Eliza

write the hell out of poems

[e-lieza-blog]

My definition of heart ache became obsolete and incomplete. I was fixated on the feeling of nothingness and defined by the feeling of everything My drunken words became a pitiful cry and my sober eyes were never dry My chemically infused brain became my name And the plant became my chain heart ache wasn’t real anymore because the narcotics covered up the hurt heart ache wasn’t real anymore because you covered it up with more ache heart ache wasn’t real anymore because fucking became nothing and nothing became everything and everything I did became a worthless piece of nothing

[e-lieza-blog]

August 1st 7:35 pm I see it. I see it so clearly. I see your sadness. I see it. I feel it in the way your hand moves. I feel it in the way you need me, but you also need them. Your touch feels sad. So do your lips. Your kiss is so sad. Your eyes are so sad. Your hands are so sad. Your sex is so sad. This is so sad. We had sex, and I think I wanted to cry. I feel it. I feel it in your sex. I feel it and its so sad.

[e-lieza-blog]

Fuck. my mind is fucked. it’s a mess. a mess of broken and baked chemicals flowing in and staying forever. you are a fuck. just a fuck. you are a mess. a mess of misunderstood actions and unreconcilable consequences.

[e-lieza-blog]

The sweetest taste of impurity. Your taste. The taste of poor decisions and a deafening cry to feel something other than sad. You taste like tears. You taste like her. You also taste like her too. Your mouth kisses sincerely but your tongue moves sinfully. Your lips drag me through hell And Your taste doesn’t help.

[e-lieza-blog]

this is how I feel about you

July 24th 10:01 am Your eyes. What a lie. What a fucking lie. Your mouth, filled with an unsubstantial hurt, that spills your heart, and kisses her lips. Your heart, a purity. A purity only for yourself. And the intentions of feeling nothing. Your hands. The sweetest part about you. Your hands are deceit and they match your lips. Your hands are not your own, but the property of tendency. A fucking tendency. A true fucking tendency. The tendency to fuck. Those are your hands. Your eyes do the same. They look at me like they see me, but they only see mess. They only see friend. But they lie. They have been lying to my eyes. They have been spilling your secrets of an unnatural need to be alone. You fuck yourself. You do this to yourself. Stop fucking me because I don’t fuck a liar who fucks himself.

[e-lieza-blog]

I'm faded like the jeans lost in your sheets

[e-lieza-blog]

Standards

Heart sinks with your words, every word coming in but never coming out Your unexperienced hands and narrow minds find nothing but the accepted Nothing but the world altered standards that allow you to be upstanding citizens and quite frankly, fucking boring people Your eyes have seen no such beauty of a mess, and your mouth has tasted no such thing of a sin Your heart has never felt the jolt of life, but is confined in a structure of the straight and narrow Your hands write scripture but does your soul know what it really means to know Jesus? My steps are nothing but a personal damnation to hell but your words are nothing but a judgmental path to a lonely life You claim to love life but you have never dared to test it You see people but you don’t feel people, you judge but you don’t know

I have seen my heart in more ways than one I have seen my hands holding bottles, Bibles, pills and pipes I have felt my feet walk, run, jump, rest and fall My ears have heard music deeper than just in sounds, I have seen it My eyes have seen more than your American dream family could ever imagine They have cried tears. I mean, real tears. My heart has broken. Not for love, but for life.  For misery, for abandonment, for mistakes. My own mistakes. My head never stops, it is continually questioning, hating, mutilating and manipulating my heart, hands, feet, ears and eyes.  

That is living. That is feeling. That is understanding. That is hurting. That is pain. That is regret. That is change. That is failure. That is second chances. That is existence. That is God.

I pray that you miserable fucks will be able to feel true liberation one day, but until then, stay away from my fucking heart and don’t try and fix me.  

[sskeptical]

[e-lieza-blog]

Demean me and say you did say we did

[e-lieza-blog]

kiss to forget

[e-lieza-blog]

(Eliza Elkins) 

This one just makes me feel. 

The absence of words is extremely important to me. It allows you to feel, what you want to feel, and allows me to feel, whatever the hell I want to feel.

It’s a beautiful world of oblivion. A forgettable and forgeable landscape of human expectation and expression.

[e-lieza-blog]

what do you love about music?  to begin with, everything.

[e-lieza-blog]

I believe what we believe is all based on circumstance. Therefore why I believe that life choices are based on circumstance is because I at some point in my life was put in a circumstance that made me choose to think the way I do.  

[e-lieza-blog]

8:10 pm

You are my weakness. Your breath breathing like its your final first breath to breath. Your eyes confirming my demented and tormented and twisted heart Your mouth tasting my mouth and your hand feeling everything but my hand Your feet feel me too they feel me more than I feel you

My breath breathing like you are my first and only breath My eyes contorting to the ways of your demented and tormented and twisted heart My mouth tasting your mouth and my hand holding your head down My feet are feeling you too they rap themselves around your body like a desperate plea of sacrificial safety

Our breath is breathing in unison like we will never breath together again Our eyes become lost in the intentions of only having bad intentions Our mouths taste each other and our hands hold each other back when we both continue to fall forward Our feet are feeling too they are beggars , begging for something more

i beg at your feet begging for something more something more than a falsified satisfaction of a generational group masturbation a fucked sense of the word one and an even more fucked sense of fucking

[e-lieza-blog]

Words. all you can see in the room are words. The whispers are tangled in the split light pouring through the blinds.   The sheets are stained with love, and the people tangled within them are stained in the most innocent state of satisfaction.

[e-lieza-blog]

Damn it.

A damaged mind can only go so far until the damn mind breaks for a damned society of damaged minds.

Screw it.

A screwed body can only go so far until the screwing parts break beneath the screwed society of screwing bodies.

Fuck it.

A fucked person can only go so far until the fucking person breaks under a fucking society of fucking expectations.  

[e-lieza-blog]

this is about you

You are a ruiner. In the greatest sense of the word, you are a ruiner. A destroyer, a ripper, a fucker.

Your mouth drips with the wisdom of words and your skin glistens with an irrational sense of beauty.   Your hands are strong with deceit and your eyes speak only of the purist form of bad intentions.  

You fuck with mind, not with heart.

I was touched, broken and fucked with a mind that believes in the inability of open mindedness. I was fucked by a mind that minded who it fucked but gave no fucks if the person it was fucking also minded about the fucking person she was fucking in a world who mindlessly fucked.  

I was broken by boys who smoked their way through conversations and drank until they saw my eyes as beautiful and my lips as worthy.

My heart was taken when you fucked me and refused to hold my hand when I told you it hurt.

My confidence was belittled when you wouldn’t look at me without the glare of an illegal mind numbing substance.

I lost myself when I refused to see my place as a used rag. I lost myself when I begged for more. I lost myself when I slept in your bed. I lost myself when I left your bed. I lost myself when I craved your bed. I lost myself when I wanted more. I lost myself when I fell at your feet. I lost myself when I became a whore. I lost myself when I wouldn’t change. I lost myself when I cried myself to sleep. I lost myself when I prayed to God that he would take my heart away. I lost myself when I tried to take my own heart away. I lost myself when I believed in love. I lost myself when I believed I deserved to be loved. I lost myself when I became me. an unsubstantial, vacant body I called home. a numb version of someone who desperately needed to feel. a false sense of the word living. a damned soul.

[e-lieza-blog]

(Eliza Elkins)