Quote of the day.
Written by poet Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
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@p0eticyou
Quote of the day.
Written by poet Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
wandering through the hellish terrain that is your life drifting past the same checkpoints again and again travelling in a circling path, eternally waiting for nonexistence passing by one more time, two more times, twenty, a hundred everything is memorized but it is all a mindless blur you donāt so much move as float, floating through dust and ash the side effects of your sanity being burned into the ground everyone you have loved threw their own match onto the pyre everyone you ever trusted threw a little gasoline you looked up and saw them with their lies and fire and knives you stood in the flame, arms outstretched, welcoming the inevitable but instead of mortality confirmed, all you got was burned, singed impermanent injuries leaving scars that would stay past your death you are a patient in the wretched abyss of the hospital for souls but āhospitalā is a misnomerāan outright lieā more apt would be morgue awaiting to become morgue graveyard biding its time for the digging of new graves hell beckoning for angels freshly fallen from grace it is not a hospital that pushes you daily closer to the edge it is not a place of healing that feeds poison into your veins laying you in beds of nails and thorns, whispering cruel little nothings you pray to a god you cannot trust for peace or death prayers do nothing and you are powerless so you continue in the same patterns over and over circling past the same checkpoints again and again waiting for something to change when you know it never will
What do you do When your heart has found Itās perfect match The one worth fighting for The one whose embrace feels like home No one is perfect We are beautifully scarred Deep heartache Heavy tears Frustration Yet, without hesitation In each otherās arms We ache together We sob incessantly And drift off into nothing Safe in embrace I would take on the world for you Stand at your side Until your last breath or mine Separates our souls And I will then begin my search for you, again
#tmd #tinypharmd #ibleedink
Bodies pile up as I walk from the fire
Burning is the charm they claim I have
The personality they want me to maintain
A nice guy
Thatās never been me though
Iām a neutral lone asteroid
Just looking at the supernova that is life
Drifting in the blackness that is space
Thinking
Just thinking of days Iāve wasted
Nights Iāve stayed up, never feeling like sleep was an option
An overachiever by all means
It seems like thatās always been me
Funny, they want me to make them feel better
I usually comply
But how can I make you feel better when I canāt feel at all
I suppose thatās me
The weird kid
The friend
Yeah, thatās me the friend
Nothing more
Nothing less
Thatās what it means to be Verbose
Thatās what it means to be Des
Thatās what it means to be Khadeem
Thatās what it means to be me
Ā Khadeem, Des or Verbose
You hoping I would feel something made me laugh, I donāt know why. Its probably a reply from the pit of my stomach, From the tension in my temples,Ā from the curling of my toes, asking me to acknowledge the presence of things unsolved and ignored, As I try to do in times of comfortable soltitude. Its easy for me to pull a cover over these things, though, And present to people a more relatable, sometimes shallower, version of me.Ā Because leaving the cover off,Ā Would reveal a distortion, a complete disfiguration of reality,Ā And my pride, damn it all the way to hell, Stops me from such tremendous vulnerability, And my toes continue to curl, My teeth continue to grind. Manslaughter, no matter how seductive, Wonāt really help me feel, Itāll just add to the mayhem of feelings That I already endure, helplessly. You can keep your life,Ā And the clarity of your pain, And I shall sit here and envy it shamelessly.
Came across this poem today in my local library. Reminded me of someone I used to know.
Iām trying my best to expose a variety of styles. This is one of the final lines in Walt whitmans, āSong of Myself.ā Illustrated by Allen Crawford. Reminder that poems have more depth than just words on paper and that drawings often speak stronger than words can
Eyes of black, dead as night- he lured me in with effortless fright. His sole intention hidden, he was a master magician. A godly face with a satanic heart, he made sure I played my part. He bled me slowly for all to see, behind smoke and mirrors was only me. I suffered alone and struggled to learn, how his emptiness was cured by watching me burn. And soon I discovered it was more than just him, friends, family, and society couldnāt wait to jump in. Me against the world, who would have ever guessed? Depression and substances to rely on, I became a member of the opressed. Some of it still hurts, some I have buried away. But the most beautiful part is I will still fight every day. Am I crazy now because of all of this? Some would say yes. But donāt flatter yourself, Iāve always been my own kind of mess. The outcome some will be surprised to see, through years of your hate, I have learned to love me.
Una ViƱeta de un Flechazo
She holds her hand out in the hallway, and our fingers entwine-a passing moment. I make a face. She laughs, a brash sound like muted sunlight on dark, sunburnt shoulders. She walks away, her hips swaying, just enough. I sigh.
I wish I was the kind of girl Who can put on so much lipstick just to leave her kiss on the butt of a cigarette I wish I was the kind of girl Someone might ask to come to that party because Iām tired of being lonely and sober
Fifteen sorries
Iām sorry I wasted your time. Iām sorry I thought what we had was real. Iām sorry I compared you to the beauty of drugsāaddicting yet hurtful. Iām sorry Iām clingy. Iām sorry I just wanted you. Iām sorry I held you back. Im sorry you made me hornyāI thought you liked it for a while. Iām sorry I thought you were mine. Iām sorry I said I loved youāyou said it to me but you didnāt like it when I said it to you? Im sorry for being emotional. Iām sorry you found things out the hard way⦠Im IMMENSELY sorry you found out I lied to you. Iām TERRIBLY sorry I used you sexuallyāI didnāt know you didnāt like it anymore. Iām EXTREMELY sorry for exposing you. Iām INCREDIBLY sorry you now know I wasnāt loyal to youāmy selfish ways got the best of me. But Iām not sorry for loving you. Iām not sorry I gave you so much of me. Iām not sorry to say I really did care about youāeven if I didnāt treat you right.
I am Not Pregnant with My Rapist's Baby
Day 1: I might be pregnant with my rapistās baby. My hands have had razor blade fingers since that night and now I shove them down my throat hoping that something, anything will come up in the bile. Thereās bright red, but not where it should be and I swear I havenāt gone to a bathroom stall this many times in a day since I tried to escape field day in 4th grade. Who knew such disappointment could come from 152 seconds in a bathroom stall the shade of my great grandmothers nightgown? Each time I hold my breath in anticipation or maybe to suffocate this thing consuming my mind, my body
Day 2: Its overreaction. 2 days isnāt even that late. breathe in turquoise and breathe out lilac. Think of cotton candy clouds and pretty girls and purple lip liner. Forget dark eyes and green shirts and cheap whiskey and the whole fucking state of Georgia.
Day 3: This cup of tea is 214 degrees and still not hot enough to melt my rotting insides, flies buzzing around and the stench of death coming from within, how could something new grow?
Day 4: I havenāt been on a roller coaster since 2003 at a carnival and I threw up the best funnel cake in Illinois but now Iām searching for one I can get to that is most likely to give me whiplash without limits on how many rides.
Day 5: I promise to wait two more days and then go into a run down convenience store where their eyes are the size of the walls and they look down on me while I am both two inches and twenty feet tall. The cashier will ask if I found what I needed and I will smile and nod as my nose grows longer than I am tall. What I need is a truck in neutral at the top of a hill; a tall building with a way up and no way down; a fast train without headlights. What I need is some morphine and a bottle of cheap vodka; just enough white powder and a bottle of Jameson that only runs out when you stop drinking. What I need is silence.
Day 6: Maybe if I run until my kneecaps fall off and calves crumble I can shake this burning ember out of my body and thoughts.
Day 7: I am not pregnant with my rapistās baby. I am not physically pregnant with my rapistās baby but my mind is pregnant with worry and flashes of light where I see cigarette burned carpet and a deck of cards, hear the devil and his demons laughing about nail polish.
Day 8: There may not be something physically growing inside of me but there is a girl who shrunk to the size of a silkworm but will grow into a wild wolf with time. Her teeth will glisten with the blood of her attackers and her unwavering stare will haunt their dreams. She will run without running away and she will soar in the sun unafraid of the dark or bright lights or any man.
Day 9: That girl does not exist yet, but her voice is warming up.
They say that love will set my soul on fire But iād much rather burn to death than drown This summer when I can feel my skin blistering under the sunās heat At least it feels like your touch You keep me warm And you are so hot, Iāve told you a thousand times You are the only light I can still see in the middle of the night So burn me alive Keep me warm Set my soul on fire
Lucifer Doesn't Bow
(Warning: Graphic content.)
The faces that are woven from this land. Ā The folded flower of a frozen teepee. Ā A cracked red hand fluttering over tall grass, rising to trace the lightning-lashed bark of ponderosas. Ā His dilapidated reservation shack leaning into an iron woodstove, full lotus in the corner. Ā On the solemn wall, a tilted picture ruddy with dust awaiting another century without touch. Ā The raven in the rock surveys the shaman in the stone; unsold land, upturned raptor talons of vigil flame, pulse of river. Ā A thunderbird drum pit. Ā The sonorous tone of his unbroken pertinacity. Ā His fire opal eye, tear-stained at the shame. Ā I understand now Lucifer in remonstrance before The Most High, refusing to bow before man. Ā The taste of his hemlock was hard, being the first martyr, having the beauty of electrum narcissus. Ā Man would later scribe eviscerated obloquy about the evils of Eve, sublimating subjugation of both woman and all other life-forms symbolized by the serpent who fed her a food tainted with truth. Ā Who was the biblicalĀ daughterĀ in the beginning? Ā And where did Lilith walk to? Ā Dominion over all other creatures was the first tyranny, the original sin, the harbinger hex, not the sacred symmetry of amatory sex. Ā Nor rebellion. Ā Arsenic in the apple seed echoes this chaos; the arc of sinās reach in Adamās apple speech. Our matriarchal Indians cultivated honor against all of this. Ā So did the innocent witch. Ā And Jesus. I wonder at the wasichu creature still, lashing the legs of a calf. Ā Crooked cowboys with crook faces of grease-encrusted stubble who brought incendiary aftermath to the last of all seraphic lodges they stumbled upon. Ā But the chief, his portent he cradled like an ember. Ā Cash money he refused, choosing instead to walk into the skeleton of austerity to fatten his spirit on the wine of the wind. Ā His grandfather gave to a stoic mother, that one day, a drink to allay her trauma. Ā But when she tried, red water sluiced forth from the bullet-hole in her throat, down the front of her quilled buckskin and wildflower bouquet, as the cavalry outside snapped the cut-out uteruses of gentle red women onto the horns of their saddles. Ā In that hour even the ghost of Amerigo Vespucci died. Ā Cha-O-Ha, hoka hey. Ā Tashunka Witko, we ride.Ā Ā Crazy Horse, you live, so rise againĀ we cried. Ā I do not stop looking in all directions. Ā I smudge myself with sage smoke now. Ā I keel in feeling to the keening of the hawk, and seek horizons of hills for the archangel wings of a war-chief headdress, genuflecting through stature and euphonious flute sound, the loess and stone lichen of buffalo blood ground.
The Architects
Thereās a clown, next door in the yard,
with a brief case and a bloody noseĀ
fostering the youth, (on them).
Blowing balloons into donkey baboons
splicing life, rolling the diceĀ
on, Gaiaās peace of, prophecy.
Its all a game of CRAP - So
plant your seed next to mine andĀ
weāll see what happens.Ā
The larva, in your cap
wonāt go shopping for any hamburger buns. Even if you smite them withĀ
the skeletal hand
And, the horses in the barns; they donāt really comeĀ
outside to be sat on. But, they look like weĀ
should ride them - all the way, to the grave. Lets pretendĀ
We could have been anything but a parasite:
Masters laughing,Ā
grasping glitching booze from the Almighty lore.Ā
R.a.MĀ // ā The symbols talking, whereād they come from, what do they mean?ā