Shadow of the Eclipse @clockworkorgans - Tumblr Blog

I broke up with him. I was being drained of all my patience and energy . He might be gone but I'm still sad. Depressed. I wanna stop breathing and go where it's always warm. He ,they, are but one of my demons.

That doesn't much make sense. If you're being drained of your energy, it was essentially a living death anyway. But now that he's gone you still desire that emptiness? The logic doesn't add up there, else you'd not have left him. I think you're sad that it's another "failure", but no great successes happened on the first attempt. The first prototype. You can't give up just because decisions are hard. My heart is shrapnel, I still find ways to love and people worth loving. May they hurt me? Splinter me further? Absolutely! But so what? I'm a firm believer of better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. In this case it's better to have tried and failed than never at all. No?

What youre saying is right and I understand I can't compare, but it's been so long missing this other person. It's been a year and a half that he's occupied my mind. Thank you for answering

It's a feeling I'm well acquainted with, as my intermittent writing shows. I understand better than I'd like to admit. But such is the weakness of the human heart and mind. I have a question however. Why start something new if the old wound hasn't closed? Do you miss the person, or just what that person gave you/made you feel? Are you in this for the long game or is it to staunch the wound of loneliness? What stops you from reaching out to the original keeper of your attention? Anyway, answer of you so choose. You can always message me if you'd prefer to speak one on one, or stay here if you'd prefer anonymity.

I'd like to think he would be more like the one I miss every damn day. There's a hole there still

But he's not him. So he wouldn't be like him even if he was like him. If you understand my meaning. The hole has a specific shape to it. And it'll only be filled by the one who left it. That's, unfortunately, just how it goes. Something missing in the look they give you, something lacking in the way they touch you. A strange block where your bodies meet that was never there with the one who left the hole. Strange doubts about yourself, you never had when you were with the other. It'd a vicious thought process. How longs it been for you?

Who is this person you're reaching for ??

The poem is about my ex. I figured that was pretty plainly obvious.

I don’t write much anymore. And when I do, it’s not quite the way it used to be, is it? I wonder if you’ve noticed the absence of my florid depictions and all together, all too wordy portrayals of love, beauty and grace. I wonder if you’ve noticed I don’t write much about you anymore. I guess that’s why it’s hard for me to write. To find beauty worth framing between these ruled lines. My muse is dead. Dead. Ugly. Gone. Yours was a hard death. Ours was a hard death. For me. But I’ve knelt graveside and dropped tears on the headstone. I replaced the bouquets a few times. And maybe a few times too many after that. I overstayed my welcome in that graveyard, talking to your ghost. Losing myself in the aether of the place. Travelling down the same nostalgic avenues and sitting the same curbs with your spectre. It was wonderful for a time. Hearing even an echo of your voice. Catching even a whiff of your scent, regardless of how acrid it’d become in time. I guess I pulled the wool from over my eyes. I’d extinguished the glamour I’d cast over everything that had to do with you. I looked at the house we built for the first true time in a year. I saw the stained wallpaper. The gnarled, ruptured hardwood floor. I saw the broken windows and cracked foundations. I saw the ghosts in the hall and banished the phantasms. I came across a quote from The Crucible recently. It shook me and has me trembling still. It read, “I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I’ll ever reach for you again.” Maybe that’s why I haven’t been writing much lately. It’s difficult to write with the wrong hand.

The Crucible, Prose, MD

who's the girl youre always writing about?

It’s rarely specifically one. More often then not it’s a construct of several memories, trains of thought, and experiences that I derive the feelings from to put to paper. The ones that are specifically about a single person, it’s more obviously written in the pronouns and sometimes blatant nods to real life events.

Hers was the beauty that sent souls to meet their maker. Her beauty, the glory that sent rational men to their ends despite their better judgement. Hers was the tower that inspired adventure. That invited the folly of man. The poems and odes would make you believe salvation hung from her tongue. The bards and minstrels would weave tales and songs of her grace in such litanies you’d believe she was kept in her tower to hang the Moon in the night sky. I’ve discovered that princesses always sit in their highest windows. At first I believed this to be for the view. I’ve since learned better. As you step with haste, neck craned to catch a glimpse of her radiant face in that portal, you pay no heed to the bones of those failed and before you crushed underfoot. As you stand before her, ensorcelled in the symmetry of her lips and the diamonds of her eyes, you pay no heed to the countless hearts laid at her feet. If, like me, you survive the encounter, you may come to understand that there is a reason some “perfect” princesses are kept locked in towers.

Princess, Prose, MD

I'm on my hands and knees. Here I am succubus. Bend to your task and be done. Slit my throat and be done.

A line I need to keep for future use.

She always used to say she was a summer girl. I believed her until I got to know her. I think the truth of it was that she’d only known summer for so long of her life. She didn’t know she could be anything else. Anyway, this is a poem describing a girl who was the Fall. She was warm days and cold nights. Shawls and thick sweaters. Bundles and blankets to wrap her slender bones. Charms tinkling on her wrist in tune to the rings on her fingers. Earth stones. Stones of power. Stones of silence. She was park benches on grey days with the mottled, bruised leaves caressing the air about her in their descent. She was the promise of fresh turned earth. The scent of wet trees and nature exhaling. The first and last light through the canopy. Morning’s dew clinging to gilded spider’s silk. Mist and fog swirling about the roots of mortal forests, burning away slowly in the rising sun. Its summer brashness and bluster tempered now, almost apologetic in its climb. Guilty at disturbing the Twilight. Forlorn for fading the stars. She was the stillness of a world about to fall asleep. The transition to a dream. The ethereal hum of a world in which magic could exist. Ephemeral. The dark lips and long lashes her otherworldly eyes would hide behind during a smile. Ephemeral. But sempiternal to me. Forever for me.

A Girl Named Fall, Prose, MD

If anyone is awake and free for a few moments, I would appreciate a stranger to talk to.

Also, trust me anon. Alone is where the best people are.

I feel incredibly alone. My sister (who is my best friend) is in Amsterdam for the summer. My boyfriend, though I adore him, cannot be my only friend as that is ridiculously unhealthy. The only one of my friends that I can tolerate is usually busy. I can't stand most people as I really don't fit in anywhere, and everyone turns out to be shitty. The friends I do have I cannot stand because I find them pathetic. So here I rant to you, stranger on the Internet. I am thoroughly exhausted.

Pro tip. Ditch your friends because they're not. Find better people. Sounds daunting. It's really not surround and immerse yourself in things you enjoy. Hobbies, talents, passions. And in turn meet people through them who share the same interests. It's good that you recognize your bf can't be your only rock because yes, speaking from experience, it's a terrible amount of pressure and serious strain to a relationship. As for investing in me, I'm honoured and would invite you to vent whenever you might need to.

Is your heart full of bullet holes ? Do you feel like you're mending ?

Bullets would be far too quick, and far too kind.

You're an amazing writer and I love your poems. I hope you have a good day and that you smile a lot. You deserve to be happy as much as anyone else :)

Thank you so much. I'm glad you appreciate my work and I hope I continue to please

godshideouscreation

Anonymously ask me one thing & I'll answer it, no matter what.

clockworkorgans

I need inspiration for writing. Let’s see what your questions give me.

Salut de l'autre cote. Hey. How are you? I had to walk through a lot of ghosts to get here. To find you. To be honest, it took me a while to look here. Even now, standing before you, I can't help but be a little surprised. This was the last place I ever thought I'd find you. With all these ghosts behind the doorway to "the past" But here we are, aren't we? And I guess there's no going back. I mean the door to the past isn't always one-way, but it my experience it pretty much always should be. Probably in your experience too. It would explain how quickly and quietly you hid yourself here. Anyway. This is where you've chosen to be. It pains me, but I accept it. Though since I'm here, let me have a minute of your time? To talk to you. Well. Talk at you. Since you're a ghost and dead things have no voice. How are you? Sorry, I already asked that didn't I? Silly question anyway. I doubt you, well your ghost, knows the answer to that. I wish I could see what colour your hair is now. Your ghost is just grey here. Did I ever tell you which was my favourite? To be honest, I'd be hard pressed to. I loved them all. You wore them so well. Have you cut it shorter again? Have you committed to growing it out? Who knows, I guess. And what does it matter? Still, they're things I think about. Do you still wear the jewelry I got you? Or have you taken them all out and hidden them away like my terrible painting? I guess I wouldn't blame you. I mean, I did burn everything the first time around. Do you still wear the boots I got you? Are they still as comfy Do they still make you smile? I hope so. I can still picture you so vividly in my red sweater, a pair on panties and those little booties. Still brings a smile to my face too. Do you still sweat at night? Wash your pillows and sheets three times a week because of it? Have you painted over the nail marks and heel scuffs we left on your bedroom wall? If not, do you still notice them sometimes and smile? And if not, do you look at the fresh paint sometimes and regret it? Does it still say "if" on your wall? And if so, is it still surrounded by storm-clouds? Do you ever look at it and wonder "what if"? Do you still lift that lilting voice of yours to notes that made my hair stand on end? You weren't always a ghost but your voice was always haunting. I miss weaving my own into it. Do you still sing with your banjo? Did you finish the ones you were learning for us to sing? Does it still feel yellow and orange? What's your colour now? It's strange I'll never know. It's strange I'll never hear that banjo twang. Because you're a ghost, and I'm an exorcist. But maybe one day, I'll pop my head into the door to "the future", and spend a while searching the crowd for you.

Twang, Life Writing, Bit Lip

It’s a strange thing The wax and wane The ebb and flow of life And the blissful ignorance We feign. An entire life Rearranged In a day Familiar becomes… Strange. We sit and listen To that familiar voice. Never given A single choice About the goosebumps that rise And assault the fortress of mind There’s no control That much is sure In remembering a time That voice was a purr. It’s a strange thing. The differences between now and then Knowing I’ll never drink The pure poison of her lips Ever Again.

Pure, Free Verse, MD.

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