The words that want to leave these lips
are the words, "I hate you!"
But I know that will all my might,
I can't muster up the courage to say that.
So instead, my weak voice will say,
"I love you"
because my heart still holds on
even if my brain says not to.
to my dear heart.
Are you still there? I do miss you so very much. this vacancy hasn’t been taken and I’m not looking to fill it with anyone else’s. (but if we’re being real, who would want to give me their heart anyway, I’d probably break it)
to my love.
where did you go? it’s so very cold without you. I don’t seem to feel as much anymore and I’m yearning for a feeling. something. (other than this superglue sadness) I still don’t know how to get this sadness off my shoulder, you were the one that always helped. Please come back. (being honest, i miss you more than the others)
to the glimmer behind my eyes.
what killed you? was it that illogical mess that controls the rest of you. was it that demon named anxiety feasting away in the night that kept your eyes glued to the ceiling where light never crept. (but let’s be logical. you have the light unless it it’s the sun’s first or last breath, and you can’t bear that anymore either)
to my brain.
what the fuck are you doing? I know you’re bad with chemistry, but please figure out the chemical imbalances. it’s too much of something or not enough of another and it’s getting me more and more fucked up everyday. I’m not suppose to be this sad, do you know that?
I’m not supposed to be this sad.
there’s no reason (though, sadness is your muse and she is the most beautiful disaster)
to myself- as a whole entity.
I hope you know it’ll be okay at some point. I hope you find some source of happiness, love, warmth. I hope you find that someone that __________.
this tunnel is too long to have no light at the end.
Come through the doors
and see all of this,
the messes I've made.
Pictures on the walls
and fallen to the ground.
Dust all around
and trash surrounds me.
Power cut, nothing
livable about this space.
All it ever needed
was a little tidying up.
After some time
I let it all get ahead of me.
Order all of the keepings,
turn on the lights again.
Spray some air freshener
and repaint the walls
a brighter color
to cover all the marks
made in the past.
This isn't a home, this is
just the inside of my head.
This isn't a home.
It's never felt like home.
Sell the space in my head.
We didn't break and we did not bend.
We swayed like toothpicks between teeth.
Silently smiling with cigarettes hanging from our bitter lips.
Smoking up the thing as if we were women who couldn't get enough lipstick.
But life bumped me and i smeared that shit.
See i wanted wintry hands and an almost nonexistent waist.
In order for that to happen my mind had to break.
I bent over backwards trying to get toa new body. I did cartwheels over calories and colored in a watery blue on all the pictures of food. I fade farther into myself the older i get and monsters murder my imagination. There's a grave labeled "skeleton girl" that we're racing to. I Thought if skinny means dying then so be it. My mind already offed it's self when it analyzed my thoughts.
It has arrived at last
where my heart is never wandering
of the time another heart beats
It is not functioning yet pumping
The neurons in my brain
they never electrify anymore
It was too felt: the pain
The stigma now invisible
Air is now only drawn for
a pair of lungs that are mine
breathing for less not more
The O2 was unassigned
I went to a therapist last week.
I've got some things wrong with me.
Turns out I have SPD.
With lots of other "tendencies."
And a part of me wanted to be told,
That I fit the 'normal mold'.
But another part of me wanted validation.
Validation, meaning that what I felt,
Wasn't my imagination.
That's what I got.
And it thickens the plot.
At least I know I'm not insane.
I have these things to blame.
Or is it my brain?
Is to blame.
There's more to a woman than her body and curves. At the core of her brain is a thunderstorm that rains down wisdom, knowledge, and understanding flooding the soul of man with love in it's truest form.
There's more to a woman than her physical beauty. She's a living breathing ocean with waves of compassion leaping from the depths. Sweeping man up in her current allowing him to swim in her essences that is woman.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
To be so intensely connected with one self’s interior…
To constantly bathe in past memories like sepia coated 60s reel…
To flip through emotions, cataloging their density yet being unable to see through the great complex field…
How does one have the entire plot?
How does one have all the development?
Yet lack the ability to articulate a proper character analysis?
It seems almost nonsensical,
To have all the experience but none of the memories.
Is it the time, a track not run all the way through?
Or is it a common oversight, a piece just out of view?
All this musing feels a bit inane,
These cyclical thoughts nearly driving me insane.