Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?

maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.

and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.

in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.

if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.

anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.
thanks
Rachel Armstrong Aug 2020
i,
me,
just
again
alone,
together,
then apart,
faithfully two,
misremembering.
desperately prying,
for anything I felt so
maybe, in recollecting,
needy and wanting then
watch it all fall apart again
complex, long, feels the worst
yet there's still more to go
i try my best to stay alive
knowing what's to come
forgetting what I found
losing that feeling of
righteous doubting
in myself, not you
that silent regret
always with me
nightmare, no
just a dream
forgotten,
morning,
forget it,
it's only
selfish
bitter
lying
just
for,
me
.
just wanted to make a nice gradient
Rachel Armstrong Jul 2020
i often want to write something,
but every time i try i feel as though someone already has
but when i tell someone i love them,
i've said it a thousand times and still mean it
so it doesn't really matter how original you are,
as long as you still mean what you're repeating
Nietzsche said: "Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory is too good.”
Rachel Armstrong Jul 2020
we, others, them, think we're lost, broken, and afraid
is it so wrong to find our own way in the darkness
is it so long to put the pieces back together in a new fashion
it takes a great amount of fear to do these things

it takes an immense amount of courage to believe in them
Rachel Armstrong Jun 2020
She followed me around, matching every step I took, every time I tripped, every inch I squeaked across laminated, tiled, grassed floors. She followed me through cornfields, though war, through the deserts of Saudi, through the alpine cliffs and tundra of the wintered northeast states. She followed me into the restrooms, and into my bed, where we whispered our dreams to one another, silently letting the hours pass as neither of us could muster a blink, only to express our undying love for one another. I couldn’t sleep with her there. She kept my eyes on her, and in moments I became ravenous, and sleep was found only once we were satisfied. That love was vapid, and that love was only a fragment. An expression of the true whole. My undying devotion to my love. My one, true love.

     Her face was beautiful, pale, blue yet almost grey eyes, staring into the wall. Blonde, shaggy, unkempt but not unwashed hair fell a little below her shoulders. Those eyes looked so magnificently marvelous with the glint of our shared lamp on the edges of her eyes, the shiny reflections seemingly engulfing me in her wonder. And yet, as I pay attention, I know she has nothing in those eyes, and that beauty is a husk. For a brief moment I understand, and then once more, it is gone. Her beauty enraptures my soul once again, and I am lost amidst a dream of her love, her love so strong and deep and penetrating into a heart I thought had been broken long ago, rekindling what desire I had to continue trying to survive.

     I stood up once again, but she bid me to sit down, as the show wasn't yet over. The inspiration she had just bestowed upon me would go to waste if he stayed, but after just a moment looking down into those corpse eyes, so wide and begging to be shut, I conceded and sat again. She kissed my nose, one for each nostril, giggled, and left. I love her. So much. I would do anything for her. I would die for her. I spend every minute of my day thinking of her. I worship her.

     I can't forget her. I can't deny her. I can't refuse her. She feels like nothing in my arms, yet everything. I have no control. And I relish in these chains. Every moment I struggle is another **** she can mend. Every war I fight brings more scars to heal. Every catastrophe has her there, faithfully by my side, ready to cheer me up. I held her hand through all of those things, tightening my grip with every new anxiety, every new stress. Every new responsibility. Even as I stumbled she whispered in my ear, that she was still with me, and willing to be there forever.

       Every time I fell, she helped me back up. She always knew the perfect thing to tell me. She was right on time to make up for any mistakes I made. She had a great eating schedule, and helped me get fit, like I never dreamed I could. She made me popular with the other girls, though; she was always jealous, and always kept herself for last and best. And, truly, I couldn't deny her, she was all I could ever dream for.

     My dearest, every moment we are apart is torture to me and a slow death in its own way. Another minute of being so alone like this, without you by my side to keep me safe and warm, is terrifying to think of. I dream of walking outside and seeing you, there, ready for me, having been gone all these months, bright-eyed and beaming with joy, rushing up to me and folding your thin arms around me, crying about how you missed me so **** much. About how our life together would be eternal, until death. Marriage wasn’t important. What was important was your place in my heart. About how we could finally be back together.
We can finally be back together, my love, my crystal methamphetamine.
Rachel Armstrong Jun 2020
i only find myself weakly present now
letting the past go but finding it only relevant
as i find myself weaker and in need of strength.
but in the past i was not strong
i was weak and found my courage in darkness
and in light i misplaced it again and again
though the future feels bleak and empty
pointing to my true fate's north bearing
the same fearless demeanor i felt
as i believed i died,
and i believed i lived,
and found myself between.
though curiously,
amidst cloudy thoughts and dreams,
the mist keeps me anxious
of seeing what will be
and every time i choose my step in
and every time i don't give in
the inch that takes me further
leaves me stronger than i ever was.
so please sit with me
o speaker of my thoughts
have tea and honey and leaves
enjoy your break and scenery
because another inch from here
the cloudy mist of confusion and fear
will be back to guide me astray
i just hope not like yesterday.
the first line went through my head just before bed for some reason

so i opened a word processor and wrote more, so i could keep myself from thinking too much when i tried to go to sleep after

considering my normal writing is very structured and more academic or narrative, i enjoy just putting words down and seeing what happens when i don't overthink the intention too much

i've thought more about these notes, in fact, though in large i shouldn't explain anything, especially not to myself

thanks for letting me join, i want a place to feel motivated to do this more that isn't deviantart or a personal website

— The End —