twist & stick the blade in
over & over & over again
as my crimson flows down into the wastebin
I’m sure you’ll mark this down as a win
but as I remember
who I was and who I am
over time I realized
my life force has intensified by getting to know you
No, not you.
the only One can who can truly rule in this sacred land
so keep twisting if you must
I feel no pain
as long as I side with the truth, I can only gain
the power fantastic
the power to give love one more try
even as my crimson flows
I know because You
I know I can never truly die
via Daily Prompt: Puncture
when coping stops being coping
do gentle breezes kiss your cheeks rosy
do aviary songs chirpping about begin to make sense
does a higher power guide you without precedence
when coping isn’t a constant existential war
will the crunch of leaves under my feet make me laugh again
or will I lament the end of a fallen glory
when coping is merely a sense of being
will I know if these are questions
or statements mixed with a deeper brood
if coping stops being coping
will it matter
will I even be in the mood
if coping stops being coping
In Due Time
Is the cure in the medicine or is it more of a philosophical answer?
Would working to keep adversity away whenever possible be a positive thing or is it a sign of a destructive avoidance problem?
Am I still me, even if I can’t recall how I used to be? Moreover, who and what am I now?
A shadowy apparition has camped out on the inside for far too long and it’s time to go. The specter of melancholic agony has definitely overstayed its welcome, by at least a decade. It’s a mechanical beast, running off of vitality, not afraid to run on fumes as needed with no regards for the host.
A tragedy of the highest magnitude rocking the cerebral night and day.
When emotions have more weight than the truth… that can be problematic. And even the truth lies!
When Hell decides to pay a visit, that is the reality, that is the truth. But it isn’t necessarily true.
Analyzing every microsecond of what I’m supposed to be doing or feeling in the present moments of time is a haunting unlike any other. The shadowy apparition has grown over the years…
but everything that grows must die.
So sew different seeds.
Watch those grow instead.
All things are transitory. All things must pass. Attachments whether to material possessions, to people, to places to name, are futile. Despite your clinging, these things will fade away.
And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Nothing in your life at any given moment comes with a lifetime guarantee. We’ve all heard a variation of this at least a thousand and four times before.
Being alive means feeling uncomfortable a minimum of 80% of the time. Being uncomfortable can mean growth, percentage remains uncertain.
The interesting thing is that it’s not always clear when it’s growth or just strife for the sake of strife.
Which brings this to an uncomfortable close.
It’s difficult to speculate about something you do not understand, the same way you can not have emotions for someone you’ve never met.
When engaged in the present, each moment is brand new and is open to an infinite amount of possibilities. A meteorite could hit the White House. I could spontaneously combust. Half-dollar coins could rain from the sky. All possible. The likelihood of the events are irrelevent.
Are the things I fear the most the things I secretly want?
Again, it’s difficult to speculate about something you do not understand.
Thrive today. Worry about tomorrow later.
I keep thinking that I’m too dry to cry, or at least wishing that I was.
There are no words. Only a silence deafening to the ears, echoing throughout, words that may actually exist but can not form properly in my mind. A restless silence creeping around like Nosferatu.
No closer to understanding what is brewing inside. No closer to cracking the code, solving the labyrinth of clusterfuck confusion, leaving only this altered state.
One day at a time.
How useful that advice wishes it was. As if there’s another way to experience the passage of time.
. . .
No nectar… no meaning. No semblance of an established order. No priorities of any importance. No thoughts with cohesion. No other.
attempting in earnest does nothing but frustrate. out of reasons.
blank blankety blankety blank . fill in the rest
“I hear what you’re saying. Loud and clear.
. . .
Yes, I really do.
Listen, I’m not one to beg. Don’t really want to start now but…
Just hear me out, please.
There’s no sense in playing the blame game. Yours, mine, or ours. It doesn’t matter, okay? Because this is all a fallacy on top of a farce wrapped in hokey pokey steeped in swamp algae.
We don’t have to let it get to this point.
I don’t really have much else to say in my defense. My only hope is that this…this is enough.”
There aren’t enough colors in the spectrum to match the amount of shades of fucked up this really is.
Rat bastardized harden fossilized piece of petrified salty refuse from a pig’s pen!
The audacity. The…sheer audacity of such ugliness attempting to be masked by such a blatantly thin veneer.
Blast it all. Damn it to the smoking pits of Hell, I’d say, but Hell isn’t quite severe enough, Rebuked in the name of the Living Universe! Banished to the far Beyond!
Trip over the sharpest blade and sever a pinky toe, asshole.
This place is not a home for you any longer and Love has no space for you, not even in the slightest degree.
Let’s look at this realistically.
It could be Hell in a handbasket. Instead it’s more of a handbasket full of broken Easter eggs. A slight inconvenience that may cause a few tears to fall from the eyes of the less together but otherwise wouldn’t ruin a day chock full of some questionable traditions.
Let’s not turn a mouse in the corner of the boudoir into an elephant, okay?
Let’s move on.