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the dead bird Sep 2021
What am I supposed to do with all
Of this
Passion —
Okay, calling it passion is a stretch.
It’s boiling ******* anger
For my own existence.

What am I to do?
Share it? With whom?
Who might appreciate?
Even if they do,
I’d probably be dissatisfied
About something.
I’m sure of it.

Why am I so
Existentially dissatisfied?
At what point will I think
Anything is enough,
Or worthy of my

Does it need to destroy me in order for me to respect it?

I’m making myself sound like a *****.
Really, I am
But a self aware one.
Like, I realize that I’m a pretentious *******
And I hate myself for it,
So that you don’t have to.

Why do I long for attention,
When I am so
By it

Just pathetic,
It’s like I think
the window which I’m looking out of
Makes me better
Than those who have a different view.

Sometimes I wish I was stupid so that I wouldn’t think I was better than other people.
Or at least stupid enough
To ignore my own hypocrisy.
Why the ****
does it always come back to
That story about
The flowers for that dead ******* rat

Is it too late to get a lobotomy?
I hate myself for hating myself for hating other people. Also yes I did really want to be a nihilist when I first studied Camus & the three schools ****. I settled on exestential nihilism for awhile. now, me and the Absurd sit and smoke blunts together and laugh at my pathetic existence
the dead bird Jun 2021
“You look like my daughter”
The man says to me,
As he’s ordering me a drink
Looking my body up and down.

I laugh,
Look away,
Try to pretend he didn’t say that

Oh but don’t worry
He made it a point
to mention
              M O R E
                           T I M E S
how my body
Resembled his daughters,
“Tight, perfect, the right kind”

Idk y’all
Idk that I can do this.
I walk away
I dont make that money.
Even though I know **** well,
I fit his ****** up fantasies.

Not to mention I’m triggered,
Thanks to my childhood trauma,
By all of this conversation,
But it doesn’t really matter
Just a product of my environment
Just an object to fill
The desires
Of hungry eyes.

**** it
Let me be
An empty *** doll.
Just take my intelligence with you please.
Flowers for Algernon ,
And I’m wilting.
I’m too aware of my place in society.

Why strive to peruse my education,
When I know no one will hire me
Because of my background?
Why stay sober,
When my ******* flashbacks
Only stop when I’m drunk?

I hate my life.
No I don’t like the job I have;
But this **** ain’t easy.

And none of it is my fault.
It isn’t.
None of my trauma is my fault.

At least At the end of the day
I have the comfort
Of knowing,
That I matter just as little as the next person.
My life,
In all of its glory,
matters just as little as john f Kennedy’s
I am nothing
And we are nothing

Our suffering is eternal
the dead bird Nov 2020
The first time you kissed me,
set fireworks off in my soul;
with an explosive passion
that struck like a lightning bolt.
My once-cold heart went up in flames,
and the blaze swallowed it whole.

Now, my heart is burning up,
‘cause you set my soul on fire;
Engulfed by flames of emotion-
an inferno of desire.

That feeling when you kiss me
proves I don’t need any others,
my world was stuck in black and white
‘til you filled it with your colors ~

You paint my days with hues and shades
of violet, yellow and red.
You thawed out my frozen heart,
until it beat again.
But I would rip it from my chest
and hand it off to you,
if I knew
that if I did,
this would never end.
wheEeeeeEee proud of myself for sitting down and writing something, even if it’s only my second piece this year it’s better than none. Feel like I am finally getting back the passion that was stolen from me all those years ago
the dead bird Jun 2020
If I’m trying to fix myself,
logically speaking,
I should start at the source of the problem.

If hell is just a state of mind,
then demons are my open wounds,
and the devil lives inside certain humans.
He’s usually disguised with a smile,
the perfect words you want to hear,
bearing a trojan horse that looks like trust.

The first time I met the devil,
I was eighteen.
The physical wounds he caused healed fast,
leaving only one small scar.
It was his emotional scythe
that tortured my soul;
with slices that cut deep
and left me wounded.

My demons are the still-gaping wounds
that I thought bandaids could fix.
But I’ve found that substances
don’t silence the demon’s hellish screams -
they only drown out the noise
for a little while.

In order to free myself of these demons,
to escape my own hell,
to fix myself,
to change,
to heal;
I must peel off the bandages,
treat the infection at its source,
and let my wounds breathe.

I guess that means addressing
the emotional pain
that he carved into my soul.
I must process the pain I still feel,
the feelings of shame,
and dehumanization.

Real talk though?

Religious references aside,
fifteen years isn’t enough.
I don’t think any prison sentence -
no matter the length -
could account for the irreversible damage
he caused not only to me,
but also countless other young women and girls.

He doesn’t deserve my words.
But they are not for him.
These words are for me.
legit ramblings, on a mini vacation with my girlfriend  and  he still finds a way to haunt me. I won’t let his poison taint me forever
the dead bird Nov 2019
If my soul is a plant,
then you are the sunlight
that keeps me alive.

You are the bones of my skeleton.
You support the weight of my body -
the structure that keeps me together.

If I am a balloon, you are the string
that pulls me back down to Earth
whenever I begin to drift away.

You are summer, spring and fall;
you are all of the color and beauty
of every sunrise to ever exist.

The giver of my wings,
you taught me how to spread my feathers,
and showed me how to soar.

You are the moon of my planet,
controlling the tides of my oceans
that pull towards your magnetic being.

My beating heart with arms and legs,
you are the only light I see
shining at the end of this dark tunnel.

You are my home.
the dead bird Apr 2019
my worst habit is my tendency
to binge
on absolutely everything.

you remind me, constantly.
to that I say,
my precious
as I consume

i don’t like my sober mind.
i feel too much like
my mother,
whose worries eat her alive.

inebriation gives me
the power
to not give a ****!
something i lack when in sober thought.

it’s like anything and everything
causes a stress and worry
i just want to be away from it
for a little while.

that little awhile
being every day
at every chance i get.
do you think addiction is a mental illness? asking for a “friend”
the dead bird Mar 2019
the calendar now marks
that it's been over a year
since I've last had your taste.
I should be proud
of myself
- and I am -
but more so, I am
surrounded by frustration.

I cannot write code like I used to.
Neither can I
find the words to write poetry
like I used to.
With you,
my creativity and passion
came effortlessly:
like turning on a tap
from which the essence
whenever I took
my next hit.

Now, it's been
over a year from you;
and the passion from which
you robbed me of
is starting to come back.

I refuse to let
my memories of you
that which I love.

My subdued passion
for programming,
video games,
and literature
shall not be dull forever.

With every new moon
that passes,
the fog in the mirror
continues to fade,
as my reflection
becomes clear.

And with it,
I feel (more than anything)
the ambition
that which you stole from me
ever-so-slowly return.

I so desperately
searched for my soul
while in your grasp.
Clouded by your embrace,
I lost myself,
and saw only the image you painted
in the mirror.

In time I will find myself again.

One year clean
is something to celebrate.
been clean from speed a year and haven't wrote anything because it's hard for me to come up with anything of remote quality without the drug. at least that's what it feels like on my end. ah well, one year clean celebration poem.
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