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When we can't control something, we find ourselves unable to be comforted by its oncoming end.
We think if we can't control it that there is no guarantee it will ever cease,
that it could last forever,
There is nothing we can do to stop it and so we assume it may never stop.
Like the cold in winter or heat in summer,
We forget we cannot make the sun come faster, you just have to wait for night to end.
Take a deep breath,
Just as the seasons, feelings come and go in their own time,
just have patience,
spring will be here soon.
Time is never ending.
I am never ending.
And yet I end.
My story is a leather-bound book in a forgotten school library that smells like rain long after the clouds have left.
I am small and I am full and I am insignificant.
I am homebound in my poetry and I dream of my night in the woods,
My chapters are stolen each word an ink blot from a pencil, night diving in a landlocked state.
But my narration feels unreliable,
My voices are blurred,
Unable to escape my themes of pessimistic paranoia.
Every paragraph and line I do nothing it grows,
Every minute I lie vegitating, it questions and queries,
Because life is good but where do I start?
Because act one is ending but what now is the plot?
Where does it begin, where does it stop, what is the pacing, where do I start?
I ignore. I think of home underground. I breathe in Arcadia. I return to my island.
I think about my three wishes, what they would be, and I lay down and pray, pray, pray that at least some of it is real.
I grapple, demanding this to be one of the classics, and knowing it was written in absurdism.
I spread my cards. They have been neglected and I am weary.
My mind is not yet clear enough to clear my mind.
I plead to the fae,
To tell me,
To whisper in my ear,
What questions I should be asking?
Where do I start?
I suppose it's
I wrote this with a goal and theme and it was completely taken over by my actual real world problems and feelings, the poem itself is an amalgamation of my vision vs my reality, my wants, my mood boards, my aesthetics, shifted by my conflicts.
The air ripples and waves with heat,
The way cords on a bass guitar bounce and float,
The way water can dip and climb without curling and crashing,
A quiet hum of a movement that has its eyes closed and breathes slowly.
The world is not dry or humid, but it is boiling,
It is melting and hypnotising,
A fever-dream in its heat which seems to pull you down into a deep, tired, yawning, sweat.
The sky is a rich blue,
Not electric, but just as bold,
Energetic and sprightful,
Yet chooses to be still and silent.
The grass is dry and alive,
Growing in ochre and chartreuse,
Refreshing like bitters in an ice cold drink,
Moving like an evening stretch in the temperate breeze,
Coiled trees stand in paralysed contortion,
They stare into the distance,
Content in being relic and quiet,
Swaying slightly, picturesque in their verdure.
Animals sprint in panting silence,
Like thin arrows through the thick air,
Motions like quick honey,
Or softly, statically, dozing into the summer embrace.
Sounds are muted,
The air is frozen in amber,
Time is held outside of itself in the pocket of earth before we categorized it as history,
When it simply was,
Untouched and uncontextualized,
Observed only by those who had no tenses or constructs only here and now.
Breathing air which is made of auburn earth,
Drowning in the deep arid ocean,
Submerged and embraced,
Sleeping, serene and tranquil.
This was supposed to be over.
I was supposed to grow.
I should have overcome this.
This should be a memory.
I was supposed to look back and smile, looking at what I've left behind me.
A draft from three years down the hole, that I hid because I thought I would regret it.
It was supposed to leave with time.
Was that simply an episode? Was it all an episode? Is three years of drowning really the better half of the coin? the alternative to being crushed by the water pressure of the depths? was what I saw as improvement really just my mind displaying its duality only to plunge me back in deeper? am I deeper than before? oh god... am I worse? is this what I get for indulging in candy and soda? for finally finding some serotonin in inconspicuous self medication? is the cold crushing sea tossing me around because I created a storm of withdrawal so far above me I was too focused on finally getting sober to notice? I don't want to swear, there's a child in the room.
It hurts like poison slowly eroding me from the inside out.
Numbing my nerves.
I hate how slowly it moves.
I hate how lost and uncertain the silence makes me.
The skin on my back is as heavy as the early morning sky.
I hate that. To think of the dark A.M. as morning.
Its so cold.
I hate being cold.
4 AM cold where breaths and time are thin.
It reminds me of the hard cold of the dark floors in the dark room in the dark corner of my mind.
It reminds me how little time I have.
How little power.
Subsequently, How little hope.
I feel endlessly cursed to be another's design. Any but my own.
As if I am being tugged violently from side to side.
Tumbling around like a ragdoll.
My lungs rattling around inside of my body.
They hurt.
Why am I still here.
Why am I still coming back.
There are no more boxes to hold my symbolic vice.
I purged my talismans.
Because I thought I had moved.
I thought I had warmth.
Its supposed to be warm here in the right arms in the right conversation.
I thought I could never relapse, double back, because I have no good ******* reason too.
I thought I would finally have to give up making myself miserable.
As all that I have would keep me. Now all that I have has turned into guilt.
As the inviting scents of earthy ash and hiccups call even though they know I don't have any time. They sound so warm.
I thought the timeline had departed.
But now it seems less likely than ever as I grasp hopelessly at the tangibility I destroyed.
This bodes a time loop.
I would rather be in hell.
There aren't, supposed, to be, such, bad, nights, anymore.
A touch of death,
Specimen in the back shed,
Joggers on the streets.
Seizures of cursed withering adolescents who ate the sweet pomegranate of lust and *******,
And never came home.
Sirens at the sybaritic streamlet,
Swashbuckling seventeens and greed of fanciful adventure.
The delinquentile nature of hopes and aspirations.
The harvester, the hunchbacked prince, the harrowing keeper of time,
Creeps like the night,
Like the stains of black ink that scurry and watch,
Who spy for the other-mother.
The exquisite expectation of an oncoming assassination,
Unsuccessful, beaten, and purged.
Burried in the soft silence of the hushing leaves,
In the swaying trees,
As the fatuous breeze follows aimlessly,
At the ankles of its maker.
The exhaustion of the tangerine technician,
At his mercury writing desk,
Pondering if he begs for the inspiration of the raven, to the very extent it drives him mad,
Pondering if that was not the goal to begin with.
What is the difference?
Oscar and his procrastination citrus.
Sweat-pea and her blood thirsty desires, driven by the hypnotic whispers of the freckles on her cheeks.
When peices of the sky fall as ashes and snowflakes to earth,
And the harmonious halcyon of the rested victims, are freshly plastered with claustrophobia.
As the vicious vindictive fates knit them a merciless sweater.
Factories, employing those who they despise,
And delivering death in their paycheck.
The last humans left scoar the barren dust storm that was once the azure bliss of the promised land.
Do not ask the witch doctor for answers,
Simply receive his remedy and swallow.
hate it here :)
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence.
I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!

Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.

We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams.
I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pond.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.

Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.

Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac

mumble rap
seven letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning

Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite our efforts
We still waste away
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