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The train
****** to wait for me as i count my steps
Going away
And returning
It always passes
Waiting for me to suddenly be stuck to the railroad
Waiting for me to never hear it
I think the train follows me but that's foolish
So i stay cradled in my words, veiled by the moon and my alternating fictitious emotions,
Wanting to be young forever
For being stuck in this timeline just makes everything beautiful.
My ****** youth makes bliss out of misery and condemns my joy for it to be kept for moments like these,
Retrospective of my self, time and the right way to be,
Startled by my conflicting sentiments,
Young anger of the frustrated, power hungry and discontent,
But grateful, for what I've lived and seen.
This is no note or ode to death,
Just a gentle message that i am well
And that I've been and felt plenty
So if thy mark of the end would think I'm ready,
I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't beg to stay in the remnants of me.
But if there's more to breathe than what I've had then, I'll inhale happily.
For the train to or not to hit me,
I'll have to keep waiting,
I promise i am not glamorizing, pain or anger or even lucidity
I am simply accepting comfort, commodity, a vile of short bliss before morning comes in emptyly.
I won't plaster this on the eyes of people to see but rather keep it, treasured antique of my immobility while I for once enjoy living, morbidly, but truly.
The train will get me
stranger May 23
I wanna live my young years
Screaming at people across the terminals,
Waking up in train stations
Loving to live among others.
I wanna live in the romanticism of the teenage years.
I wanna get wasted with strangers
And sing on the boulevards.
What the **** kind of good girl am I?
What the **** kind of intimidating hypocrite am I?
What the ****?
Time is passing by me while I watch it from my top bunk
From my bathtub
From my phone camera.
Only if I could say I ate my years like the other kids,
"I smoked my years away" or "drugs ate at my sanity"
It's just the glamour veil.
I watched my years
I didn't eat or smoke them.
I stood by and watched them fly and now I feel old.
and now i feel old
stranger May 19
I search for wisdom in others
So I can relax
Lay back and not do anything.
I don't need to be wise
My skepticism wouldn't have to tire me.
It's so easy to lean on someone
Be it their body or mind
Their actions or opinions
It's way more comfortable.
Because forming a singular personal identity
Is seemingly impossible.
What is me?
What sets me apart from my ego, whatever I project outwards to the people?
So why be me when there's someone else I can form onto.
Parasitical existence by all means inclusive,
Online, offline, flatline.
I can be you when I can't be me.
I can be you when I am tired
I can be you when I'm lying
I can be you when I don't like me.
Because my persona is picture perfect I can exude my flaws onto someone and my aspirations on someone else.
So I end up being a split formation of self.
The 27th part of me you can find on said website.
Cuz the media is eating me out while my family watches.
What are my ******* core values.
How can I be me when I don't know how I'm living?
So I form me into something else,
Permanency hurts so I morph.
stranger Apr 20
Well thought out impulsive decisions,
Not wise but planned.
Still impulsive just measured.
My being.
That's all my life has ever been
And the moment I think I know the world.
It turns back and spits on me.
you thought...
stranger Feb 20
Coming in sunset hues in my dreams
And incubus-like shadows.
Too long...
I watched honey smeared lips
And just admired.
I feel...
That love smells rather of pesticides than freedom.
Like having to love to say I hate you?
What the **** is that...
Is cold in the air
Platonic, romantical, ****** you name it.
I've no love to spare.
Gravitational regret...
How smooth can you be?
What's falling in love and what's just thinking about it, the possibility, of potentially feeling what is marketed as... Love.
Dedicational letters or careless texts seem useless,
Unless they make you feel less worthless.
Nonetheless it's just advertisement for some feeling growing out of my inexistent basement.
I've been told,  told that I have an asexual view over romanticisms and ****** encounters.
I am just as perverted as the rest of the world,
Possibly even more.
But what is ******* and *** to love
The statuesque human principle?
Simply just as relatives as time.
stranger Feb 20
I spend half my life in baths
But I feel rather *****.
I'm a writer at loss of words,
Perhaps my education wasn't enough,
The praising of jesus mightve not worked
For I am ever so unethical.
And so I'd like to drown exactly here.
In my excessively bad and cryptic poetry,
Envious of other's talent, opportunities and lifes.
On my way of trying to seem a new human I forgot who I was and who I am.
So back to the drawing board... Which never existed and will never exist.
Routine living and avid hopes.
Haunted by an image of me that will never catch this lifetime.
I've no-one to read this and no-one to read me
And it kinda feels lonely.
I think existence is meant to be lonely,
**** the "social creatures we gotta be together" ****.
At loss of words, ***** and unethical.
A filthy paradox of human life.
Am i not the epitome of human existence?
The one thing I've have never dreamt of becoming,
resentful, abhorrent and alone.
stranger Dec 2019
Friday morning
Already ironic.
Casually sitting in a taxi cuz today my history thesis is happening.
A kid was hit on the crossing, laying there with the only three people around who called the ambulance.
A few meters on the other side of the road,
The side the kid wanted to get to,
A man casually arranging tables in the betting house.
Watching the desperation in my eyes as I watch the scene before me.
Now is stuck in meaninglessness.
I heard later that day that the kid lives and hopefully so he won't stop.
So now I'm stuck in pink doored bathrooms and the road the trams pass by.
Thinking how desperation is hope because fear is motivation and anger's the fuel.
How much of a human I am, thinking the sole  existence of life is somewhat philosophical.
Cuz that kid on the street and that bathroom I was in, are both poetry.
And I'm nothing but an observer.
Things before others realise.
And still what value has this moment in time?
Almost 100km per hour, I could die right?
I could die by my own means so of course 100km is just a simple factor.
I wanna die by my own means.
No car hitting me, no sudden disease.
I want the odds that are against me to at least respect my timing.
Though it's selfish.
I've been wanting to write about that kid for a while, just couldn't get myself to.
Like a letter to myself I'd never wanna send.
Naturally running out of fuel, life itself slips away in front of my eye.
So in the most mundane mindset, I cannot stop it.
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