james-palmer
I'm still in the process of figuring things out. I am a 21 year old boy with warped priorities. I write, because I find no fluency in speech, my words become confused and nonsensical. Writing works for me, because it's easier to point with your hands than with your tongue. My character is in my scars, and my dreams are and always will be, mine. I study psychology because I thought it would teach me to be like Sherlock Holmes. / / I find it easier to put my negative emotions into words, and so content will most likely portray a melancholy soul without an ounce of hope. I can be a happy guy, I insist, but I am not as used to expressing it.
My mind is polluted
My thoughts, convoluted
Overwhelmed by your desires.
If you really wanna burn your bridges
Then you're gonna have to start some fires.
I've got plenty of room
For many more scars
That I may or may not regret,
But I lack space
For memories
And consequently, forget.
If clocks decide to leave minutes behind
And begin counting sins,
Would the hands move any slower?
Would you find heaven within?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
I want the world that everybody wants
When you get up and the milk hasn't turned sour.
When those days where you feel like you could take Everest in a sprint,
are more common than the days where you feel like you've got it on your shoulders.
I want a life that leaves everyone impressed at how I can manage so much,
rather than one where everyone can see the cracks.
I guess life really is like an elevator
Because yes, it has it's ups and downs,
but even at the top it can come to a halt, and leave you there
Stuck in a box, rotting until you find the courage to ask for help.
Sometimes I think to myself that it's better to die trying, than to not try at all.
But some days, when you wake up.
The milk's gone sour,
And the smallest facet of your everyday routine can leave you aching.
And I could throw in a cliche here about how the road is never smooth,
Or how with no pain comes no gain.
But what if you don't know what you want to gain? What if you don't know where you're going?
What's it worth then?
When every day leaves you floored like pennies slipping from the back pocket of a boy who's bent over backwards too many times.
I've tried plucking up the courage to confront my fears, and my girlfriend used to pluck my heart strings, while I plucked pettals from roses in algorithms to make sure she always loved me.
But if you learn anything today at least learn that surrounding yourself with happy things doesn't necessarily make you happy.
Just like walking through a meadow doesn't quite make you a rose
Or how walking through a cemetery doesn't make you a ghost.
We are made of tiny fragments, sowed together by the little things that make our days good
Like waking up at the end of a good nights sleep
Or if the milk's still good.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Us and our faux friends
And our pantomime ways,
We led the lives that we believes
Would make everything okay.
We were both cautious
And withdrawn,
You were the queen and I your pawn,
And while you travel where you please
I'm tied to where I was born.
My steps are small, my feet are fragile,
But my blood is liquid gold.
There's only so many times as man
Does what he's told.
It began with love letters,
And lyrics that had meaning.
But transitioned into chaos,
All the whispers turned to screaming.
It took us both to realise,
This is never what we wanted.
And so you left me here in purgatory,
When I am always haunted.
The lights are out, the doors are locked,
And I feel so alone.
I wander through this place with spirits,
With all my chances blown.
So while you start to fix your life
And trim all the edges,
Know I tried, I really did,
And this is what I dreaded.
I'm already transforming,
My body's starting to cope.
I'm learning not to put faith in things,
Because it's just false hope.
And if we never come back from this,
And this is really the end,
Know this golden heart has turned to lead,
And the holes will never mend.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
It must be a great feeling
To be that guy and get to say
"I'm in a good place right now"
Where is this place? Why wasn't I invited?
What short straw did I pull that left me here
in this bad place
With nothing to help me fend off my responsibilities except a pen and pad.
And the pen doesn't feel all too mighty right now.
I long for love and acceptance
I do not like what I have become
Maybe people expect too much from me
Maybe it’s the defeated attitude I run around with
But I will never believe myself to be anything close to great.
Sometimes I do a good job at what I do
And sometimes, the right thing comes naturally
But if before I were a kite, now I’m a safe with walls four feet thick.
And I keep locked inside of me those memories of days when I would sore
I still dream of hot days
But secretly hope for storms
Because sometimes, silver linings get mistaken for rough weather.
Right now, I’m sitting here, with my tea going cold.
My door is open, yet I feel like it’s locked.
The weather is bright yet I am cold
And I cannot bring myself to get up
Because I do not know what I am getting up from
And I do not know why each day I come home and get straight into bed
Still hoping for something good to happen
When what I am doing is putting myself into a cage
And treating it like I am taking myself for a walk.
And so every morning I get up and I wonder what happened in my sleep to make me look so rough
And I tread on wooden floorboards that are splintered
And I make myself tea, that always has a bitter taste
And I can’t help but wonder, is this a delusion?
Am I looking at things through eyes which do not want to see the possibilities
Or am I merely living in a world in which nothing can bring me happiness?
Or at least I don’t let it.
Because what I could do
I could wake up
I could buy a better bed in which I sleep sounder
I could sand my floor so that I can walk on smooth ground
And I could get up and have juice which tastes like juice rather than tea which tastes like ****
But still
I sit here.
And I wait for motivation.
But I fear I only get such motivation when something dies and I feel inspired
Because life lost leads you to believe that you are wasting your life
It puts a spark into a dark place
And I do not want to sit around and wait for something to die before I feel the motivation to change my life.
That isn't how it should be.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
It's remarkable how this is one of the only times I feel alive.
On a train hurtling passed the shore
while I sit with my God-awful train station tea brewing before me.
Yet each time I do this, I question
why must everything be so overwhelming
and complicated.
When my favourite feelings are inspired by something not quite so majestic
as a view from upon a mountain
or that of a shoreline to die for.
But simply, my shoreline.
Albeit dingy.
And this tea so pitiful.
Perhaps this feeling isn't the feeling of being alive
but of satisfaction
by the difference that something so small can make
in a world of so much.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
I could write a poem on how the storm outside
Assaults my window panes with pain intended.
The wind brings life to the inanimate accessories of trees
Previously dropped to the ground like cigarette butts.
And I could say how this weather suits my mood
As if even though I’m sitting here in a towel after my bath,
There is chaos inside my mind far greater than any weather occurrence.
But that would be insane.
As if the world outside, where the purpose of the sky is to designate the rain
Shares any likeness to the mood I am in.
Or the life I lead.
How full of myself, to believe the crashing I hear from battering rain
Could compare to the need I feel to explode out of my own skull.
No.
Not ever.
Me and Mother Nature share no maternal bond.
Even if she could depict what way the wind blows, depending on the state I’m in
How could she know?
When I am merely here, in my towel, upon my bed.
Expressing no wrath compared to that outside.
Believing that the storms I see from my bed
Rival the storms inside my head.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:46 AM UTC