They invite you to dwell on nothing and everything at once. Oddities that soften the sounds that surround you and amplify the beat of life in each breath you take. Far from strangers but hidden in plain sight. Indulging your focus through a narrow tunnel view. Dilating your pupils and lifting your skin through spontaneous extraordinary sensory awareness while depriving you the passage of time. A temporal trap in eternity before you snap and walk away.
In this world, there are some of us who get left behind because we don’t fit the bill. A bill that is arbitrarily in place and which makes some magnificent, many perfectly normal, and some of us a bunch of unworthy f*s who don’t deserve affection, attention, and any of your time.
Go on, erase us from your narrative, from this world’s narrative, erase us completely because our bodies are a certain way, because it would require you to change your perspective slightly to accommodate us into your view, because there’s a billion to choose from who are perfectly normal
We might as well be not human because some of us don’t get to experience human joys strictly because of how we look. The least you could do is understand very clearly this fact that for whatever reason, not all of us are able to experience being a human in the sense that most of you are able to
I've been struggling for years with my body image related trauma. This was just a quick rant to ease the tension I had been feeling before I put the words down.
The moon, acquiescent stirs It conjures, and commands common cycles The moon, on occasion blurs That which in the day cannot be viewed or stifled As the pearl of Earth turns With gravity as its strange ally and dubious rival It concedes to the Sun Yet even now remains only temporarily idle
Do you think it's odd, They question a millennial generation For being in touch with how they feel? Should I follow you and push it down? Let's pretend none of it is real, yeah? "Close your eyes to injustice, kid. Don't you talk about it, then we'll have to talk about it." A lot of Hollywood has to talk about it. Instead of people putting it to god We put it to our own selves but none aplaud. Rather appauld that we speak. I might fit your snowflake type But my demons aren't melting in my mind Trickling through as you close your eyes.
Do you think it's odd, If people don't understand your problem They label you as a weak link But did you ever stop and think If it was your name in an oppression, If it was your heart in a depression, If it was your loved one shooting up, Maybe you'd feel different. You can't help fix these cracked streets If you have your eyes covered in a sheet You aren't a hero for making a toast When the problems hit you were a ghost.
Do you think it's odd That we are all people But more often than not **** each other Praying to a god that doesn't pass judgement to you.
The waiting girl had leather boots studded with her payment of lavish jewels Blood red in the dead of the night from all those daring dead fools She entered the bar amongst the dancing and shouted at all the ghouls Though what she said did not shield her from the hellish banshee She saw her target amongst the prostitutes dripping with foreign ecstasy She held her .44 and let him lie in death's dark sea
Stagnation never takes its course within oneself. Praying at the crossroads, hoping things would go well.
Ahead of us lies A Different standard of meaning, Adding concrete facets to the once so-called oddity. Clinging on the urge to stay on track and keep moving. I just take this strange continuum, Leaving all my peers bemused and clueless. Have I changed, have I gone insane? Even past is haunting me, I have no time to turn around . . .
It's so nice to be lost In something other than my mind No matter what the cost I have definitely come to find That this is me at my best With a chance to care A chance to let my soul rest And I am acutely aware That this is the highest I get Consequently the farthest I fall But I never find it to be a bad bet Because all good things start small Though I tend to move quick It's by no means in a rush It's just you give my brain a kick And here I am with a bit of a crush
Writing something happy always feels weird. No matter how much I love writing this kind of content, it is very difficult for me to have the proper motivation. I always jokingly call this portion of my work, "About A Girl" poetry, but there's a lot of truth in it. For some reason women always tend to be my muse for more joyful or thankful content. I wouldn't have it any other way...
Lazy imagination and a rushing mind I try to shine light on the thoughts behind These vacant stares and shifty smiles Like you know I hate you but would let you stay awhile I'm dececptive, receptive, stressed out and so simplisitic But these images are so perverted yes I'm so sadistic Trippin' away in my own ******* basement Noddin' away to this muzik content to feel complacent My mind ebbs and flows entranced in ink As it floods the pad it is everything I ever think
Sort of an odd style of writing and formatting which I don't usually use, but I felt that it added to how my thought process went along with the lines.