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Identityintention never went far
down the road at the
end but then again it
never did in its youth either
through the years its only
idea of excitement was the
thought of maybe being
young again in the future
circus of sanctitycommunity overcome by
roaring through the
commerce neighbourhoods in
urbanias down town area
slowly stating truths as lies
offenders bleached into rays of blue
forced to live amongst shadows
sanity slipps away as the mind
asumes memory as all we've got
noticing nothing but the
calculated risks of the end
tourmented by formal
indifferences backed by
timeless thoughts of lost
youth that once was...
defenselesstrembling you caress the
hopelessness caused by too many
surrounded as your soul
opens up to different truths of
never given the freedom to
dwell and choose amongst the wild
fall to your knees
after what feels like an eternity you
softly gather your thoughts as your mind
strays off yet again with
effortless lightness and phenomenal speed
running rapidly into the deep forest of memories
towards the light, a window of happiness
in a cabin of despair
vulnerable you complete the seemingly
endless journey of the day as
dynamic colours loops out of reach
entangled in shadows liberated
from any formal structure and you
erase all emotions but
never fail to see the
significant beauty of
even the smallest things in
evening brings light from a
sleepless you welcome the
nights cold as it
embraces your mind
solemnly the future falls into utter
... breathe in and smile
to draw a linetimeless motion in the direction of
optimism grabs me by surprise as I
dream of long gone futures
raging forward into the past
always venturing into the rather
wild parts of my subconcious
after eternity we will be
leaving for the stars in
interesting fashion with really
no time to waste on our seemingly
a slight flutteraroused by the moment we
smile... letting go of our fears
laying down our soulshields as we
invites the future to our past
growing long shadows of memories while we
hurl the remaining pieces into another
flying low with childhood heroes
leaving nothing behind but
untold lies we hurry happily further back in
towards the beginning of all, the
end of the world as they knew it as we all
rise and fall in beautiful asymmetry
roses and thornes
although sweet as the
in summers bloom
eternity linger in the golden
nowhere called future
awaits every corner turned
never ending the
divided truth as
youth falls behind ... waving its ´bon voyage!´
the peculiarities of life
Endlessly... we fall...
cognetive strenght as we
endeavor the practice of
never looking back...
reaching out for
intricate parts of reality...
concerned... we fall...
Positive emotions dance happily
as morning mist turns into droplets that
run down the side of your face like tears
and I rejoice while we
high as can be,
up into the sky, over the clouds - over the sea
time slows down... stops...
endlessly... we fly!
Freefalling ... waiting for the wacky 'chute to open
Falling further and further away from the ground
silently ... without a sound ... we rise
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,
if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”
i think to myself that humans are made
out of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’t
found a way to love us bloodily and morbidly
then he will never be able to look past any
of our self-taught imperfections.
but i say none of this, just nod and smile,
and wonder what it means that to her,
all that i am is a series of mistakes stacked
on top of each other. my entire body is a past
i cannot outrun no matter how many times
i move away and forget my name and who i used
she tries to take away my body, but i have fought
for sixteen years to gain these inches of self-love
and i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscle
and skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-three
percent star dust and that means ninety-three percent
of who i am has lived in a blackness so absolute
that the only light i had was the one i created for myself.
i want to tell her that’s something i thi
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scars
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
the dress hangs in the back of my closet,
ashamed, limp and dangling
like a hanged lady at the gallows.
it is a faded reminder
of years ago,
of the body I wore
in times gone.
I run my fingers over the pale fabric,
trying to recall that dark peach pit
rolling in my stomach,
that intrusive disgust,
that unclear thought running through
my mind that night.
I was younger, then,
when I decided
I'd never be worth
a frame on the wall.
I peeled myself apart
in front of the mirror,
shed the dress like snakeskin,
left it like abandoning a child
and sent myself to
shiver against the wall.
while they all laughed
at their faraway party,
I trembled over the lyrics
of the deafening silence
in my middle school bedroom,
trying to ignore
that sad pink pile of my image
laying fat and loose in the corner.
today I slipped on the dress again,
stepping my toes into its frigid waters
before letting it tumble down over me.
I stood at the mirror
and decided that the dress was lovely,
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's Train
I Met The Princess Of The Dawn,
But We Were
On The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,
again their bones are breaking
like the cracks in the Colosseum.
Death does not defend
fighters; he does not fulfill
godly goals of
heaven and halos.
I am inverted, introverted,
a jester jeering
at kids who kiss
like life is long enough to fall in love.
my mouth is a machine,
a new nightfall
ordering our soldiers out
into pits where they pray for peace.
the quirks of our
ridiculous readings rule us,
sand us into sculptures
thin and tall, trembling.
our universe is built on uncertainty
and vicious virtues
written by long-dead warriors who
expected to live forever, and
I do not yield to your
What's the Definition of Perfect?I will never be the definition of perfect.
I want to burn magazines,
And throw rocks at my T.V.
Just to block their noise.
I hate looking at a scale,
And feeling like I've failed.
I hate the number that appears,
It makes me want to disappear.
But then there is that moment I realize,
That this is my own life.
I will not live it,
By the rules of society.
I am my own definition of beauty.
And I am pretty damn good at it,
I am sure as hell not fat or ugly,
So screw all those names those kids said to me.
I am me,
I am not skinny.
I am not pretty
Not in societies eyes.
But that's okay because I am not fake,
I have plenty of mistakes.
But you know what,
Because I feel more beautiful than ever,
When I see myself in the mirror.
Just as me.
Than worrying about others,
And running from my imperfections in fear.
So guess what,
Fuck. You. Society
With your magazines and size 0 models,
Because that is something I never will be!
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