Devils kiss @devilskissgoodnight - Tumblr Blog

I’m self destructive You can tell by the way I look at you As if nothing in this world has any importance to me Nothing comes close, not even me, no one but you I build walls sky high around us, walls no warrior dares climb The world is at war, and certainly so am I I battle common sense, fight powers of reasoning To protect your love, to protect mine I hold your hand, I cling to every word you speak But you barely remember what I said five seconds ago Or my middle name, not even the color of my eyes See I held your hand, but you never held mine The number of times that I’ve told you ‘I love you’ and got no reply Stacking up to the heights of these walls I’ve build So i keep adding layers of brick, building walls to the heavens To protects us from all, yet you climb them Your eyes show no sign of remorse, I am a prison you say Walking in, you had no intention to stay I’m self destructive You can tell by the way I love you

Even when you don't love me

I think some parts of me—the lonely parts—are willing to settle for anything.

Any scrap of attention that comes my way is welcomed with open arms; praised almost. As if I am not worthy of attention; as if I am not worthy of affection.

I am though. But the lonely parts are, well, lonely.

Starved for any resemblance of love; when I’m hungry in a way that hurts, I will eat nearly anything. So I settle. I’m tired of the hunger. So it’s settled then;

parts of me are lonely, parts of me lick the floor, afraid to let any crumbs go to waste. Parts of me feel like waste, wasting away.

But they are not. I am not.

But when the hunger starts to hurt, I forget the luxurious meals I have tasted, those that I know without a doubt I shall soon taste again. When the hunger starts to hurt, the doubt creeps in.

So I lick the floor and pretend that the crumbs are a five course meal.

I lick the floor and pretend I am not lonely.

I think some parts of me—the lonely parts—are willing to settle for anything.

#excerpts from a book i'll never write #excerpt from a book i am writing #my writing #spilled ink #lonely #poem

Winter has dug its claws into me Hostage to the silence; Freezing cold I cling to any sign of life Watch it wither and die As do I At the first sign of spring, I come alive again Days spent bathing in sunlight Nights spent gazing at the moon Maybe if I drink enough water, Like the flowers in my garden, I, too, will finally bloom By summer, the chirping of birds has once more become a familiar lullaby; A serenade to which I dance; barefoot in the grass I am baptized in lakes; washed clean; reborn The earth spins on its tiptoes, demanding attention I gladly comply, not daring to look away; Afraid it might disappear Before I have memorized it, Before I have store enough life away, enough living For the winter As Fall makes itself known, the earth stills; trying to catch its breath I watch as the world turns bright orange and red By the time all green is gone, the leafs are falling around me Like a blanket, they cover the earth To keep safe, to keep warm I stay dancing; Under the sun, under the moon; through thunderstorms Afraid that if I stop; I might never start again

Seasons

What is left, when you can not decide your future, nor your present, and your past isn’t yours, nor was it ever. What point is there in existing, when you only wish to exist once the music is turned up loud enough to drown out the voices in your mind, voices that sound an awful lot like your parents. Or when you’re wasted drunk to the point where you finally forget that you are not someone to be proud of. That you simply are, and simply being is not enough, even if it is the single hardest thing you have ever experienced. What is the point of existing? And if you can’t find one, is there really any? Do you keep going, or do you simply just let go. Do you simply do the hardest thing of all, that makes everything else that comes after easier? Do you give in, let their fatal ruling of your character define your future, or rather the lack of it?

Excerpts from Old Scribbles

Forgiveness doesn’t always come from compassion I forgive you. Not because you deserve my forgiveness, not because you ask for it, you never do. No I forgive you, not for you, but for myself. I forgive you because I get tired from the anger weighting me down. It drains me of all that I love about living, and makes me feel like this isn’t where I wanna be. I'll never let anyone make me unappreciative of life, i’ll never let anyone hold that much power over me. So even when you don’t deserve it, and let's face it, that’s most of the time, I will still forgive you. Even when you don’t apologize, mainly because you haven’t realized your wrong doings, partly because you are denying them, I will forgive you. But don’t you ever mistaken that for weakness. Actually go ahead, I don’t care. After all, I know the truth, that’s all that matters. I forgive you, not for you and your peace of mind, but for me and mine. I hold the strength to forgive all those who wrong me and uplift myself in the process. I forgive you because if I don’t, I get nothing from the anger, yet the anger gets all of me. So in the end I always forgive you, because that Is something I have the strength to do, cutting you off on the other hand is a whole other story.

Forgive but don't forget

A time when breathing was once easy, is now a forgotten time. Like chocking on deep waters, it burns my throat. I try to grasp onto the memory, cling to it like my life depended on it. Yet it slips through my fingers, and I forget there was a time when I wasn’t broken. These days it is all there is to me. All there is to this life of mine. And unfortunately, time can’t be reversed. Sadly whats done can not be undone. If it could, I would mend this brokenness, undo everything; right down to the beginning. Every destruction, every downfall prevented. If only it was that simple, I would make breathing easy yet again. I would not grasp onto what had been lost, I would never allow myself to lose it in the first place. If I could turn back time, I would’ve loved myself, the way I begged you to love me. Maybe then I would have realized that I wasn’t unlovable, you simply weren’t capable of loving me.

Love me the way you couldn't

Im gonna live my life, but first; let me cry about it. So silly. Don’t you worry, I know. Im just tired of people telling me how to live and what to think. Im tired of letting them. I let their whispers and judging looks, make their way under my skin and into my blood flow. Let them travel, all the way from my mind to my heart. Let their words carve themselves into my skin, tattoo my bones and remold me. Believe it or not, I’ve seen my future. I’ve seen my heart stop in its tracks, I’ve seen it give up on me. I don’t blame it, my mind has done the same, time and time again. But I promised myself i’d live, so that’s what I’m doing. Trying the very best I can, for however long I’ve got. Trying to keep out all their looks and whispers, no longer letting them creep in, not letting them hold any power over me. As one can imagine, this is easier said than done. Actually, can you imagine? Do “normal” peoples brains work this way, do people without anxiety or other mental disorders get caught up in a whirlwind of panic, simply because of one wrong glance? Do people without mental disorders even care about what other people think about them, on any bigger level than in the complexity of the moment? Do they just go on with their day, forgetting dirty looks, letting all said stay in the moment. Or do they too, go on replaying the incident in their minds? Letting it play on a loop until it has brought them to their knees and run their tears dry? I wouldn’t know, so please do tell, for once I am asking. But do not mistaken this one question for a pass to further involve yourself. Do not think for a second that any further comments or glance will be appreciated. Stop. I SAID STOP! Do not tell me how to live my life, and what to think. I will no longer let you. Im gonna live my life, once I have cried about it. Do not try to tell me different, I will not listen. I will not let my mind trick me, into thinking that anyone holds any power over me. Nor will I ever again let my mind convince me, that any opinion of myself and life in general could or should outweigh my own. So hear me when I say this, because it is the last time I will hear you.

Boundaries

Anxiety; My “normal” looks different

Slip and fall. Get up and carry on and on and on. Practice self love, practice confidence, how can you expect to be great at something on your first try. Picasso didn’t just wake up to be the painter he was, rarely anyone ever gets it right the first time. Why would you expect to be good at something you have never done, never practiced. Something you've shielded away from due to societies preach of beauty and expectation fulfillment, yet it leaves you questioning everything. But I promise you, that if you keep trying, you will get there at some point. You will learn to love yourself unconditionally, as will I.

I promise to love you more than I hate you

A great fear of mine, one I do not feel often, but every once in a while washes over me, is that I am not as good as I believe myself to be. And I do not mean that I am not good enough or that I am not good at certain crafts or subjects, my fear is that I am not as kind hearted and good souled as I like to think that I am. See what I find important in this life, is not only to achieve greatness, but to become it. In the kindest and most loving way. I long to be good to others, and I take it upon myself to mend their wounds, hold every hand that is in need of one. But at times I fear that my kindness is only found in my head. That other people will see me for all the things that I am not, or all the darkness that linger under the light, and not realize that I am a kind and gentle soul. Other times I fear that they will see what kind and gentle soul I am but that the darkness will outweigh it. Because in the end everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but what if their opinion contradicts mine. No not their opinion, their belief. What if I am only kind in my mind, and in truth not kind enough, not kind at all.

A great fear

Note to self:This shit doesn’t make sense liv

How do I fill the glass, and more importantly, how do I ensure that the glass stays full?

It’s so exhausting existing like this. Every day just another 24 hours. The alarm clock goes off and the mind instantly tries to find reasons to get up.When none are found, you are already awake and cant fall back asleep.You do your routine, whatever that should be. Go to work, stay at home, none the less it’s all the same. It’s just 24 hours on a loop, your whole existence is a loop. Some days are different, some better, some worse, but all in all its a shitload of grey, boring, never ending days, where your mind seeks the darkest corners, makes up anxieties out of thin air, and turns hope and blissful memories into dust. It’s boring, it’s exhausting, it’s painful and mostly it is pointless. Why am I here, when I could be out there living my life. I’d like to think that somewhere in an altered universe another me is out there drinking Pina coladas at noon by the beach, dancing around in the streets with a big smile spread onto her face, singing out loud in the metro, living her best life, living mine. Somehow she’s managed to find a job she looks forward to every morning, something to be passionate about, something or even someone who makes her feel like she’s more than enough and whatever she wishes to do she shall. But this version of me, the only one I know is stuck here, wondering what point there is in existing when you are not existing as you wish. When you can not be let to decide your future, not even your present, and your past isn’t yours nor was it ever. What point is there in existing, when you only wish to exist once the music is turned up loud enough to drown out the voices in your mind, voices that sound an awful lot like your parents, or when you’re wasted drunk to the point you finally forget that you are not someone to be proud of, that you simply are, and simply being is not enough, even if it is the single hardest thing I have ever experienced. What is the point of existing? And if you can’t find one, is there really any? What is the point of putting yourself through that pain, all that misery. Setting yourself up for failure, grasping onto hope, knowing damn well its only gonna leave you crying into your pillow yet another night. What is the point of being, if you don’t want to be. If being is so disappointing, painful and heartbreaking each and every day, is there a point? Do you hold on, for your parents who don’t want you as you are, but as they are? Do you hold on for the friends, who want you not when you’re truly you, you with all your sadness, but when you are the you that cheers them on, to the point they forget what sadness feels like, whilst you drown in a sea of your own tears? Do you hold on for you, the you, you truly are. Who you have learned is not enough nor ever will be; unless you become someone else, someone more like them? Or do you simply just let go. Do you simply do the hardest thing of all, that makes everything else that comes after easier? Do you give in, let their fatal ruling of your character define your future, or rather the lack of it? Do you let go of them or yourself? Or do you simply let go of both? Maybe it is time to sleep into eternity, and next life around, things will be different. Maybe, Maybe not; but I’ve got hope. If not for me, for all the alternate universe versions of me out there, living the life I could only ever dream off, living the life I wish for all the ones I love, even the ones who never loved me back.

old scribbles

I long for something that might not exist. Something that once was, but is no longer. I ache for a hug from my mother, one that can make me whole, the way it used to when I was younger. But they simply don’t do it anymore, make me feel better I mean. But I still try, I hug my mother as if my life depended on it, at times it feels like it does. I long for something that might not exist. A place where I feel at home, somewhere I find peace and quiet, love and laughter. And all though my house still has all of those things, it doesn’t feel like home. It’s just a house that i live in. I used to have it, that feeling of being home, being at peace with my soul, being whole in a way that could never empty out. Turns out it could. I long for something that might not exist. I have been empty for quite a while now, and I do not know how to move on from that. From knowing that once, everything was just right, and somehow it still came out wrong. Somehow I lost everything in me that made me me, yet it is all still right there. When I close my eyes I see it, I open them and it is gone, I can never quite reach it, feel it. I long for something that might not exist. Something that once was, but is no longer. Now I see ghosts, of people that once were, and still are, but aren’t. I look into mirrors, and ghosts stare back. Haunted by memories, I accept the feeling of cold that has become my soul, and pray that one day, all that i long for will return to me, and I will once again feel whole when I hug my mother.

Longing of a ghost

I travel far too often. Into the depths of my mind. I imagine myself in different places and different situations, with different people. I imagine myself to be more of who I long to be, imagine myself to be different. I could simply go out and be different, meet different people, in different places, create different situations. But I don’t. Instead I dream of it, every chance I get, every ticking second i can spare. It reminds me how unfulfilled this life of mine is, not that it is not a somewhat good life, but somewhat good still feels awfully dull. I do not know why I find it so difficult to live as I dream. Maybe because of all the things that could go wrong, maybe because I am not who I dream to be; confident and easy going are sadly words I do not find in my vocabulary. Or maybe it is because I am afraid that I will dive into it, only to realize that what I imagined would be an ocean, is only a pond. Whichever reason, it still brings the same result. The painfully ugly truth is that I do not go out and live my life, instead I go on dreaming of it as the seconds pass me by.

harsh reality//beautiful dream

You got under my skin and then you left, so i cut up my skin hoping you’d exit with my blood. But you didn’t, so now I’m lying in a pool of blood and you’re still the only thing I can think about.

Old scribbles

I met him at a point where I needed to be by myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I had forgotten how to survive on my own. And the best way to be reminded was by doing so. He met me at a point where he needed someone to teach him what love really meant. And I was the last person to teach the lessons of love, I didn’t even know how to love myself. Somehow we still made it, not to the finish point, but for a while, we made it. Had we met later we might have made it all the way to the finish point. Then I wouldn’t have devoted all my tears to him, maybe then I would’ve known how to be alone, and stayed because I wanted to, instead of the feeling of needing to. Maybe then he would have known how to love me, the way all the wrong ones did. Maybe then we could have loved each other, without ripping each other to shreds.

Fatal love

Missing. Pieces gone, disappeared into the sky night. The world is literally dancing circles around the sun and I’m caught in my room wondering why everything has to change. As if the world revolves around me. I have come to terms with change. Change in the seasons, aging, death, birth. Yet I never imagined the change in us, in me. I get it, we all change, we gain knowledge, we break, we heal, we grow, we evolve. We change every single day, slowly, and that I accept. But that a person can become unrecognizable over night, I have not yet come to terms with. They say the worst day of you life is when your loved ones get taken away from you, buried 6 feet under. But what do you do when your loved one is standing right in front of you, and all you see is a stranger in their shell? How do you grieve a person who is still alive. How do you let go? The world may not revolve around me, never has, never will. But I will not come to terms with change, not when it can take away one soul, to be replaced by another over night. Not when it can replace you

Not when it can replace me

I’ve got my whole life in front of me. This is just the beginning of your life, they say. Then how come it feels like the end? They don’t know what it’s like, or maybe they just don’t remember, and I don’t know which scares me most. To know that I am alone in feelings whatever it is, that has my heart racing in panic; or to know that who I am, everything I feel, at this very moment, will be forgotten by everyone including myself.

Scared

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