almostgod.

I'm Richard. I'm pretty odd. Enjoy.

[cloudygod-blog1]

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Hey can someone tell me what genre they’d consider this? thanks

[cloudygod-blog1]

I am new

[slaughteringbunnies]

[slaughteringbunnies]

[slaughteringbunnies]

[cloudygod-blog1]

[cloudygod-blog1]

I'm jealous that you're not scared

[utrippy]

[i-am-haleyrose]

[ronrulezd00d]

[jellyrat]

[tsunzia-deactivated20160525]

[cloudygod-blog1]

flux

When asked simple questions such as, 'what's the first number that pops in your head?' My answer has never been able to be an honest one because the first thing that pops into my head isn't really a number. Always swimming through stockpiles of dates, and anniversaries, and events that, at this point in time, I had no reason not to forget them. It sounds so much simpler in writing than in practice, to just forget. The idea of a simple question being able to send me on long car rides in my head on roads made of pictures and letters from an older life of mine, one I'd rather be in, is absolutely astonishing. It wasn't until months after you left and I was still wrapping myself in a cocoon of blankets that I realized that the warmth I craved didn't come from cotton. I had to fist fight my mind in order to break free from chains I had placed convincing myself that I could replace the desire for your hands with a head rush and cigarette ash. Nicotine isn't good for me, but the tar in my lungs wasn't as harmful as the delusion I was shrouding myself in. I needed the confrontation in order to find an exit to the mirror maze I was trying to hide in. The thing about progress is that you don't feel like your making any until you look back on how your hands don't shake from the time you wake up until you fall asleep anymore. Yeah, there's still a hand grenade that goes off in your chest every time you think hard, but pay close attention and realize you're not ducking for cover and hiding in the bunker as often. My personal progress is graphed out like a roller coaster ride and it's a little sporadic sorta like how this poem turned out to be, if we can even call it that anymore. But I didn't intend on giving these words good structure because the last structure I had burned and toppled over and I'm just not into that anymore. Maybe it's better for there to be skyrockets and journeys to the center of the earth, maybe I am lying to myself again. I've fallen and ripped enough holes in my jeans in order to realize that the pain hurts but maybe it's not always a bad look after a while. Maybe this doesn't make any sense. Maybe I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore.

[danger]

[the-snake-hole]

[evakuiert]

[carlburton]