chelsea-woodcock
American
A blonde girl who feels alone in the world, alone in her head, despite the friends she encounters daily, spends her days pondering the complexities of the universe. She wonders about God, about where morality comes from, or if it is only a construct of the modern human condition, and she wonders about what color she should paint her nails next. She avoids eating meat at all costs. She doesn't like the carnage on her soul. She wonders about if true love is real, and occasionally doubts that it is, despite believing that she had it once. She wonders if there is currently a way in which she can increase her intelligence, and feels the current structure and function of the human brain is quite limiting. Often this thinking gets in the way of action, and she wonders the implications of this. When she does act, she finds that not only the brain, but the rest of the form and function of the human body to be limiting, and wishes she could efficiently do several things simultaneously.
Once I had a dream.
I was with a woman.
We were kissing,
but I kept becoming distracted
by the strips of fried chicken
that adorned her neck.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Today is the day that all of my skin falls off.
It sheds and peels, and there I am.
A banana. Not without flaws.
There's probably a little bruise,
But you could probably just cut it out,
and I'd be just fine to eat.
I like bananas with peanut butter.
That's really all I have to say.
I keep hearing that.
People have plenty to say,
they just don't want to say it.
They don't want anyone to hear their soul noise.
That ambient trip-hop of their inner world.
They don't want us to see their brown horses
riding the water slide of their mind-veins.
They don't want us to see the umbrellas
opening and shutting
with their wildly shifting weather patterns
that is their nearly beating heart.
Don't you know,
we're all just in a tool box.
No one has they keys to let us out,
so we don't have anything to fix.
All of these hammers and nails,
and no boards or shutters to secure our windows.
We'd like to think that's what we do,
and our imagination sure does feel
a lot like our waking life.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.
Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined
And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.
Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
Just too many blades.
Grass, knives, wings, shades, windows, opaque and transparent.
paper.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
And I will have left
Some kind of Mark,
Even if all it will be
are the mediocre works
Of Me.
"She tried, but,
Her accomplishments are only
Barely notable."
It's all so laughable.
I look into the white clouds
And laugh
Until the beads release
And drown my imagination.
And all that's left of me
Is fizzing whizzing whirls
Of swirly empty space
And explosions.
That's all We are, You know?
How dare We believe
That We are more
Than all there is?
Don't you see this fallacy?
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
We're just tiny people hiding
Under a camper from the rain.
But, your skin.
Your skin is a trillion blankets under the stars.
The last day in April.
A day for colliding our
Stuff & Things.
I never know that anything
Is going to happen.
I'm just an atom with an electron to spare,
Wandering about,
Waiting for someone who's missing one.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
No kind of tiny whisky white,
ethereal plane,
bridging all dimensions
little thing can crawl
under the 3rd dimension skin
where I live
and eat the kindred flowers.
One hundred percent of the time,
I'm at a loss for words.
We can't stop it, even though we would've liked to.
Seventeen million puppies. Nothing to eat. How does this work?
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
Little bees. little bees. seeb elittil. be lees. it esbe li tle.
Just math. Simple mathematics.
Simple masonry.
The ghosts **** the little bees.
Hanover. It's a city.
Massachusetts. Germany. New Hampshire.
It's just another one of those things.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
For once,
there can never be enough
filth
that will not be gone with a flick
of the wrist, and a little incantation.
Jest is not in the particle,
It is in the galaxies.
Ralf is not a man.
Leaf cries when he is ripped.
But, he will be found and noticed
By the flamenco dancers
Who reside inside
All of the rocks that might
Be outside in the pavement
As we sip mango ***** beverages.
It is the silliest of events.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Good morning.
Welcome to this holistic Universe
of pumpkin spice lattes
with "organic" soy milk.
In this indisputably beautiful
multiplication homogeneous
to unidentified living growth,
we spawn the dawning
of a new era with our own
Purple Prose.
It's neither here, nor there.
Take a step back.
Notice It.
Smell the ripe air with both
Sweat & Smoke.
We reciprocate our feelings
Of
u n s u r e n e s s
With a firm handshake
And an
avoiding eye.
Here, we have fabricated
the abundance! of our Knowledge,
while We can't figure it out.
Are We real at all?
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC