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#self-analysis
don't pull at my words because they're meaningless shells of ghosts and spirits my heart is a wasteland and it's unkempt and unsafe the vines that live there have started they choke the light out and i'm blinded but what do you expect of a girl without eyes so far-sighted that the present is always the hardest sell and a blink, that's all it takes and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn the safest of strategies really, because these notions of silly lag, i don't subscribe and you do but i am not there and i cannot be that kind i am from another time and place and my fear doesn't exist in the realms of others untethered and most shirk because i know my mind the cost of resolution, millions and who's prepared for that black tuesday a depression filled with numbers and figures because that's the best way to work it out to walk over the mountain with pen in hand holding the paper at its highest no one trailing, and certainly no leader scent and feeling my guide, and it's off, always the forest not always kind to the dweller the trees losing their foliage and it's drowning me and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago when i died-when i folded, because that was best then, but that's what the brave one does, folds and ties the string suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel the sun on exposed wounds blankets caskets of sorts breathing from below a clotted dirt cage and whose lungs can do that what kind of filtration provides light when there's so much mud the easy answer, none. there isn't one-it's best to make one it's best to start again, to keep going, the mountain's peak miles away, maybe never to be reached and maybe that's the point, because there's no up, there's no down it's just this, the trek through miles of useless wood my feet caught up on blackberry brambles and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off when the sun pokes harder i am weak and i know this my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry an endless cloud of haziness that's only settled when altered, so who's to blame for self-inflicted wounds and piercings take ownership i say and blame myself knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal repayment for my own infliction upon others basic notations, because when i'm not good enough nothing ever is, and it doesn't matter stay away from the flock, create the rules, do as i please those that push back still will, they'll shunt my light they'll remind me of why i tunneled away seeking safety-and i'll retreat, as is form and expected always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being hurt and it's easier to swallow that elephant whole to take on the blame, to blame myself the constant knowing and the desperate feeding of a monster that will die in the dark
0
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
stefaniasanfillipo
dear reader
don't pull at my words because they're meaningless shells of ghosts and spirits my heart is a wasteland and it's unkempt and unsafe the vines that live there have started they choke the light out and i'm blinded but what do you expect of a girl without eyes so far-sighted that the present is always the hardest sell and a blink, that's all it takes and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn the safest of strategies really, because these notions of silly lag, i don't subscribe and you do but i am not there and i cannot be that kind i am from another time and place and my fear doesn't exist in the realms of others untethered and most shirk because i know my mind the cost of resolution, millions and who's prepared for that black tuesday a depression filled with numbers and figures because that's the best way to work it out to walk over the mountain with pen in hand holding the paper at its highest no one trailing, and certainly no leader scent and feeling my guide, and it's off, always the forest not always kind to the dweller the trees losing their foliage and it's drowning me and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago when i died-when i folded, because that was best then, but that's what the brave one does, folds and ties the string suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel the sun on exposed wounds blankets caskets of sorts breathing from below a clotted dirt cage and whose lungs can do that what kind of filtration provides light when there's so much mud the easy answer, none. there isn't one-it's best to make one it's best to start again, to keep going, the mountain's peak miles away, maybe never to be reached and maybe that's the point, because there's no up, there's no down it's just this, the trek through miles of useless wood my feet caught up on blackberry brambles and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off when the sun pokes harder i am weak and i know this my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry an endless cloud of haziness that's only settled when altered, so who's to blame for self-inflicted wounds and piercings take ownership i say and blame myself knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal repayment for my own infliction upon others basic notations, because when i'm not good enough nothing ever is, and it doesn't matter stay away from the flock, create the rules, do as i please those that push back still will, they'll shunt my light they'll remind me of why i tunneled away seeking safety-and i'll retreat, as is form and expected always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being hurt and it's easier to swallow that elephant whole to take on the blame, to blame myself the constant knowing and the desperate feeding of a monster that will die in the dark
Continue reading...
76
we drank and smiled pull a card, see what you hit. hesitation in my eyes, as is usual because there's this risk, exposure, disclosure the fatal flaw that will give them a tool to see inside. this little game is nothing new and i've long been a mystery, unwilling to shed my lizard skin but to sit here, exposed in an open bar, inside, no escape. what could i do? pulling the card was easy, my method tried and true; shuffle, break, shuffle, draw. the coincidence of the draw, disarming. a double-whammy, it's the same card and i am numbed. well? they demand. rumbling around inside i reach, the meaning not lost. the words become hot tears in my mouth and i read. my apologies for the emotions foretold and forgiven it's okay but no it's not. strength does not come when you cry from the bench. when my knees bled, isn't that how it happened? those experiences, did they not strengthen me, but maybe not-maybe just the opposite. normalize it and we can move forward, but reach first cover your eyes, while you demand this from others. disarming and alarmed i struggle for composure. quickly the moment is lost, unsure of how or who is to thank, and even now i can't recall silence maybe? or was it the arrival of the check? my punishment, a realization one that cannot be silenced; it's in the weakness that the strength forms, in the stone's willingness to be tossed about with little direction unknown where it is to land and just getting polished and ready along the way.
0
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
stefaniasanfillipo
things long forgotten
we drank and smiled pull a card, see what you hit. hesitation in my eyes, as is usual because there's this risk, exposure, disclosure the fatal flaw that will give them a tool to see inside. this little game is nothing new and i've long been a mystery, unwilling to shed my lizard skin but to sit here, exposed in an open bar, inside, no escape. what could i do? pulling the card was easy, my method tried and true; shuffle, break, shuffle, draw. the coincidence of the draw, disarming. a double-whammy, it's the same card and i am numbed. well? they demand. rumbling around inside i reach, the meaning not lost. the words become hot tears in my mouth and i read. my apologies for the emotions foretold and forgiven it's okay but no it's not. strength does not come when you cry from the bench. when my knees bled, isn't that how it happened? those experiences, did they not strengthen me, but maybe not-maybe just the opposite. normalize it and we can move forward, but reach first cover your eyes, while you demand this from others. disarming and alarmed i struggle for composure. quickly the moment is lost, unsure of how or who is to thank, and even now i can't recall silence maybe? or was it the arrival of the check? my punishment, a realization one that cannot be silenced; it's in the weakness that the strength forms, in the stone's willingness to be tossed about with little direction unknown where it is to land and just getting polished and ready along the way.
Continue reading...
40