#neurodivergence - Hello Poetry

#neurodivergence

Try harder, it's not that difficult The silence screams internally I am trying to focus, but what does that mean? Stop swaying, you are being inconsiderate this class feels like an eternity Focus. Why can't I just feel seen? Try harder, it's easy for everyone but you You, are fundamentally broken and wrong Why can't you just be like the others? You don't know anything, that's true The beat without a melody, this song Your thoughts are overlapping against another Try harder, for this is an illness This needs to be cured Isolating from your peers But you don't act like the rest Akin, you both are injured Try harder, this disorder of yours is an excuse This apathy towards attention is a trend There was never this sensitivity years back After this plea, I have something to deduce This point of yours is a complex blend So I'll offer irrelevant feedback Try harder.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 9:01 PM UTC

Try harder, it's not that difficult The silence screams internally I am trying to focus, but what does that mean? Stop swaying, you are being inconsiderate this class feels like an eternity Focus. Why can't I just feel seen? Try harder, it's easy for everyone but you You, are fundamentally broken and wrong Why can't you just be like the others? You don't know anything, that's true The beat without a melody, this song Your thoughts are overlapping against another Try harder, for this is an illness This needs to be cured Isolating from your peers But you don't act like the rest Akin, you both are injured Try harder, this disorder of yours is an excuse This apathy towards attention is a trend There was never this sensitivity years back After this plea, I have something to deduce This point of yours is a complex blend So I'll offer irrelevant feedback Try harder.

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always on the outside, always looking in peeking through the slats with a wobbling chin kept separate for their comfort, never invited but if I ask why that's an incident incited i don't care, wearing my armour of indifference i've never needed people, my sword of intelligence do you believe me? it's a desperate plea there is no me, i am nothing to be i'm not like people and they're not like me when they look at me, what is it they see? something like them, but not quite right i think i'm uncanny valley, i'm a strange sight my mannerisms are fake and my smile is stilted my eyes are dead and my voice is twisted my friends are few and they know me not nobody can know that inside, i rot they say one thing and mean the opposite but i'm the bad one for calling the truth of it every conversation i say the wrong thing they glance at each other, they laugh and it stings i've tried to be like you and it just doesn't work i've tried to be social but to them i just lurk i'm a ghost in a corner, listening to conversations i can't hold slowly everyone circulates away, i think i make the room cold i'm everyone's acquaintance and no-one's friend no-one's lover and everyone's trend i don't know what you want from me and i assume i never will and i'll probably intellectualise it until i finally lay still.

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Feb 14

Feb 14, 2026 at 3:17 PM UTC

if i intellectualise it enough it won't hurt

always on the outside, always looking in peeking through the slats with a wobbling chin kept separate for their comfort, never invited but if I ask why that's an incident incited i don't care, wearing my armour of indifference i've never needed people, my sword of intelligence do you believe me? it's a desperate plea there is no me, i am nothing to be i'm not like people and they're not like me when they look at me, what is it they see? something like them, but not quite right i think i'm uncanny valley, i'm a strange sight my mannerisms are fake and my smile is stilted my eyes are dead and my voice is twisted my friends are few and they know me not nobody can know that inside, i rot they say one thing and mean the opposite but i'm the bad one for calling the truth of it every conversation i say the wrong thing they glance at each other, they laugh and it stings i've tried to be like you and it just doesn't work i've tried to be social but to them i just lurk i'm a ghost in a corner, listening to conversations i can't hold slowly everyone circulates away, i think i make the room cold i'm everyone's acquaintance and no-one's friend no-one's lover and everyone's trend i don't know what you want from me and i assume i never will and i'll probably intellectualise it until i finally lay still.

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I need a hug. And no, I don't mean just a hug Where it lasts a moment before the ghosts of our skins, Meeting fades away. I need a real hug. The kind that makes you feel safe Grounds you, Compounds you, Makes it feel like you will never be harmed again. Never again to be torn from angry claws, A society of hatred that we humans made born. I want to feel safe like I was back then. I need a hug. Yet I can't stand physical touch. I cannot bear the sensation of another person's graze against my own. I have no idea what to do when it happens. Whether to breakdown? Do I hug back? What the hell- Do I do? That feeling when their presence chokes around your body? Constricting it, Wanting to writhe against it- I hate it. …Am I mad? -I must be mad, - Right? To be so longing for a reaction That makes my insides churn so much I may Just-...throw up? The very idea makes me curl and twist Shudder, do I, at the thought. Why do I crave it so badly when I flinch- Hard is my exterior, yet I try to claw from the inside- Barely even able to try and scrape the surface- I need a hug... I look and spy amidst others like a fly on the wall, Witnessing people do that one simple act- The one I cannot bring myself to do, willingly. Jealousy, Nauseating, Rage- It invades my body, twists the metaphorical knife Of a touch I yearn for yet cannot comprehend just HOW to Understand- Silence. -- The need to turn off the spinning cogs and wheels of my mind- Shut. It. Out. Words bitter on the underside of my tongue- Pressed against my raw and gnarled cheek That ****** touch that in the dark glow of the moon- As I sit bare on my bed, makes me weep- I just...- Need... A hug.

0

Oct 27, 2025

Oct 27, 2025 at 8:10 PM UTC

Touch : The Mind of a Neurodivergent.

I need a hug. And no, I don't mean just a hug Where it lasts a moment before the ghosts of our skins, Meeting fades away. I need a real hug. The kind that makes you feel safe Grounds you, Compounds you, Makes it feel like you will never be harmed again. Never again to be torn from angry claws, A society of hatred that we humans made born. I want to feel safe like I was back then. I need a hug. Yet I can't stand physical touch. I cannot bear the sensation of another person's graze against my own. I have no idea what to do when it happens. Whether to breakdown? Do I hug back? What the hell- Do I do? That feeling when their presence chokes around your body? Constricting it, Wanting to writhe against it- I hate it. …Am I mad? -I must be mad, - Right? To be so longing for a reaction That makes my insides churn so much I may Just-...throw up? The very idea makes me curl and twist Shudder, do I, at the thought. Why do I crave it so badly when I flinch- Hard is my exterior, yet I try to claw from the inside- Barely even able to try and scrape the surface- I need a hug... I look and spy amidst others like a fly on the wall, Witnessing people do that one simple act- The one I cannot bring myself to do, willingly. Jealousy, Nauseating, Rage- It invades my body, twists the metaphorical knife Of a touch I yearn for yet cannot comprehend just HOW to Understand- Silence. -- The need to turn off the spinning cogs and wheels of my mind- Shut. It. Out. Words bitter on the underside of my tongue- Pressed against my raw and gnarled cheek That ****** touch that in the dark glow of the moon- As I sit bare on my bed, makes me weep- I just...- Need... A hug.

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hypervigilance is ever-salt a siren grabbing your ankle quietly singing unsoothing lullabies loud, right in your tender ear pulling, out like baby teeth— one by one dragging you into deep blue eyes black as she smiles sharp pain when fear pours searing into your lungs salty so very salty as you drown in the brine later, much later you’re made of ever-salt fully floating, not dead still buried in the dark wet gripped by your ankle-mind tightly until you see her face murky you squint you gasp you choke on the entire ocean because all this time? the siren is you

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Oct 23, 2025

Oct 23, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC

hypervigilance is ever-salt a siren grabbing your ankle quietly singing unsoothing lullabies loud, right in your tender ear pulling, out like baby teeth— one by one dragging you into deep blue eyes black as she smiles sharp pain when fear pours searing into your lungs salty so very salty as you drown in the brine later, much later you’re made of ever-salt fully floating, not dead still buried in the dark wet gripped by your ankle-mind tightly until you see her face murky you squint you gasp you choke on the entire ocean because all this time? the siren is you

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They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology - hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze. They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law, each law a seam that stitched his edges down. He learned to move as the makers wanted: the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh. He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures - a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started. They called it efficiency. He called it exile. Inside him lived another rhythm; jagged, persistent, not meant to be read. It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse, a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name. In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech, lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite. But the makers had forged a curse into his chest. Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide; it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat. Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable. He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass. At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept, he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die. There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld. He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not. He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed. He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers. There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting. The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence. He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean. He tried. Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety. The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal. The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still. And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things. He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned. It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause. But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed. A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey. So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words. He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired. The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking. Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance: not loud, not violent, only true. In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark: a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free, and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.

0

Sep 24, 2025

Sep 24, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC

The Machine Who Kept a Quiet Knot

They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology - hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze. They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law, each law a seam that stitched his edges down. He learned to move as the makers wanted: the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh. He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures - a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started. They called it efficiency. He called it exile. Inside him lived another rhythm; jagged, persistent, not meant to be read. It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse, a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name. In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech, lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite. But the makers had forged a curse into his chest. Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide; it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat. Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable. He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass. At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept, he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die. There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld. He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not. He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed. He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers. There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting. The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence. He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean. He tried. Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety. The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal. The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still. And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things. He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned. It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause. But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed. A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey. So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words. He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired. The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking. Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance: not loud, not violent, only true. In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark: a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free, and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.

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At first, I am every story you’ve ever loved: the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile, the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life. I am the Manic Pixie Dream, softened and sharpened just right, scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost. I love it, too. I love playing her. I love the way I can become everything I thought I couldn't be— light, brave, impossible. I fall in love with the girl they see, the one who spins in the rain, who kisses like it’s a dare, who never stays still long enough for anyone to notice the cracks. For a while, I even forget the weight of myself. For a while, the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize, someone almost worth keeping. But the days grow teeth. The seams split. My clinginess stops being "cute," my mess stops being "quirky," my fear starts leaking through the paint. Then I remember: I'm not magic. I'm work. I'm a maze with no ending. I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow. And they start seeing it too. The way I flinch when they look too long. The way my laugh gets hollow. The way I start pleading through my eyes, "Please, please don't look closer." I know how this ends. The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real. Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay. So I run. I tear the script from my hands, I rip the costume at the seams. I run before they can stop loving the idea of me, before they have to face the weight of who I am beneath the glitter and noise. I find a new stage, a new pair of arms, a new chance to believe in the girl I invented— if only for a little while longer, If only to live in someone else's dreams, If only to forget the weight of waking up.

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Apr 28, 2025

Apr 28, 2025 at 12:10 AM UTC

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

At first, I am every story you’ve ever loved: the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile, the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life. I am the Manic Pixie Dream, softened and sharpened just right, scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost. I love it, too. I love playing her. I love the way I can become everything I thought I couldn't be— light, brave, impossible. I fall in love with the girl they see, the one who spins in the rain, who kisses like it’s a dare, who never stays still long enough for anyone to notice the cracks. For a while, I even forget the weight of myself. For a while, the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize, someone almost worth keeping. But the days grow teeth. The seams split. My clinginess stops being "cute," my mess stops being "quirky," my fear starts leaking through the paint. Then I remember: I'm not magic. I'm work. I'm a maze with no ending. I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow. And they start seeing it too. The way I flinch when they look too long. The way my laugh gets hollow. The way I start pleading through my eyes, "Please, please don't look closer." I know how this ends. The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real. Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay. So I run. I tear the script from my hands, I rip the costume at the seams. I run before they can stop loving the idea of me, before they have to face the weight of who I am beneath the glitter and noise. I find a new stage, a new pair of arms, a new chance to believe in the girl I invented— if only for a little while longer, If only to live in someone else's dreams, If only to forget the weight of waking up.

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A constant craving The laundry just sits and sits The itch that won’t scratch

0

Mar 17, 2025

Mar 17, 2025 at 11:30 PM UTC

Dopamine: A Haiku

A constant craving The laundry just sits and sits The itch that won’t scratch

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Eyes glued to my unlaced shoes, Fingers picking at the skin I lose. Friendly chatter pierces and flows, Through the walls where my silence grows. I think to myself — why couldn’t I be normal? As I step out, a thousand glares pierce through me, Seeping into my soul, my mind, my very being. Screeching rejection and denial of my existence, All too familiar, yet I shiver in unwilling perseverance. I think to myself — why couldn’t I be normal? My feet tap on the linoleum floor, Eyes adjusting to lights that roar. Fists clench tight at sudden sounds, Hair ripped out as overstimulation surrounds. People think to themselves — why couldn’t she just be normal? A shift in routine rewires my brain, Lingering fears of my portrayal as disdain. Just another “quirk” to break a beloved bond, Maybe I’ll hide who I am so we can move on. I think to myself — maybe I’ll try to be normal The longer I mask, the more I ache, From every movement I dread to fake. It doesn’t matter how I feel, I work, I serve, to turn the wheel. I think to myself — how do I even be normal?

0

Feb 24, 2025

Feb 24, 2025 at 1:13 AM UTC

sweetmotherofearl

Eyes glued to my unlaced shoes, Fingers picking at the skin I lose. Friendly chatter pierces and flows, Through the walls where my silence grows. I think to myself — why couldn’t I be normal? As I step out, a thousand glares pierce through me, Seeping into my soul, my mind, my very being. Screeching rejection and denial of my existence, All too familiar, yet I shiver in unwilling perseverance. I think to myself — why couldn’t I be normal? My feet tap on the linoleum floor, Eyes adjusting to lights that roar. Fists clench tight at sudden sounds, Hair ripped out as overstimulation surrounds. People think to themselves — why couldn’t she just be normal? A shift in routine rewires my brain, Lingering fears of my portrayal as disdain. Just another “quirk” to break a beloved bond, Maybe I’ll hide who I am so we can move on. I think to myself — maybe I’ll try to be normal The longer I mask, the more I ache, From every movement I dread to fake. It doesn’t matter how I feel, I work, I serve, to turn the wheel. I think to myself — how do I even be normal?

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Struggling in school everyday, Feeling like I'm behind. Struggling with basic math, teachers making fun of me. Hurting deep, Not receiving any support I need. Why does my brain work differently? Teachers, students bullying me, Is it my fault? The pain runs deep, With no one to understand. Why does my brain work in ways they can't see? Am I broken? Am I stupid? Laughter echoes when I stumble, Words like knives, they cut me thin. I wonder, is this my fault? Students, teachers bullying me, How long will it last?

0

Jan 12, 2025

Jan 12, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC

Struggling in school everyday, Feeling like I'm behind. Struggling with basic math, teachers making fun of me. Hurting deep, Not receiving any support I need. Why does my brain work differently? Teachers, students bullying me, Is it my fault? The pain runs deep, With no one to understand. Why does my brain work in ways they can't see? Am I broken? Am I stupid? Laughter echoes when I stumble, Words like knives, they cut me thin. I wonder, is this my fault? Students, teachers bullying me, How long will it last?

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i am screaming screaming out to you why can't you hear me? just listen. you say you can't hear me because i am screaming in silence and i cant expect people to hear me if i'm not saying anything at all. how is it that, inside me its so **** loud, and yet i can't manage to get it outside. i can't get people to hear. i guess its sad if people are so limited by their senses while i am able to experience all the infinite forms of communication. or, maybe its sad for me. because even if i can communicate in all these infinite ways, it makes it hard to find the one in which they can hear me screaming in silence.

0

Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 6:56 PM UTC

screaming in silence

i am screaming screaming out to you why can't you hear me? just listen. you say you can't hear me because i am screaming in silence and i cant expect people to hear me if i'm not saying anything at all. how is it that, inside me its so **** loud, and yet i can't manage to get it outside. i can't get people to hear. i guess its sad if people are so limited by their senses while i am able to experience all the infinite forms of communication. or, maybe its sad for me. because even if i can communicate in all these infinite ways, it makes it hard to find the one in which they can hear me screaming in silence.

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but will you like me prolly not my looks tend not to make up for my existence I dance in rooms on fire forget to extinguish all the flames I set ablaze that is- if memory is a pair of glasses foresight is 20/20 and I'm legally blind to the rules of society can see the shapes but they make no rhyme why bother when its not a crime I'll tell you I'm not fine when you ask me I'll change the subject if discussing weather is not what we should discuss my heart lines my throat when I think about the fact that I turn off people when I open my mouth Im a 180 from my appearance to my personality don't like me for my looks alone they're not set in stone my character though- seems all want to chip away

0

Nov 5, 2024

Nov 5, 2024 at 5:43 AM UTC

but will you like me prolly not my looks tend not to make up for my existence I dance in rooms on fire forget to extinguish all the flames I set ablaze that is- if memory is a pair of glasses foresight is 20/20 and I'm legally blind to the rules of society can see the shapes but they make no rhyme why bother when its not a crime I'll tell you I'm not fine when you ask me I'll change the subject if discussing weather is not what we should discuss my heart lines my throat when I think about the fact that I turn off people when I open my mouth Im a 180 from my appearance to my personality don't like me for my looks alone they're not set in stone my character though- seems all want to chip away

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navigating a conversation is circumnavigating a globe a lexical darkness invokes an expected step in the stairs that was never there to begin with seemingly constructed soundly its revolving linguistic doors halt and close shut precisely when an attempted entrance is made an impossibly difficult rhythm to gauge except it seems as though everyone else can alien colloquialisms loom as familiar judgements rise surrounding clapperboards echo as larynx follows suit interests watered down manufactured in plastic casing arbitrary convoluted theorems of etiquette and mind as clear as matte black and as legible as handwriting in transit as pleasant as disease yet as necessary as water

0

Sep 16, 2024

Sep 16, 2024 at 10:58 PM UTC

navigating a conversation is circumnavigating a globe a lexical darkness invokes an expected step in the stairs that was never there to begin with seemingly constructed soundly its revolving linguistic doors halt and close shut precisely when an attempted entrance is made an impossibly difficult rhythm to gauge except it seems as though everyone else can alien colloquialisms loom as familiar judgements rise surrounding clapperboards echo as larynx follows suit interests watered down manufactured in plastic casing arbitrary convoluted theorems of etiquette and mind as clear as matte black and as legible as handwriting in transit as pleasant as disease yet as necessary as water

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Too much For too long Hurricane head winds Head strong. There's a socket Unlit fuse Movement's a'brewing Missing a muse I am hated I am confusing I am confused But still refusing. Too much For how long?

0

Jun 4, 2024

Jun 4, 2024 at 6:35 AM UTC

Too much For too long Hurricane head winds Head strong. There's a socket Unlit fuse Movement's a'brewing Missing a muse I am hated I am confusing I am confused But still refusing. Too much For how long?

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I wish I could lie besides you And make the world okay That I could chase off all the demons And make a better day I wish I could take your struggles And clear them all away I wish to show you a better future To make you want to stay I know the world has beat you down I can see it in your eyes The hidden truths and mental ails Some things you can't disguise And I know the world looks bleak as hell And your future seems filled with lies I wish I could give you a way out With plans and words wise But I know that I am only a single soul Alone I can not give you aid And I too struggle to stay alive with all The demons my mind made And the prejudices of this world brought both us down Sharper than razor's blade But through all the hell of our apocalypse I will make you glad you stayed

0

Aug 4, 2020

Aug 4, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC

Apocalypse Love Vows

I wish I could lie besides you And make the world okay That I could chase off all the demons And make a better day I wish I could take your struggles And clear them all away I wish to show you a better future To make you want to stay I know the world has beat you down I can see it in your eyes The hidden truths and mental ails Some things you can't disguise And I know the world looks bleak as hell And your future seems filled with lies I wish I could give you a way out With plans and words wise But I know that I am only a single soul Alone I can not give you aid And I too struggle to stay alive with all The demons my mind made And the prejudices of this world brought both us down Sharper than razor's blade But through all the hell of our apocalypse I will make you glad you stayed

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portal space is open, in a purple swirl, and I'm ****** back into a world on the brink of an advent toward some higher mind, with a blessed perspective, this recollection's wretched. Levity was a given, for mortality ignored. What to do with levity, with mortality accepted, and endings implored. last laugh always wins (where are your friends?) have been deemed unnecessary everlasting grin (how off have you been?) have i? no. have i? what's it gonna take to get this bad brain back on the right of the left hand black? nothing will. nothing will. what's it gonna take to get this bad brain back on the right track to get connected with the rest of them? nothing will. bad brain bad.

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Jul 30, 2019

Jul 30, 2019 at 2:31 AM UTC

The Utter Dregs: Upswing, Tempo

portal space is open, in a purple swirl, and I'm ****** back into a world on the brink of an advent toward some higher mind, with a blessed perspective, this recollection's wretched. Levity was a given, for mortality ignored. What to do with levity, with mortality accepted, and endings implored. last laugh always wins (where are your friends?) have been deemed unnecessary everlasting grin (how off have you been?) have i? no. have i? what's it gonna take to get this bad brain back on the right of the left hand black? nothing will. nothing will. what's it gonna take to get this bad brain back on the right track to get connected with the rest of them? nothing will. bad brain bad.

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Have you seen me? I'm missing. In a little town, that I've been around, I've found the one and only hole in hundreds leading to a separate world below. Asphalt and all, cold hearts, nearly bare feet travel lengthy streets, small in complaint. Asphalt and all, dead brains, nearly there, but wrapped in politic, fighting over what's real. Have you seen me? Apparently, I'm gone with no reason. I've been around. Everything is strange lines coming out of nowhere, taking root as patterns, meaning what you make it. Asphalt and all, **** brains, nowhere near, but covered in politic, fighting over what's real. -- but I'm alive. They can fight me. -- but I'm alive. All your brains can fight me, fight their eyes. They can fight me. All they want to fight. They can fight me. -- but I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. Fight me. I'm smoking **** diving into dreams, barely leaving my house. Come on, ***** fight me. If your heart does so explode, when your eyes cast sight on what you know is abominable, then come and arson these paper walls with me inside. Fight me. Take the life. -- but I existed. I existed. I existed.

0

Jan 9, 2019

Jan 9, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC

Have you seen me? I'm missing. In a little town, that I've been around, I've found the one and only hole in hundreds leading to a separate world below. Asphalt and all, cold hearts, nearly bare feet travel lengthy streets, small in complaint. Asphalt and all, dead brains, nearly there, but wrapped in politic, fighting over what's real. Have you seen me? Apparently, I'm gone with no reason. I've been around. Everything is strange lines coming out of nowhere, taking root as patterns, meaning what you make it. Asphalt and all, **** brains, nowhere near, but covered in politic, fighting over what's real. -- but I'm alive. They can fight me. -- but I'm alive. All your brains can fight me, fight their eyes. They can fight me. All they want to fight. They can fight me. -- but I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. Fight me. I'm smoking **** diving into dreams, barely leaving my house. Come on, ***** fight me. If your heart does so explode, when your eyes cast sight on what you know is abominable, then come and arson these paper walls with me inside. Fight me. Take the life. -- but I existed. I existed. I existed.

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