Angst in More than One Medium

Realize that I am an edgelord.

[alwaysfob]

american beauty / american psycho // fall out boy

[panicked-poet]

#14 (Explorer/Discovery)

Not an original thought - that we are tiny that what we know on the vastest scale is a tiny drop in the ocean and that the lights on that ocean will burn long after we are gone. I will be too old to sail that sea, chase that horizon, feel the solar wind off the hull. But I can look across the waters of the in-between spaces and know that it will happen. And know that I am tiny. Never a feeler, never much for emotion, a cold heart and a dead sense of empathy never being touched. But you see the stars at night out in the country, see hundreds of them so bright see the milky way, look up at them until you reel in the silence of the night you feel like words can't describe. Feel tiny and feel the immense vastness you see in front of you that is not tiny at all. And desire to open up your sails to skim over the waves is real and sharp in your chest again. You look for the unseen, the untouched, the vast places on the ground in littler, defiant ways. Find other planets among the rockslides. Find the stars in the icy river. Find the universe in deer bones with fresh teeth marks. And know with each one That you are tiny, tiny, tiny and that every world is vaster than comprehension.

[panicked-poet]

lightning boy: oh yeah if I was living a life of adventure I could learn to ride a motorcycle and escape danger and get a cool jacket to go with it.

me: *frantically fanning self*

[harrysunflowr]

me, beating myself with a giant stick: you! are! just! friends!

[panicked-poet]

So I’ve gotten myself into some real pickles romance-wise. I gotta say, I have a knack for it. But sudden, unexplainable crush on internet person who I have never talked to or seen in real life? Bad move, me. Bad move.

[chadna-deactivated20170626]

[panicked-poet]

#13 (Bad Luck)

Breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and breathe -

The wind, the red soil, the sage, the pines, the sky.

The endless sky.

I feel the beauty in my chest like heartache -

A great empty space in my chest.

Bad luck

Bad luck that somewhere so lovely is cursed.

Bad luck that the poison sunk into the earth

Caught in the wind

Seeped into the water.

I feel the wrongness in my bones like rot -

Brittleness and fragility.

Just poor fortune to fall in love with two people at once

The short straw to be depressed enough that I can hardly think.

A shame to be alone for years

And poor fate that I hardly have any empathy left at all.

And it’s most certainly bad luck that your loving grandparents will condemn you to hell

To burn.

To die in the ashes.

Bad luck.

Bad luck.

So knock on wood, don’t walk under ladders, wish on eyelashes and give pennies away, don’t open umbrellas outside.

Fend it off.

Keep away the ill fortune.

Keep away the curse.

Breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

[panicked-poet]

Not poetry writing

I’m low-key writing an idea that a friend showed a lot of interest in, even after I shelved it, and the question is: should I kill the main character?

It’s meant to be a very grim book, with a lot of death and hardship and rather horrible twists. It is meant to have hope, as the goal is fulfilled, and it is a white guy that kicks the bucket, but I’m wondering if, everything else considered, that it would be a bad move.

It would be a fairly quick death, and there’s not a lot of description. His neck ends up being broken in an avalanche (ripped up tree or something?) while stopping the main villains.

If it was just him, I’d be perfectly fine with killing him off. But he also has a partner (partners?) that I have to take into consideration.

Mmmmmmmmm... drama or happiness, drama or happiness... might just kill him.

[panicked-poet]

#12

Stand up, stand up for the small Stand up for the littler man Stand up for those with no voice at all Stand up, stand up tall.

You must stand up, I say Rise up on your feet for the weak There is no other way This is why you will stand up today.

Put up your fists, your sword, your shield Put up your weapon Whatever you wield Put up your weapon, engage on your field.

There is always someone who’s smaller than you No matter how small you are Remember you have power too -that there is always something you can do.

Remember what you know is right Take it along with you Take it along with you and fight Remember the lost, let them be your light.

It’s hard to get up and go on There is no promise of victory No promise that the shadows will stay gone No promise you will see the dawn.

But you must stand up, and stand up you will Because if you don’t stand up for the smaller man Who on earth will?

And so I challenge you:

Stand up, stand up for the small Stand up for the littler man Stand up for those with no voice at all.

[panicked-poet]

#11 (id, superego, ego)

“Touch his butt,” whispers id. “Grab it.”

And superego replies, “Thou must not feel butts.”

“Grab that hand,” insists id. “Grab it.”

Superego says, “Thou shalt not snatch hands - better than his ass, I suppose.”

“Goddamn, those eyelashes are going to kill you - do something about it!” shrieks id.

And superego replies, “Thou shalt look at the art, but not touch it.”

“You can see his belly! Stare! Stare now!” id screams.

Superego says, “Thou shalt not be too obvious.”

“He smells good! Like cologne!” id whoops.

And superego replies, “Thou shalt not smell people. And that’s detergent.”

“Do something! Do something about this beautiful man!” id howls.

Superego says, “No.”

Then ego speaks up:

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” it says.

And shoves its fingers in its ears to make everything quiet

and attempts to forget.

[panicked-poet]

really stupid in love playlist

I - unavoidable: neon trees

II - deer in the headlights: owl city

III - there she goes: the la’s

IV - bright: echosmith

V - waiting for superman: daughtry

VI - calender girl: neil sedaka

VII - sos: rihanna

VIII - feel invincible: skillet

IX - spectrum (feat. matthew koma): zedd

X - work song: hozier

XI - electric love: borns

XII - addicted to you: scorpio loon

XIII - something just like this: the chainsmokers & coldplay

playlist here.

[panicked-poet]

Alright for those of you that are in for any of the behind-the-scenes stuff, guess who just came into my messages saying I should ask my crush out on Valentine’s day?

[panicked-poet]

#10

Wishing for things you can’t have is awful, and wishing for people you can’t have is worse.

And now, I wish for him.

Once you imagine what someone will feel like pressed up against your back, or once you imagine what their head would feel like on your chest - once you imagine what their hand would feel like between like yours - you’re doomed.

I wish for his beautiful hands.

His hands are musician’s hands, artist’s hands, even though they have never made art or music.

And while we’re at it, I wish I could fight for his honor.

See, he would insist that he didn’t have any, and that it was pointless anyhow, all while I’m about to mess a bitch up because they looked at him funny.

And I wish to hold him.

Because he acts big, and talks big, and he can fend for himself, but he’s still a little man in a big, big world, and I’m at least a tiny bit bigger.

I wish for his kindness.

In this big, big world, he does the best he can with it and I respect that he tries, even when its hard for him.

I wish to kiss him.

And that doesn’t need explanation, because sometimes you find beautiful people and you get to know beautiful people, and look at that, we both have lips.

Good god, does it hurt to think about it sometimes, and it’s okay sometimes, it’s like walking on air sometimes, but other times its like scalding your hands under a hot sink and keeping them there.

I wish to be over it already

But it won’t happen.

I wish for him, I wish for him, I wish for him, and last but not least:

I wish for his dumb dick jokes.

[panicked-poet]

#9

It would be so much easier to be a conqueror -

A warrior, a knight in armor, equipped with an enormous sword and shield to protect and smite and defend and avenge.

I want to shine with my rage and smite down the unworthy and condemn the wicked, one by one, falling down like dominoes. 

And I want to protect the littler guy:

Cover all of them, keep them safe, bless them with strength and purpose, teach them how to use their teeth, how to use their power.

I want to be the angel with eyes of flame.

Right the wrongs and terrify the ones who had harmed and soothe the broken.

For once I want to be powerful.

No patience, no manners, no mercy

Just a fist to the face of those that need to be punched, a fist in a gauntlet.

And I could name them too.

I have a shit list of who I would burn given a chance and a match, a shit list of who I would take down if I had the means and the opportunity

Motive aside.

And one day I will be big enough that you can’t touch me, and scorching enough I will burn anyone who plays with my fire and loud enough that I shout down the dissent and sweep it aside.

One day.

One day.

One day-

Too late?

[panicked-poet]

#8

Heart pounds

pounds

pounds

with the rhythm of your hands, your arms, your legs, beating the water white, sending it scattering ten feet into the air above, in flight.

Breath heaves

heaves

heaves

and you try and catch up with the pace that gets quicker, the race that paces faster, the tempo your own lungs set inside your chest.

My skin is dry.

So dry.

And I smell like chlorine.

And I have powerful legs and big shoulders and wide feet and hair damaged from chemicals soaking into it, hair bleached near-blonde at the tips.

When it is forty below, I make it to practice.

Even if my eyebrows freeze

And school is canceled because the buses won’t start and the breathe freezes in your throat and the open door makes silent hill mist on the surface of the pool.

Traveling to other towns -

Forty-five minutes southeast.

Four and a half hours north.

Eight hours northwest.

Swimmers sleep on the floor and in the seats and under the seats, bright-colored speedo bags used as pillows, blankets and towels and suits hung everywhere.

Chaos.

Madness.

Disorder.

The sport of nonsense.

My sport.

[panicked-poet]

#7 (The Ladies)

The latest one has eyes the color of the water in lane eight-

about ten feet deep, smooth and blue.

Oddly enough, lane five was where I had my ass handed to me

by the girl that was basically Wonder Woman -

captain of the swim team, strong as an ox, beautiful like the edge of the mountains against the sky.

But it was lane eight that I swam with the girl with short hair and the eyes like ice and a thousand freckles.

And sleeping in the same bed during swim trips, I would stay up imagine how her muscles would feel if I were to pull her in, watching the edge of her back in the darkness.

As far back as I can remember - my kindergarten teacher, and then the little girl with white hair in first grade

the girl with the cornrows that moved in when I was in second grade who really wanted nothing to do with me.

Sedang (official name ‘Eileen’) in the class for the gifted kids.

Another girl with cornrows - Jamama - and a love of pink.

And how many others? Mistaken for friendships, mistaken for jealously even, little snippets I will never recover.

I do know now.

The ladies, I recognize.

[panicked-poet]

#6

At night she is there - the dream girl.

Dream girl, dream girl, dream girl.

In her mind, I see the slow ebb and flow of a thousand years, intricate patterns and dances and trails leading into the quiet places

and I see peace.

I have smelled her soft hair, touched her little hands, had her thin legs in my lap,

across her glasses, I see the stars and the moon,

her drowsy eyes remind me of the shallows of the pool,

I still drown.

These I bring as proof, sing as my praises to the tired girl, the sleepy beauty.

And I hope she will one day nap next to me - head on my shoulder while we watch crap TV late at night, curled against my side on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, across my lap on the bus.

She works with patterns - equations, poems, clovers - with skill, and her mind crafts them delicately.

This I cannot do. I am chaos. I am the moment you jolt awake when you fall out of bed.

But I am strong.

And I could pick her up, her light body, and I could carry her to somewhere good and safe.

Go silently and merrily and gently down the stream.

And dream a dream with her.