media can’t touch reality and my life’s so unique no one can truly guide me, besides, if I had the path and answers…..I’d probably fight against a few choices, like the novel “Misery” I might not agree with the ending. So this is life huh, never feeling more alive than when I daydream, never feeling more dead than when I’m not. Finding things to be “funny” but oh so wishing they were more. No wonder I’d want to escape. Have you ever really looked at the words as you typed them? Each letter is a complex process being accomplished with no oversight beyond our own. These blank spaces and blinking cursors being our friend, calling for us at our own rate, our rush imposed purely by ourselves and others. Rows and columns of pixels changing their hue solely and completely for you. From ink to pixels ya gotta admit, it’s so romantic it’s almost impossible to be truly alone.

Wish You were Here

My shadow imprints the concrete every day,
in every month, with any weather, brightest in May.
There’s a noise in my head, a whispering clutching everything I am,
a sense of awareness, a sharp knife that can never go dull.
When I awoke and saw what I would never do I ran,
my breath feels elevated, the world seems small like the view from a Gull.
I want your hand on my breast, your hot breath on my neck.
Every day has been a fight, a schizophrenic scream in dark tunnels, listening to noises that echoed the cold concrete walls surrounding.
My doubt was so strong I started to believe my own nightmares,
from AM to P.M.
never letting go of Sam.
I want to break all the rules I held myself down with, I want to exceed every limit. I want my spark to never go to waste, I want to see every dark corners treasure. I will be better, I will be better, I must be better. That’s why I write these letters. For me and everyone, for me and no one. I must make them, the shy guy who never liked to smile in pictures is fading, the memories of every sharp howling painful breath leaving. My body will be a temple, my mind a machine so complex, no one can hurt it. Cogs with redundant paths, ciphers and literature scrawling it’s surface. Every path explored, every smile real. A light in eyes that none notice. Body language that screams, “life can be this.” Perhaps not with you, perhaps with you, but life must reach that point no matter what. I must achieve it, I must.

HeyHey

Here I lie on my bed, practically grinning ear to ear. Perhaps it’s numbness, a sensation I’ve missed for so long, when the racing and roaring thoughts slow to a crawl and so many of them feel like nothing. Noise is a comfort, the light ringing of the ambiance of a bedroom. Anxiety to anxiety, push to pull, I wonder if my ideas could be achieved. Not in spite of my life but because of them. Oh diary, I often feel so lost and here your blank space is offered fully for me to fill. I used to hate dresses, heels too. I always thought I’d be a hoodie kinda girl, I guess in a way I still am. I have a secret, a warm gooey secret that for the first time in my life feels so special I just can’t share it. Not because of gossip or morals but because by telling others I know no one will value it as much as me. Writing when I’m happy feels like bragging, kinda makes me feel gross. I’m just so giddy and hopeful for shedding this dead skin, being someone who’s curteous and thoughtful, sensitive and strong.
These words exited my hands, their tone mismatching my advance. I cut all open for ever, but I guess breaking even will occur never. You will ignore and judge, be mean and reconnect just to use your tether. I self abuse, I hold paranoias knife against my own throat. For only hourglasses to prove me true. But it’s okay, I can bleed until their is no more I’m still a doormat, I’m still so weak. Vials and pills, a generous share spills, when the situation flips, none for me to sip. No words, not even a pip.