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If time heals all wounds,
why does each day without you
hurt worse than the last?
 Jan 2019 grace snoddy
Sky
comfort
 Jan 2019 grace snoddy
Sky
you slowly push
my doubts away,
and every day
that we talk
i feel the hole fill.
the universe
might finally be kind
to my aching heart.
could you really be
the comfort
i’ve been seeking?
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.
 Aug 2018 grace snoddy
A H J
I’ve been crying a lot lately.



Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my  imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it.

The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry.

I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry.

That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die.

“Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,”

those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it.



Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard?

That was the first time I sat on the public toilet,

crying.



“What’s wrong with crying?”

A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ...



So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them.

I cried.

And cried.

And cried and cried and cried.



I’ve been crying a lot lately.
is crying a good thing?
 Aug 2018 grace snoddy
Mr Quiet
I could give you the entire universe but then I would just be giving you yourself.
When You Used To Call Me Mine
Part 14/14
My new EP "s e r e n d i p i t y" is out now on Soundcloud! Hope you enjoy it :)) https://soundcloud.com/user-630763630/sets/s-e-r-e-n-d-i-p-i-t-y
when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"

I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:

to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.

we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us

it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.
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