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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 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.”
as I drift to sleep
every night, the same
fans whirring, not a meep
in the dusk, the night, the tame

I begin to wonder
and I begin to ponder
how I could deter
these thoughts of mine.

of the serenity
and the intensity
the calmness
and the soft embrace

as the lace of my mind
fades into time
and I remember, my kind
and hope they, benign

I wonder, and wonder
I wonder, and ponder
I wonder, and sunder
I wonder, and blunder
into a new kind of comfort

that the darkness I wish
that I want to dismiss
yet seems so delicious
despite the dread
that exists only
in my head

I think of the darkness
and of what sort of kindness
the end of my existence might bring
drifting into silence
with no malice, no chalice
no cup overflown

no words to express
the cozy love I condone
that might be known
if I just take the one step
and end it on my own.
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 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
there was a little girl
with brown hair and green eyes.

when she was very young,
her family seemed broken,
and she became very quiet.
before long, she was able to forget
and as she became older,
she began to talk again.
she began to read,
and everyone told her she was gifted.
she could read far above her age
and she could easily retain knowledge
and could even infer things she had never read at all.

her family protected her
and kept her safe always
and yet, she was so sheltered
that she did not learn to survive
and as she grew older
others found her smart
clever beyond her age
but she was reserved,
and once more,
she became quiet
to her,
the world was confusing
and especially people
and she worried every time she spoke
that her words would be taken
in a wrong, hurtful way
she was afraid of being judged
but had nothing to be judged for.

amidst all this,
the girl was lost.
she did not know where she would go,
or what she would do,
or how she would make a difference.
when she seemed most lost,
she met a boy.

the boy was also alone,
and struggled with his words,
and feared being judged.
she did not notice him at first,
but he vied for her attention,
and soon enough,
the two admitted their love.

they grew closer and closer
and the girl finally felt,
for once in her life,
she had something to live for
someone to care about
and she finally found hope in the lonely dark.

she decided, on her own,
that she would do anything for him,
and would try her hardest to keep him safe,
and to give them both a life.

as she grew older still,
her resolve never wavered.
she faced many trials
learned things she never thought she could,
and overcame her own weaknesses
and made them her strengths
all in the pursuit of the happiness
she envisioned with the boy,
in some distant future,
that seemed not so far away.

she was finally proud of herself,
and became more confident with her words
and stopped worrying about being judged.
but she felt something was wrong.
she felt her soulmate was keeping something from her,
and when she asked, he fell silent, every time.

she screamed and yelled and asked what was wrong
because she only wanted to help, to understand
but he said nothing.

and every sleepless night
she would finally find respite
and say she was sorry,
and that it was her fault
for overthinking
and worrying.

the feeling never left her
but her infatuation kept her from realizing
that the fear was well justified
and she had known the truth all along,
but refused to accept it
because the hope of that future
could not ever be replaced
without losing something of herself.

when the little girl had finally found her way
and had overcome her struggles,
and became something greater
than she had ever once thought she could
the boy disappeared.

she asked after him and asked his friends,
and asked anyone she thought might know him
and know where he went or that he was safe,
mostly that he was safe. only that he was safe.

she met another, who echoed her concerns
but in the same manner,
that this person loved him too,
and she realized,
as the other did,
what had happened.

the girl, stricken in grief
over knowing her hope was gone,
lost as fast as it had sparked,
knowing things would never be the same,
finally found the boy again.

she told him she knew,
and she had accepted it,
but she wanted to know why.
he admitted everything,
and she believed him when he said
he did not think he was good enough
to be a partner to someone like her
and had fallen into his lies and deception
to stay with her for just a little longer
he was on the street,
and he had given up,
but she had not.

she was now stronger,
and she saved him from himself,
and despite the wrongs he had committed,
she still stretched her own willpower
as far as it could go
to save his life and keep him safe,
because despite shattering her heart,
and leaving it broken,
she still loved him,
if not as a life partner,
as they would never be, and never could be,
but as someone who had proven
that she could be loved
she still felt he had helped her overcome herself.

unable to bear him any longer,
she asked him to leave, for good
she did not want any repayment
she did not want him to have debt
she simply wanted him to move on
and find a better life, and to be honest
to himself, and to those he knew
and she hoped her kindness
would help the boy change
but she would never know for sure
because he was gone forever.

as her pain worsened and corrupted her,
she finally was unable to bear
seeing the dream she once had
broken and lost over and over,

every day,

every hour,

every minute,

painful and excruciating

in a place she wanted to call home
that instead became a prison
of her own self-deception
and self-hate.

so, the little girl began to wander
in dreams and in flesh
and she found peace in nightmares
and sought dysphoria and introspection,
dancing with Alice and singing with Tina,
because she had lost so much of herself
she felt she had to journey to reclaim what was lost.

she searched every nook,
every cranny,
every alley,
high and low,
but found nothing
and ran out of hope in the process.

after journeying as far as she could go,
she collapsed, and gave up.
she fell on her back,
and stared at the stars,
and wondered how she could possibly live
without the idea of him, not of what was, but what she hoped for.
but she knew it was over, and her dreams were gone
forever
and ever
and ever.

she stood up, one more time
and met her family again.
but this time, her fears were realized
they were broken, moreso than her
and with all she had learned
she could finally see it
and realizing this,
she knew she could not go home
and that there was nothing for her there
they disagreed,
but she knew better.

she met many more people as she wandered
now aimless, and often kowtowing
to those she did not care for or respected.

she began to listen

and to hear their cries,

and their anxieties,

and their worries,

and their dreams,

and their fears.

and she realized

that all these people

were just like her.

they all had the same problems
the same anxieties,
the same worries,
the same dreams.

her final weakness had been conquered
and she understood others
often better than they understood themselves.
they were all a step behind
they still worried about and misunderstood
the intentions and assumptions of others
while to her, it seemed obvious.

and as the little girl listened and helped
and brought peace and comfort to many souls
who had no other way to find it,
she had forgotten about herself
and she began to slowly slip further and further
away from who she was, and away from who she wanted to be
until she found herself giving everything to help others
and never once helped herself.


when asked how she knew their worries so well
and could explain their fears and doubts
with such clarity and ease

she said she had felt it all before

many times

many, many times

and rather than be defeated by them
she reflected, and pondered
and wondered why she felt this way
and with her gifts, of language and reason,
she could put her feelings to words
but never for herself, only for others
because she needed a catalyst to bring this talent to bear.

the girl became more world-weary
and became more alone
as her gifts were temporary and ephemeral
and she lost those she helped
she never became angry, or discouraged
she knew they had their own lives,
and she was satisfied if they had, even a little
appreciated her time, and her thoughts
which had all come from pain, and strife
that she had been able to survive.

as she lost the last of her friends
and lost the last of her hope
and finally crumpled, in a sorry state
and found her own strength wanting
after carrying so many others on her back
and after all that had happened,
and after all she had done,
and after all she had endured,
thinking of everyone she hurt,
everyone she helped,
every heart she broke,
and those who had broken hers
she finally found
somewhere in herself
the courage she had thought she lost long ago
and let herself cry.
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 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

— The End —