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 Jan 2018 Carlie Sims
zero
You forget what it feels like to see an old friend.
Like the one
you keep hidden behind picture frames.
The small, cutouts of their faces,
detached from their bodies
make you respond a certain way.

You remember how they made you feel,

(hopeless, desperate)

How they felt against your skin,

(sharp, sudden, like a knife to the soul)

How they made you weep,

(you were useless under their control)

You forget how much you need them,

(You depend on them for your every move)

You think about them day and night,
they could creep into bed with you,

kiss you,

make you snap awake.

You wear them on your sleeve,
and you hide them under heavy coats,
and thick jumpers.

You forget how the bad you feel,
when you see the marks they leave on your skin,

(the violent, puce lines that tore at your paper)

And yet, you leave their head behind the frame,
because you're not sure you're ready to quit them
just yet...
So you count the days since you last saw them.
Watch as their grips loosen.
Even though you relapse into their arms now and again,
you believe you can become sober in the future.
For the head I found behind the frame,
I won't be seeing you again.

-Z.xo
breathing silence into fragments
feeling incomplete perhaps
I should smash what’s left
Hours speed,
Up on weekends and I,
Think about this while,
The smells of soap and sobriety,
Creep like layers of,
A cake that I've just began eating,
But the minutes feel,
Like a,
Laundromat waiting room,
In purgatory,
In between your messages,
That force my,
Script writing pen,
To be set down,
I never am right,
When I try to write,
What your next line will be,
Your smiles are sometimes,
Hidden beneath a,
Sadness,
That I can only try to coax,
With cheese,
To see it's broken body,
But,
That sadness isnt some broken board,
In an old house,
that needs to be fixed
It's needing the,
Appreciation,
That if it was repaired,
It would loose it's history,
And that awesome broken board,
Doesn't make,
The whole whole house,
It makes it,
Unique,
Unique in the way that,
I wake up in the middle of the night,
Grasping my bed,
For,
That person that has never been there,
But,
Is there every night,
I can appreciate the grabbed sheets,
Because I can appreciate the new year,
Like that amazing house with,
History,
I find new things,
New rooms,
With new broken boards,
And new broken bodies,
Except this year I can remember,
All of it,
And,
I got a new batch of cheese,
Time to get oot of the shower,
And,
Walk through,
That first room.
Shaking violently;
Plunged into a dark,
Wet abyss,
Tiny bubbles escape me.
Each containing
A dream,
An idea,
A memory.
Futilely,
I gasp;
Trying to breathe
them back in.
Filling myself with vacuity.
The bubbles slowly
dissipate.
I become what
nothing is.

.
 Jan 2018 Carlie Sims
Vianna
Nobody thinks what I think
Nobody dreams when they blink
Think things on the brink of blasphemy
I'm my own shrink
Think things are after me, my catastrophe
I'm a kitchen sink
You don't know what that means
Because a kitchen sink to you
Is not a kitchen sink to me, okay, friend?
Are you searching for purpose?
Then write something, yeah it might be worthless
Then paint something then, it might be wordless
Pointless curses, nonsense verses
You'll see purpose start to surface
No one else is dealing with your demons
Meaning maybe defeating them
Could be the beginning of your meaning, friend
-Twenty One pilots

What they're trying to say, is that, when you feel that life has no purpose, and aren't living for anything anymore, then make something, weather it be, a poem, a song, a painting, or anything. As long as it matters to you, and you know what it means, then you have purpose, because if you die, then who else is gonna know what it means to you?
 Jan 2018 Carlie Sims
Vianna
Personally, when I write something there's around five thoughts buzzing around in my head- sometimes more. They can be relevant or not.
We're always thinking of something, weather it be song lyrics stuck in your head, or you're thinking of someone, you're always thinking.
It bothers me. Because I have a habit of overthinking, and scaring myself into no sleep. then overthinking again, because of sleep deprivation.
Sleep is an anathema to me, because it can go two ways; I sleep for a good seven hours, and have an okay day, or I sleep for three hours, and feel like death itself in the morning.
I had a thought at the beginning of this and it turned into something completely different lol
I have to remember that life does not work this way. the universe does not play toward my favor.

I have moments where I do not think at all. no information is exchanged, no neurons fire.

yet I find myself in these moods of brief clarity, a strange sort of enlightenment where I seek out my poetic justice.

I acknowledge my prophetic nature. but in the end the words have no meaning, and I am left as empty as before. I lack purpose. drive. skill. knowledge. talent.

I am a lost soul, but I take that as a romantic notion.

there is beauty in my downward spiral, because it is a geometric form, and it has been said that geometry connects man to the cosmos.

if one uses geometry as an means to produce and organize order out of chaos, we can connect to the cosmos and become one with the universe.
April 22nd, 2013

I honestly have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this.

just a brief flash of clarity, before it was lost in the abyss.
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