My own head   
"it hurts, he wants to know if it hurts?" - waiting for godot.

i don't really know what to write here? so all I will say is a ponder to much and the stuff which has any sort of sensual meaning (or sometimes even nonsensical), i write here (well not exactly here but in places):

check out my arty-artwork here - http://atlasmarker.tumblr.com/

i have a new found hate for capitAl letters in conVentional places, sorry for thOse whOm suffer from c-d-o (o-c-d but in da right order).
And as always, have an eccentric day.
"it hurts, he wants to know if it hurts?" - waiting for godot.

i don't really know what to write here? so all I will say is a ponder to much and the stuff which has any sort of sensual meaning (or sometimes even nonsensical), i write here (well not exactly here but in places):

check out my arty-artwork here - http://atlasmarker.tumblr.com/

i have a new found hate for capitAl letters in conVentional places, sorry for thOse whOm suffer from c-d-o (o-c-d but in da right order).
And as always, have an eccentric day.

"You strive for love, companionship, to fit into a society of others attempting to do the same. At the end of the day, it's you against the world. Nothing more."

-jdotingham.

[locked in the box, my secrets live a life]
schrödinger's cat, he sings, we shall never know his strife:
the simple insecurity to the infuriating situation
is pandora will release the demonstration.

[locked in the box, my secrets live a life]
following the maps of the mask of my disguise:
the complex representation of the infuriating situation
is that hope will diminish in a chaotic creation.

[locked in the box, my secrets live a life]
the graveyard is silent with the shredding of my lies:
the impending sensation of the infuriating situation
is that Sisyphus will parallel our little recreation.

But before the box is opened and the cardiac is broken,
a crossroad will be a p p r o a c                                  hing.
What hurts more? The thorns in motion/
                                or lack of map tokens.
Till then, the lies are never dead, nor spoken.

d.d. #69
- inspired by Lord Byron and E.E. Cummings.
#poem   #lies   #philosophy   #religious   #cummings   #ironic   #lord   #byron   #ee  

in the end.
                   we are all stories:

                                            r i p
                                             ped
        pages and coffee stained covers,
with a dear hope, we will be printed in colour
and.that.last.page[
                                                               ]is a happy ending.
fin!

d.d. #60
#poem   #short   #life   #loss   #stories  

destiny happens in retrospect,
                                                   ­      so take my soul and give it breath.
nostalgic polaroids over lunch,
                                                      ­    they hit my heart like a suckerpunch.

#short   #nostalgia   #simple   #quote  

darling,
              i know you may appear to have a black hole for a !heart!...
            (but i also know there are galaxies waiting to be explored !within!)
¥.

short edgy love poem.
#love   #experimental   #quote   #edgy  

Dear Whom It May Concern: I am in a room, with only a pencil and paper at my disposal. I do not know the date. This is my testimony of sorts but really, it is a witness statement. The frame of mind for writing may be jagged or jarring for my bones quiver.

When my eyeslockupon the grains,
           everything appears to be the same:
     the man & woman have a common interest
           which seems to be only where they rest
     the man & woman have common views,
           the spite of words personify, when they argue
     the passion roars strong, but only with gain,
           Prometheus cringes at what his fire has 'changed',
     but in this moment, they are in the lenses territory,
and they must abide with a smile upon his creative mastery.

                                  They are, she is not
                                                        my­ interest.
                         I do not care where they rest.
                                   They must have pastlivesbeyondthelensesbindingcrys,
                         they are the so-called protagonist of the mechanical painting.
                         Well, I can see from their eyes,
                         they hide behind their disguise, only then I realise something beyond their lives, something so strange and yet common, it could hypnotise.

                        
                       (A faded figure in the background: the one pulling something from his petticoat and a blur has struck his face. *"Indistinguishable... disgrace, my eyes! Don't you realise whom that is!... or the lens... I've been up all night." I say with dismay for I can never relay from my thoughts of distraught, as tears flow down my face, they made their way through the sleep in my eyes. I still remain none the wiser.
He is...)
     A stranger in disguise of memories
           there to make ends meet,
     The phantom of the polaroid
           stalks and preys the street,
     He has an agenda of his own life - you can always assume *that
-
           with ignorance of their artist's feat.
      Engraved into the couple's lives - through the copy of that photograph -
           and yet they'll never meet.
                                
                                    (always in frame,
                             but never in time
                                     always captured discreetly,
                             but never in conscious mind.
)


     That phantom is an enigma, I hear his silent crys,
           Synesthesia from the photograph and staying up all night.
     Was he cast from the god's above?
           Is he the devil in disguise?
      Lucifer before the fall?
           Or simply lost in paradise?
      Either was he hides on a summer day of may,
           He will never know whose lives he exists
                  & neither will they.

This is my final note, sleep has come (let's go),
       I'll solve this puzzle in a new light
As sky-daddy shines with might
       and my skin is refreshed post-night.

(tick, tock, tick, tock goes the corpus clock
                           everybody ages bad,
                                               death only comes with age.
tick, tock, tick, tock goes the corpus clock
                           immerse your being in a printed world,
                                                and live beyond your age.
)


       Warning, smoke has filled the room,
       It clings to the, the, burning broom,
       The haze breaches my barriers like a soldier
       & the weight of the air is like a boulder
       & I smell gasoline on my hands
       & my internal compass knows not where I am
       & I hear laughter, although I cannot be sure
       Only that a man was through the spirit door I saw,
       He had blood on his hands and a blur as a face
       The disguise is personified with a father whom laced
       My time must have come, the Phantom does know
       But the flames die down, and the room is glittered with snow
                     What an *Other night I really had
       Trust me to wake up I was glad
       But as I come to my senses, I must await
       The letter on the wet floor, unsure if it's late
       The note is not damp: written in scarlet
       The time has stopped, the blood is splattered
       I question what happened to the utmost degree
       The letter read "I watched you sir, and you watched me:
       That man and woman you gazed upon are now buried.
                            Cut up into little pieces under the floor.
                                   I'll have lots of fun when I see the
                                         police burst through that door.
                                                 For I know it was the girl
                                                       you stalked & adored
                                                          ­   and wanted more.
but you sir, will never know me. Hope you have glee.
                     rotting in that jail cell. Peacefully. R I P."

            signed "Extra27b".*
-
    a curious note, the photograph has gone, the image of the man has been wiped from my head and my house is severely damaged. My badge has been removed and I have been taken from my room.
          I write this wi......

*sky-daddy is ironic because of the sun's name.
-jdotingham.
#of   #story   #the   #romantic   #photography   #epic   #phantom   #polaroid  

you may impend your bdlegmia of 'i hate you' , but it's the passive 'i don't love you anymore' will rip my being apart.

#love   #hate   #experimental   #quote   #teenage  
 
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