Today might be a bad day
And I'm unprepared Eating chips and drinking minute maid Because something's making me not care Looking out the window To see leaves falling in my backyard Along with drizzle in the air Thinking about how life can be hard In different ways Deciding if I should stay in bed And get destroyed by the storm Because most times I wonder Why I was born - 7/25/17 11:56a.m.
Sometimes it doesn't feel like me
What I'm living in is foreign What I want versus what I need In a way it feels distorted I was use to deprivation In a way it was my pride I didn't need or wanted as much Even now I still don't mind Overwhelmed with newfound freedom I am free. Still, I am lost I'm no longer trapped or controlled But that was all I was ever taught I was raised by maps and manuals Now you give me a pen to write my own Opening various paths around me Paralyzed in anxiety to take even one alone If recovery meant burning all of my maps And rewriting all of my manuals Letting go of strict rules and superior words To be mortal than something mechanical
Induced fixation has engulfed us
Fixation of indoctrinated normality, and the pursuit of said specification. Who's, characteristics are repugnant to individuality. We all believe we are different, but we fallow the same shepherd who has snowed us with such lies. The hypocrisy of, "average is unique", has been whittled into our minds. We bear this scar for the rest of our lives. To reject the ideology would be to condemn yourself to purgatory. All previous beliefs and known fact would vanish, you would be alone, adrift in nothingness and ultimate confusion. However, our distraction caused by our fixation on subjective "normality" has blinded us. We find that we are in a crowd, and are unable to see above the billions of heads. One thing we can see, is a ginormous stage. From which our indoctrination calls its origin. The microphone upon the origin blocks self reflection and critical thinking through pushing us toward endless **** for their normality. A normality of political agenda, social agenda, and cultural agenda all forced upon us through "authority". Evil is one who questions any teachings that originate from the stage. Suppressed is their voice. Discourse is hate speech. But we are unique. But we are also normal because we are unique. Wait What a paradox That's just what we are taught Now that We've questioned our restraints of self exploration and personal growth. We can begin the beginning. Free of our chains. What is our purpose now?
I walk blindly through beauty.
I numbly touch its fur. I exhale its fragrance. To drift is to be sure. My vision is cut short, that of a pin, sculpted, chiseled, cut down. Brown is my vision, defined by the words within. between the two, I am. Stability in the binding, the spine, I bend. The cover, my beginning. The back, my end.
I wrote this poem from my perspective of a person in a religion. How they limit their interaction with the world around them because their bible doesn't allow them to see it.
With the frailty of a butterfly
Books for warmth, fading out like old photographs Antique white skin Brassy bloodied cheeks A swarm of dragonflies laces my face Ancestry nightfall, ghosts of the drowned Faded gnarled patchwork, eating away my mind Limbs of the tree growing out of me Divided from everyone else Inside the pinwheel blindfolded Wading through hours and days A ***** to this disease It's the only one that I breathe
The junction where smoke and fog reside,
gliding with western winds beneath these clouds, the moon fades perilously from sight and it rains ash. A thousand candle wicks are pinched as the scent of acres burn, lit like the flames we blow out so easy. Control is a funny word, like when a doctor says, "She'll be fine, I've got this", the arborist cries observing only skeletal remains, as his patient has deceased having control to blame.
A walk through life
left, 9/11 right, moon landing above, Aliens below, there's the devil What is being said we are a simulation our lives are being controlled our phones have been tapped in this world I have one question, what isnt a theory can you hear me I said what isnt a theory so speak to me are you being told to say that? am I programmed to write this? whats your theory
concealed chains bind me
prance through surreality i marionette
its time we follow our own dreams
These members are not my own
They seep through the rapids As I drown They ask me questions They tell me what to do How to feel And then condrtridict their own *** am I supposed to do When I can't get through?
Feels like dimensions Feels like I'm never on my own wave legnth Its intrusive and controlling Like messages being beamed into my subconscious
I can't hold a conversation with them
They spit each word with their own hurt They come to me hurling my own agony They are wicked and cruel I will not shed a tear yet The clock will strike midnight I might shed a tear I might just let my agony turn into anger Cruel and wicked are their intentions I bite my own tongue and keep quiet If I become numb to my emotions What will I become When midnight comes I'll be numb
-- this is a way for me to vent my emotions a few days ago I will not edit or change anything it's what I was thinking and going through in that moment