Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dante Jul 4
It occurs to me that I cannot move forward while existing in the hellscape that is the absence of love.

I’ve never received love. I’ve always been a stranger to it. Very rarely have I received the smaller parts that make up the whole that is love: things like justice, recognition, trust and commitment are things that have always been absent in my relationships with others and myself. My mother kept me isolated from the world because she lacked the empathy to understand that I was a being separate from her. I was, in some quiet, unconscious way, a burden to her. From her I knew care, but little more. I was fed, given a room with a bed, even video games and a computer. I was kept alive. But I knew nothing of emotional connection; there was no recognition in what she would call her loving. I was never seen, only kept. When the cruelties of the world outside our home beat my body and mind until something cracked, and they reached inside of me to find my innocence and steal it, there was no justice. Justice, which is a necessary component of love. She would punish me instead, by making it clear how disgusting I was to her- I, who was six, and eight, and thirteen- for seeking out things I was being taught were love, or she would remain quiet in her words and actions. Adults all around me abused me. My only parent, teachers and relatives were all abusing me in a world where children my age were told adults were protectors, and teachers “second parents”, like my mother would tell me.

I don’t think it’s possible to heal without knowing love.
I’ve worked to “improve” myself- a word I’m now beginning to think should have been “heal”- for years. Obsessively, to a fault. Multiple times a day, I would write something new, a new note, something I’d realized I was doing wrong and needed “fixing”- a dangerous word when referring to the modification of the self.
This could be called care. But nothing else. Similar to how my mother cared for me but didn’t know (or would often refuse) to offer me the rest of the parts needed to form the whole that is love, I gave myself only parts of it. I didn’t love myself because I didn’t know how to. My definition of love had its foundations in the actions of my abusers. The love I gave myself was rendered unkind by the lack of my protectors’ understanding of love, their abuse, and what they taught me love was.

I worked so ******* trying to “fix” myself that this care became a kind of torture. I wouldn’t punish myself so much as I would work myself into exhaustion. It’s a subject too complex and full to delve into right now, but this, and every stressor in my life, was exacerbated by the fact that I am autistic. This is a definition I don’t entirely agree with but for the sake of conciseness I’ll say it– If you can imagine being born without a single tool to navigate the world, that is what autism is. I had to build much of what others know instinctively. This makes for an extremely confusing and terrifying childhood, even without abuse from an outside source. Due to the nature of autism, it can in itself be a kind of trauma. There are no known solutions to the issues it presents. In my rigorous self-studying (and observation of other autistic people I’ve known over the years), I’ve understood the core issues of autism and how to correctly- that is, naturally- arrive at the peace we so desperately need. I’ll write about it some day.

Autism made my life in isolation harder than it would be for those who aren’t autistic. Understanding the world without some kind of guidance was virtually  impossible for me. For a lot of autistic people, it remains impossible until death. I still need guidance in certain situations, mainly when in public or when feelings of stress cause regression, stripping me of my learned skills and pushing me into confusion and purely logic-based solutions (which only serve to offer relief in a short-term manner).

Only recently, within the last month, did I learn to approach self growth in better ways. Negativity is something I can now sit with, without fear of it. I listen to it, observe it. I always knew this is what should be done with feelings of negativity, but I wasn’t capable of it. I want to say that the only reason I became able to do this was because I was shown parts of love I had been refused all my life.
Recognition, justice, and a little bit of affection were all that I needed to move forward in my journey of becoming.
It was as if I had been waiting eagerly for years to know these fragments of love, so that I could finally work to modify the parts of me that needed modifying. The second I was shown this kindness, I felt I knew exactly how to use it. The gates had opened and I was sprinting, because finally, finally I could move forward. It was admittedly chaotic at first; I was overflowing with love in an overactive, confused state. The change for me was great and sudden, and difficult to manage. It was overwhelming, but I mostly settled into it after. Suddenly I was capable of accepting love, and was excited to give it. The kind words of strangers finally felt true; little positive messages left for anyone to read online were now a love I could accept and use. I looked through them and held their love in my arms, carrying it to my bed that day I remember feeling so sad and lonely. For the first time in years I wasn’t afraid of my sadness, of my loneliness, of my fear- of the results of my loveless life. I simply sat and cared for myself, and there was nothing lacking in my loving. I loved myself fully for one day.

The positive change in me that came from being given the fragments of love that had been absent all my life- justice, recognition and affection- lasted a month. Some part of me tells me that I should wait more to write about this, because right now is the end of that month.

The love has stopped, and I find myself in need of it again, and I’m wondering if I can survive by learning to give it to myself. Every time I wonder this, I think it’s impossible. That I’ll eventually reach that gate again, that my journey of becoming will inevitably stop. Self-love is made possible when we know what it is to be loved. I think this. I think this now.
Love cannot be built in isolation. I will need to be loved in order to continue loving myself. I’m too eager to continue my journey, I think. This is natural, but it leads to unpleasant things that might repel others and keep me from being loved. I’ve begged- an unbecoming, often disrespectful act. I’m desperate, but also unwilling to hurt anyone with my suffering.
It’s hard to know how to ask for kindness. It’s harder yet, as an autistic person. I want to ask for it, but something in me tells me doing this is rude. And the tension I feel from thinking this creates an unbearable stress as it grows into an unsolvable doubt: What about asking for something I need is rude? Is it possible to ask for fragments of love tactfully, without this rudeness? Is there something my autism isn’t letting me see?
There often is. The problem here then becomes, “I need a guidance most people do not need, and I know that asking for it is undesirable to others. I will be punished for needing.” Sometimes I don’t need this guidance. When I’m happy and safe, I can function independently more often. But happiness and safety are things one feels when loved. My dilemma is a paradox.

I’m tired of my loveless life. I wish for nothing more than to be able to love and be loved, because I am tired of lovelessness, because I am eager to know the terror of loving, eager to learn with someone to hold and be held, to commit love. I want to love and be loved because I am human, and because I think that at the end of lovelessness, there must be a kind of death, and I want so badly to live.
Perhaps if I weren’t autistic, my search would be less difficult and painful. I feel as if I am punished for needing, because most people do not need the things I need, and needing them is seen as a sign of rudeness, an inconsiderate nature or just plain incapacity, which are all undesirable traits.

My fear is to be undesirable for who I am. I can’t write it without crying. My fear is to be told I shouldn’t be touched because I can’t touch, that I shouldn’t be trusted because I can’t stop masking, that I shouldn’t be loved because I can’t love.
And I feel that all I can say is that I swear I can learn, if only you’ll give me the chance. I am willing to. And I’m sorry to beg, because I know it isn’t very good or beautiful, but please stay a while, so that I may allow myself to be defenseless and bare, like love requires one to be, like I long to be. If you must leave then go, but if you have the patience to spare, please use it on me. Because if at the bottom of lovelessness, there is only some death, I don’t want to ever know it. I don’t want to get any closer to it.
Dante Jun 25
What has happened to me?
I’ve been acted upon;
brought to my own becoming.
On my knees
before an altar that holds me
and all I have been.
And I’m praying, God, I’m praying,
agape in my own-loving, in my still-shock;
Defenseless to my god and silent.
ManxPoetryGuy Jun 12
I
I am Breathing
I am Playing
I am Feeling
I am Loving
I am Caring
I am Funny
I am Talented
I am Creative
I am F̷̦̦̣̉è̷̫̣͆͜á̷̫̈͠r̶͉̞̦̿f̵͔̫̻̄̓͘ṷ̷̰͍̕l̷̮̔͠
I am Smart
I am Adventurous
I am Curios
I Ç̷̨̟̋̈̾a̴̭̎̔̌n̴̡̦̕'̸͉͕̦̮̅̐̄ť̴̼̝͎́̀͌ ̷̙͙͛͐͝B̷̢̼̊͛̂r̸̫̼̐e̷̝͈̞̊̈͊̍a̸̛̞̻͈̟̍t̶͍̙̗̮̏h̴̡̯͔̙͌
I want Love
Ń̴̛̛̳͓͙̖ó̷͓̜͚ ̵̦̀͋ŏ̸͎̗͍n̴̥͚͔͆̂̊͜ĕ̶̛̙̈́̓ ̶̢͙̙͚̈́͛̏L̷͚̫̉͑̾o̶̲͐̽v̴̳̖͐͋é̶͎͚͔̘̏͠s̵̗͉̥̅̇̀ ̷̛͖͌̔M̷͔̮͒̇͒ę̵̪̜͎̉̆
I want Family
Ṫ̴̹h̵̻͆ę̶͌y̷̰̔ ̵̘̈́a̴͎͛l̸̻̂l̵̗͗ ̴̼̔H̸̹̓ḁ̶̊t̴̥̀e̸̼͝ ̵̣́M̷͛͜e̴͍̓
I am Ḍ̸̈a̶̮͝n̴̼̈́g̴͕̈́ȩ̸́r̷̞̀o̸̦̽ǘ̴̠s̴̫̾ ̴͈̊
I am Ü̵͖ñ̵̤l̶̳͝ò̴̗͆v̸̟́́e̶͖͂̓d̶̡̀̎
I am H̸̨̎i̶̢͗ḏ̷͐e̶͈͑ó̶̭ǘ̸̩s̷̜̽
I love Someone W̸̟̊h̶͕͠ő̸̰ ̵̹́I̶̤̚ ̵̼̾S̶̯̈́h̷̊ͅȍ̴̗ų̷̓l̵̮̋d̸̺̈n̶̯̂t̶̠͂
I save People B̸̭̥͖̍̽y̵͙̪̟͂ ̴̢͖̈́̉̎p̷̙̪̍̏͠u̷͙͝s̶͚̺̿̓ḧ̴̝͍́̎ì̶̛͔̰̣n̸͎̬̥̉́g̶̻͉͇͊ ̸̢͖͂t̶̯͕̓̇h̵̼͈̓̔̃e̶̼̿̔m̵̻͇̰̉̑͝ ̵̳̰̦̔̉͝a̸̡̿̆ŵ̷͎a̸̺͂y̵̧̨͇̽͗́
I help my friends B̸͚͍̗̈́y̸̩͘ͅ ̵̘̭͑͂͐ḧ̴̠́͝ǘ̸̫̇ŕ̵̗̎̕t̵̝̰̾̕i̷̩͈̿͘͠n̴̤̒͆͝g̷͙̻̐̐͜ ̵̼̼̲͂͆m̶̡̮̅͛͊y̷̤͍̻̒s̴̢̄ȇ̸̖͇̮̊l̷̐ͅf̸̮́ͅ
I seek Happiness B̷͉̫̤̀̽̿u̷̠͑́t̶̨̝̐̀͠ͅ ̷͚̮̲̇͆̽f̷̱͇̜̌͛͑i̸̺̎͝n̵̥̗͚̄d̸̟͂ ̴̡̮͑̽͜o̶̮̓̐̍ņ̷̯̊̃ḷ̷͓̥̃͛y̸͉͖̞̅ ̸̀̈́ͅS̴̛͚͓͈͂ą̴̂d̶̤̆̑n̸͓͆ė̶͈̰s̵̪̣̥͛ŝ̷̞̩̈́
Ȉ̶̺͔ ̶̟̼̯̽̈́̒ä̸͓̰͚̕m̴͉͚͚̒̈́ ̴̨̦͗N̵̮͛o̵̳̝̹̕t̸̰̃h̵̫̟̪̉̊i̸̞̅n̴̠̮͐̋̏g̵̣̥̾̕ I̷͑̊͜ ̴̭̘̎̾a̶͚̦͚̿̈́m̸̧̖̆̌͠ ̴͙͙͊͝W̸̻̑͗̀ẹ̶͎͌a̶̰̓̀̾k̷̫̖̊̓ͅ
I̵͍̞͍̫̱̩̗̟̗̠͒̽̎̑̏͒̽̈́̓̋̚͜ͅ ̷̫̥̺̣͍̹̭̤̥̩̬̘̦̳͚̟̍̋͋̌̈́͘͝a̵̱̻͓̠͈̤͍͚̼̞͚͔̿̓͐̈́̿͜͜m̴͙̃̓̌͊̈́̄̈́̀̐̅̓̌̊̕̚͠͝­̨̜͚͉̥͔̗̞̹̗͇͕̘ͅ ̸̧̢̯̤̥̩͍̭̭̫̰͓̣͇̌̽̓͆̃͌̈́̃̿̚ͅM̴̩̹̦͓͇͔̳̖̭̣̪̄͂̿̀̿͗̽͐͗͗i̷̾͂̎́̋͑̽̀͒̑̈́͘͝͠­̡̭̗͇͖̲̜͎̺̼͇̳͈͌̊s̵̡̢̧̰͓̯̥̬͔̺̣͇̬̝̋̈́̏̓̒͋͂͛́̿͒̅̔͠͠ȩ̶̮̲̭̦̰͙̩̩̬͎͙̝̳̀̈r­̸̼̻̫̋a̵̧̟̥̗͕̜̘̱͉̤͚͕̐̓͂̄̈́̿b̷̛͉͔͇͔̙͙̫́̊̇͒͒̄͐̊̌͋̉͒̌̄͘l̷̈̆̅͗̐́̊́̽̀̈́͘͝­̫̭̦̲̪̱̈́ę̷͓̜̙̭̮͚͔̺̩̠͉̿͒́̏̉̈͊̔͐̕͜͝ͅͅ ̵̪̠̘͉̹̣͕̝͔̗̜̟̮̼̭̂̏͜I̴̲̲̜̗̠̮͖̺͋̀͑̍̅̊̌̾̉̾͑̍̊̃͝͝ ̷̢̢̥͔͚͍̹̹̟̿̓̀͘͜ͅā̴̈́͋̈́̃͗̚̚͜ṃ̶̢̢̻̝̬̹̙̬̫̎́͂́̐̀̀̌̓̋̅̎͊̚̚͜ ̸̱̪̞̟͇̮͈̠͚͇̭̓̌̎̀̎̍͜͝ͅP̷̛̗̽͊̎̍͋̀͂̀̕ă̷̰̭͈̭̎͌́̒͒͑͌͊̀̐̋̓͘͠ẗ̶̯̗̯́͒̎̂͠­̧̨̣̠͕̼̭̭͇̮̹͜h̸͖͇̙̮̙̃̏̈̒͒́̊̾̀͑̾́̑̆̈́e̶̤͙̦̗̥͔̋̋͑̃̕͝t̴̮̣̱̲̟̅̄͛̋͛̾̇̚̚͝­̭̝̜̞͇̘͔i̶͈̻͇̬͖̩̓̋̀͑͝c̶̲͔̥̯̖̝̹͈̙̼̓͜͝ͅ ̷͕͕͕̣̦̺̙̲̳͖̟̮̩͍͔̪͖̈́̏͂͗͗̒̐͒̋̾̽̿̓Ì̵̢̱͎̮̯̼͉̦̖̭͈͎̰̯͆͛́̓̓͊̏̋̎̑͑͛͝ ̷̡͕̘͈̣͍̗͖̺̖͖͌̓̀̔̽̄̓̀̈́̍̚̕͜͠a̶̯̣̬̖̾̌̃m̸̡̥̌̐̍̒́̀̔̾͌͘͝ ̵̢̧̜̤͚̻͉̹̜̾͂͌̾̑L̴̛̝͈̪̱̦͖͕̝͔͎̞̠̈͋͊̐̀̒̾̀̈̈̕͘͜o̸̡̲̠͎̍͌̈́̽̒̌̿͌͌͂̽̾͗̆͝͝­͈n̶̨̠͍͓̞̪̲̫͖͉͉̯͍͖̂̆̇̄̌̈́̐͂͘͜͜ȩ̶̡̻͖̟̬͕̬͓̣̑̃̂̌͌ͅͅḽ̵̨̫̟͚̱̮͈̝̼͕͇̇̈y̷­̢̻͓̱̙͇̭̳̦̲̅̏̒̓̿̋̃̊̎̚ ̵͕̄̋͋͑͒̕I̴̞̱͈͖͚͙̩̱̞͍̥͂̈́͂̉̓̎̕ ̶̣̖̬̼̤̝͊̅͗̊̚͘ă̷̡͖͈̳̠̳̯̖̤͚̱͇m̸̛̳͔̥̜̗̒͐̊̌̋̃̄͑̔̋͌ ̴̩̬̂̿̈̇I̴͚̳̪͉̣̗̯̭̘̟̣̎̃̋̀̂̈́̍̾̊̄̾ͅn̷͍͇͈̥̞̭̻̯̙͕̠͚̻͉̑͌͊̿̓͒̊̏̄̅͌̕͘͠͝͝c­̶̙͓͉͚͓̪͍̺͇͚̤̯͇̳͔̱̣͌̓̇̅̿͛ą̵̟̜̲̝̗͍͈̝̻̙͒͐̚p̶̱̺̲̭̯̹̮̈́͆̓̀̋̅̽͂̔̔̂̄͆̂͘͝­͕ͅä̴̞́̍b̷̡̛͎͉̱̟̯̗͉̺̭̂̓̋͒̇͋l̷̯̊͗̑͂e̴̮̺̣̫͓͓͉̻̻̝̭̤͚̖̖̅̓͛̃̃̈́̒̿͗̾́̀̉̇͝­͖ ̶̧̢̯̜̻̫͙̱̻̥̠͓̒̾̈́̒̿͒̇̌̚͠͠͠Į̸̨̨͙̻̥̰̤̯̱̫̺̦͂̐͛̀͠͠ ̴̢͔̭̝̏̈́̾͋͊̒͂͊̾̇̆̂̌͜͠ͅẃ̸̧̧̡̹͎͙̰̮̘̳͉͖͚̗͙͛̽̿̾͋͋̚͜͜͝ỏ̷͂̇̓̿̽̔̇́̚͘̕̚͠­̧̢̪̼̦̲̼͓̭͎̝̮͈̦̯̼n̶̛̪̺̓͂͑́̑̈̋̑t̷̨͖̥̥̼̦̠̪͔̫̩͙̔́͊̏͛̚ ̷̨̤͎̬̽͌͋̿̏̽̓̀̂́̆̌̉Ş̷̛͒͒u̴̝̾̀͐̏̿̚͘͝ŗ̷̱̫͚͈̩̦̙̰̲̩̫͉̿ͅv̴̧̼̎̂̓̑̋͛̋̆̋­͎̱̩͈̝͙i̵̞͉̦̾̿̅̍͗̀̓̾͘͘͘͝v̴̡͖͍̪̟̘͇͕̥̫̈́̂̇̄̋̃̇̾̅̀̓͆͂͘̚ͅe̸̻̳̥͒́̇̿̎̄̇̃͜­ ̴̪̟̥͎̻̝̻͎̀̌͒̍̾̇̓́͂̎͒͘̕̕͠͝͝Ĩ̸̻̹̲̣̜͓͕̯̻̙̹̋͂̀̉̏͆̚͜͠ͅ ̷̯̥͓̻̠̫̻̘̜̇͗̇̉͂̽͋̋͑̈̌̐̒̈́̎͘͜w̷͍͚͑͑̐̋̏͂͆̽̈́̃͊̽̅͗o̶̧̥͚̟͙͉͈̱̦͎͓̫̰̺̾̉̉̍­͇ń̷̨̟͊͊͂̀́͠ţ̴̗̰̰̦̱̞͕͓̗͐̓̆̉͗̎͋̊͜͝ ̵̜̰̲̀̆͋͊̂̌͐͘͠Ş̸̡̛̯̜̭̘͈̦̩̗̱̟̀̈̒́̂͝ṷ̴̡̡̡̫̤̦̬̞͇͉̥̠̣͚͈̦̾̄͆̂́͋́͗̚͝c̴­̛̗̋͊̏̎̐͌̈̾͗̒͘͘͘͠c̴͙͙̪̦̯̪͂͐̽e̶͍̮͕̙̠͇̟̻̲͈̖̒͊̈̊̃͊̆̎͂͛̈̽̍͘͝͠e̸͂͋̿͌͊͘͠­̧̰͚̤̳̺̻̗̭͑͌́̈́̚͝d̶̬̏̕̚͝ ̴̡͕͍͔̥̙̣̣͕̼͍̃̂̈́̎͒̊̈͊̒̆̀̉̆̑̇̚͝ͅI̶̡̖̞͍̟̥̙̝̭̲̗͝ͅ ̵͙̟̤̜͖̈́͊̀͒͐͛͌͊̀͘w̸̨̧̨̩͍̪̲̹͇͎̱̜̩̣̭̲͚̓̉̓͐͆̒̎̒o̵̥̥̬̪̯̮͐͗͛̍͆̆͋̈̆̂̕̚͠͠­̡̨̨͖̺̦͉͜n̵̢͍̼͙̦̼͖̠͈͓̗̺̮̙̎̔̄͒̋̌̂͆́̍̏̀̀͜͠͝͝ͅͅt̸̬͙̻̖̯̫̞̙̲̝̜̫̫̓͝ ̴̩̟̞̻̠̹͎̥͛̒̂̌͋̾̄͊́̌b̸͙̝͎͈̻̪͔̹̯̫͎̠̹͔̮̀̅́̈́ͅe̵̹̙̤̠͈̮̩̻̺̔̇̿͜ ̸͚̿̏̽̄̋̐͋̚͝M̸̟̼̱̼̮̍̓̈̑̀̽͒͒͌͘̚͝į̸̥̠̼͍̥̱̣͙̙́̈́͂̋̊s̸̰̓̄̍̉̂̓͒́̓͑͛͗̆̀̕­̡͇͈̬͉͙̣̜͍͈̼͜ͅş̷̛͓͇̗̥͑̀͋͆͂̐̋̓̎̽e̴̢̹̞̙̫̔͒̿̾̾̓͑͂d̷̨̰̹̼͚̦͕̲͋̓̊͌̍͛̐͘ͅ­ ̶̧̥͓̻̲̰̲͙͙̓̍̀͋̍̆̓̀̈́̿̂͆̂͝I̵̡̧͙̪͖͈͚̜͙͇̗̯͗̎́̄͘͠ ̵̧̧̘̦̮̭̲̪̝̪̳̲̞̦̇͛͒͂͜c̴̡̲͕̖͍̼̗̬͍̿͐́͊͒̈́̂͐̍̚͝a̸̛͓̙͋̒̈̒́̀́͆̊̓̀̈́͘ǹ̵͐̏­̢̨̢̢̦̲̺͓̮͍͖̫̉͛͆͆͝͝ͅẗ̷͍͇͇̭͚͉͈̠̰̟͍̼̖͐͋̿̅̈́̽̈́̏̽̈́̿͜͠ͅͅ ̶̠͔͍͕͇̠͗͌̄̀̀͑͂̀̈́̑́̍̅͂̓͝E̴̢̙̺̫̟̖̣̼̮̥̪̣͛͗̅ŝ̶̥̘͉̦̬͎̘͚̬̩̳̣͗͌̀͘͝c̵̒̍͗­̗̞̫̮̖̘͎͒̋͆a̷̱̝̦̓̓͒͂͐̈̓͌̐̈́p̴̰̳̼̝͇͙̈́̈̀͊͌͋̒̑͆̓̑͐͑͊̕͝ḝ̷͉̌̌̋͋͐̒̉̒̂͝ ̴̨̧̜͙͖͔̹̜̲̗̟̰͓̝̿͑͆̈́͒̽͛̔̈̇́̋̓̎͝͝͠I̷̮̻͚̗̫͕̭̅̐̏̚ ̸̢̨̰̠͙̣̝̤̲̜̰̦́͛͆̀̆̿̈́́̓̓͗͜͠ą̴̧̛̞͕̯̫̥̤̞͎̟̀̃m̴̢̛̳̩̩̝̄͒̈̓͗̎̎̃͋̐̚͜͝͝ͅ­̩̩ ̴̙̬͔͓̤͕̞̼̗̜̹̉̓͌̄́Ḏ̶̼̥͐͛͐͋̌̈́̓͋̎̎̌̕͝ê̸̥̝̜͆̾̆̋̾͛̒̈́̃̈́͘͜͝͝͝a̶̅͗̀͌͊͒­̣̣̱̫̻͊̏̑̀͝͝d̸̥̹̹̫̮̞̠͖̻̦̠̄͑̈̀̚



But even so I...



I̵͈͆ ̸̯̏d̶̳͊ȍ̴͖n̷̐ͅ'̶̣̊t̵̡̕ ̴͓͐ĥ̵̫a̶̡̕v̴̒ͅe̶̫̕ ̴̝̈È̶̗x̴̭͗c̸͖͂u̵͋͜s̷̗̋ȇ̸̬s̵͓̅, I have Reasons
Ĩ̶̪f̵̱̔ ̷͈̂I̷̩̚ ̷͚͌m̷̬͗a̴̪̎ḵ̵͗e̵̩͘ ̸̥̉ā̴̗ ̴͈́Ṁ̸̱i̵̧͌ŝ̵̝t̸̯̕a̸̝͝k̶̤̿ę̷̿ I Apologise
Ì̷̙f̸̼͝ ̵͋ͅI̵̗͐ ̷̜́h̶̠́a̶̮̅v̵̢͊e̸̙̕ ̷̯̈́a̵̔͜ ̸̮͋P̶̣̈r̴̥̈́o̴̘̓b̴̛̳l̴̬̕è̸̻m̷̥͗ I try to Fix It
I̷͈͂̓f̴͕̹̎ ̸́̋ͅŝ̸̞̌ö̵͚́͠m̵̤͛ĕ̸̗̼͠t̵͔̂h̷̩̔i̸̛̗͜n̴̹̒ǧ̷̱͝ ̶̨̒i̸͚̊̑s̵̰̆͠ ̴̫͕̿̒ṭ̸̎͜ơ̶̠͐o̶̧̻̔ ̴̖̩͆́D̸̺̏͜i̵̩̭̓̔f̴̛̙͠f̷̺̭̅i̵̩̗͛͂c̷̼̓̿ư̵̧͓̚l̴̞̊ț̸̓̒ I try even Harder
Ĭ̶̡̗f̶̯͝ ̶͕̺̇Ï̸̙̘̽ ̴̪̌͐ā̷̠̻̕ḿ̸̜̪̕ ̷̻͂̅ͅS̸͌͜a̴͔̥͑͝d̸̤̝͂̊ I search for Happiness
I̵͎͂͜f̴͔͘ ̶͚̺͂I̶̫̔͑ ̷̨͈̃a̶̧͑m̸͖̳͝͝ ̴͕͌͘i̵͈͜͠n̷͎̋̾ͅ ̸̛̖̏D̵̻̞͗â̶̹̒ȑ̵̗̦ḱ̷̨n̶̦̎ẽ̶̛͖̘s̸̳̓̍s̶̤͔̐ I search for the Light

I can see my I̷̢͛s̸̰̿s̷͖̎ǔ̸͍e̶̖͑s̷̲̚
I don't ignore my P̴̧͋ȑ̷͈o̵͍̍b̶̘̔l̸̝̈́e̴̛̻m̵̬̃s̷̯̈
As Ṉ̴̼̈́̋ę̸̩̉g̸̘̥̓a̶͍̰̓̀t̷͕̙͊͠i̶̤͋͝v̵̩̣́̑e̴̛̼̝ as I may Be
I can't stay Ä̵̯́s̵̜̏h̶̼͝ä̷̻m̷͉̊e̸͓͝d̷͇̔ of myself for the things I can't Ć̶̡o̷̥̾n̸͔̑t̴̟̓ȓ̴̙o̷̢͝l̴̤̋
In the End that's just how I was made to Be

Ȋ̷͉ ̴̼̃a̵͈̒m̵̦͆ ̸̺̈́M̷̼̃ẹ̵̚
Sorry for another long wait, been trying to get an idea together for a while now and after finding this nifty little effect I finally got one, hope it was worth the wait.
Oskar Erikson May 11
this thing tastes like copper between your tongue and teeth
taking nourishment
in the sweetened bitterness
of belief.
Philomena Apr 1
Sometimes I like to think I'm a lady
Them I remember I'm wearing ***** shorts and a satanic tee

Sometimes I like to pretend I'm smart
Then I panic and fail another test

Sometimes I like to believe I'm all better
Then I have another panic attack

There is always room for improvement and acceptance
Mistakes have names we hope to never speak:
Anger, lust, jealousy, selfishness, rage.
Mistakes are words we bestow on the weak,
Or the young, as we get better with age.

Mistakes are pseudonyms for impatience:
Insecurity, coldness, raised voices.
Mistakes describe us when we don’t make sense,
Or too immature, to grasp our choices.

Mistakes are identities we mistrust:
Ego, narcissism, self-loathing, shame.
Mistakes we avoid and avoid them we must,
Or we thought, we must forgive all the same.

Mistakes may come from dissatisfaction,
Or frequently just, overreaction.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
sometimes life takes good things away
so you can focus on greater things coming
just life’s way of refreshing and refocusing
Next page