Crymsin Notes

musings and writings and art by me. in my 30s, healing, rediscovering

[crymsinfox]

Dead (To me)

The dead do breathe-

They walk and heave,

Shed a trail of skins

Like eager snakes,

attending their own wakes

They watch us cry and wail

Over each long-forgotten tale,

Delight in wringing hands-

Hanging heads and weeping eyes

Are to them sweet lullabies

My melody soothed you most,

I being the unwitting host

Of shards and shadows

Forged in crimson ire,

Deep in your self loathing mire.

My deepest fear was losing you,

That you'd fade like morning dew

Consumed by rising sun-

But, for love, I could not see

That you were always dead (to me).

-CF

[crymsinfox]

In the name of the Future, the

Powers that be took loved ones

From you and from me.

Oaths so loyal we made them

Swear, and Progress

Left them dead and dying there.

The lies we're told are all

For naught, since

Truth has always been forgot-

Still it mattered

Not to me, for I'd forged

My own, new sanity-

That too was false,

And now I see

That all of Them were

Always me.

[crymsinfox]

We call greenest years our best,

Wherein we know so much less,

But gold is autumn's lovely hue

With knowledge, and fine beauty, too.

We resign ourselves unto the grave,

At such a tender, wanton age-

The glass is only just half filled,

Miles left till heartbeats stilled.

Oh, we've got so much to go,

Before our efforts overflow

To stain carpet with grief and tears-

Still we have so many years.

[drunkwriternim]

When I say I don't want to show people what I wrote, it's mostly because I don't want them to take a glimpse of my soul, and then treat it like they treat its vessel

[crymsinfox]

I walk through the cemetery of

All my past selves, and marvel

At the sheer number of

Cold, blank headstones-

It's time for engraving.

[metaphorsnlavender]

"I exist. in thousands of agonies, i exist."

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

[crymsinfox]

In the name of the Future, the

Powers that be, took loved ones

From you and from me.

Oaths so loyal we made them

Swear, and Progress

Left them dead and dying there.

The lies we're told are all

For naught, since

Truth has always been forgot-

Still it mattered

Not to me, for I'd forged

My own new sanity.

That too was false,

And now I see

That all of them were

Always me.

[crymsinfox]

They lit the lamps, said follow the light

But we must go into the darkness of night,

Look with our hands, not with our eyes

To find the truth that they so despise.

[crymsinfox]

I love old places,

Things that are worn,

Books with patched up

Pages, once torn.

I love musty dead roses and

nights that are black,

Journeying off without

A way back.

I love things that are spent-

The pain is all done.

There is now nothing left

But to wait for the sun.

[crymsinfox]

Why do we run back to

Hurt? Open old wounds,

And bleed anew

On pale carpets of new rooms?

Why not think of what comes

Next? Learn to scar,

Not stay perplexed by thrums

Of pain that's now afar?

Why manufacture

Ghosts of choice?

Allow hope to fracture,

Give fear a voice?

Why forsake ourselves

To the mess we make?

Browse empty shelves

and try to take?

Nobody knows,

Not you, not I,

And so it goes...

But why?

[crymsinfox]

Bloodred tendrils, heavy, damp sway

In canyon breezes, clumsy, dancing-

Echoes of counterfeit joy

That can exist only in

Deeper chasms.

[crymsinfox]

I am pink, weightless, floating gently

Wrapped in billowy thoughts of you

Mouth pouring a syrupy nocturne,

Unaware that as light wanes,

The pink will too.

[crymsinfox]

Merciful golden flame chases away

Encroaching frost, and I am content

Mind swaddled in joyous

Anticipation of cold

Tomorrow

[crymsinfox]

Oh what a power it is

To think, unbridled

And taste wildness!

To dream, and wake, bathed

In frothy morning light,

Home again, whole

To see familiar, worn faces

And recall briskly what has

Etched each loving crease

To understand keenly that

Wildness cannot exist

When you belong

To yourself.

[crymsinfox]

The ceiling is a constellation of regrets

As portentous abyss swallows me whole

My languid soul softly remarks that

Waking life is just slightly

Unsettling

[crymsinfox]

Oh what a power it is

To think, unbridled

And taste wildness!

To dream, and wake, bathed

In frothy morning light,

Home again, whole

To see familiar, worn faces

And recall briskly what has

Etched each loving crease

To understand keenly that

Wildness cannot exist

When you belong

To yourself.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Franz Kafka, letter to his father