#ditwritings

[depressionintechnicolor]

I Wanna Live In A Math Rock World

A space of sine wave hills and valleys for contemplative hush. Where records and bike chains never skip, but rocks can to deliver messages across waters.

A place of ever divine acoustics formed of trilling birdsong and sweeping gusts. Where both falling and flourishing leaves are pixels to be fed into a grander, clearer picture.

Where current always carries the past to better shores and where occurance can be base for what may be sure. Where beings are songs as appreciable as all art and songs are beings waiting patiently to be encoded.

A graceful order built of catharsis and the unspoken, but friendly feelings. Where kindness is currency and collaboration is bartering.

You think a spot like this would be easier to track down inside of this universe.

But sadly not.

[depressionintechnicolor]

Mission Statement

Even when words catch inside your throat,

I can always read the shining statement  

right between your clavicles;

always covering your heart of riches

as easily as the sweet grin on your face.

The golden epitome

of your namesake swings pendulously

and I'm subtly swooned by its glow.

Symbolism of satisfaction

is all your chaining

of cursive characters doesn't show

at first glance.

Sharp in the right angles,

yet so smooth,

I overlook the sacred soul underneath.

There's a lot in a name.

Yours generates an auburn aura.

Though there's summer in your eyes,

and spring in your smirk,

you emit autumn in how I ought to feel

a refreshingly warm calm in your wake.

Cooper slivers, bronze strands, and gilded halos sway

from the formidable marble you became

when porcelain protection

turned tumultuous and taxing.

Succinct syllables spell you out

and present your shimmering self

to the world,

but all your glamour and grit

cannot be tied simply

to a word.

To your word.

[depressionintechnicolor]

Beauty is ignorance is acceptance is perfection.

[depressionintechnicolor]

Didn't feel like rewriting it.

[depressionintechnicolor]

The First Step Is Confessing

This poem conveys the image

that I have some sort idea how

or what poetry is.

This paints the picture of progression,

but what is a picture

except still life, directly?

What is a poem

except a skirmish

of a snapshot

you have no idea how to truly qualify?

Are these lines and stanzas

just to show a show for show?

Am I in touch

or just direct with indirectness?

Does anyone really connect

or cut deeper being jigsaw?

Do I get closer

or further in analyzing feelings?

Life oscillates with its peaks and troughs,

but the pictures distort and blur together

until there's circles for certain.

But what the fuck is certainty

in a world that manages

to keep their faces down?

Even whilst forced to be face cards

where presentation is everything?

Or even forced to face their dealt cards

where presentation is anything?

Is this the grand finale

or the illusion of ever developing?

[depressionintechnicolor]

Expiration's Wait

This poem will not persist in twelve hours. Every word is a suicidal cannibal, with one desire, and one enemy. Myopic and machinating. Egostically evaporating, these descriptions caught the ointment before they caught their own reflection in kaleidoscopic eyes and tried to entrap themselves, the microsopic flies. This poem is invisible ink in my memoirs, and blood in the sink from inadmissable scars. I've spent more time pretending I'm not hurt than resenting that they stem from a system of categorized dirt. This poem will not exist in twelve hours... and if they do, it's because I finally granted it permission.

[depressionintechnicolor]

If I told you I would kill for love, does that make me a murderer with a cause or a romantic in desperation? Because at least the killer looks stronger with a weapon than the lover does with its wanting.

I Feel Weaker For Loving and Stronger For Loathing by @depressionintechnicolor

[depressionintechnicolor]

My Clean Big Revelation

I'd let my remedy catch you if you are hurt; I'd let my sickness catch you if you are Hurt; I'd let my grave catch you if you are dirt; I'd let my bathtub catch you if you are dirty; I'd still eat with you from you, off you, you... you. You'd be -and are- a catch for the angels... or am I?

If you are little, I'd make some marveling out of you, and a mockery out of the great, big blue. I'd find a planet in a grain of sand, and vice versa. I'd be especially excited to eliminate what could hurt you... even if it is myself.

If you are secret, I want you as close to my lips as possible... even if you have to be so far away.