#spilling
Spinning in circles in these blankets of time and thoughts,
seemingly empty and sometimes caught.
My cold pillow crumbles beneath my head,
sleeping in slumber, never I said.
When does this all undo itself?
When do the synapses quit firing across my neurotransmitters?
When does the fear of impatience balance itself out?
Why does my coffee cup keep spilling over?
Why am I eating too much?
Why do I just want to be alone?
Why can't I just relax?
What is going on inside my brain?
What is the next day going to bring?
What did you just say?
What time is it now?
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, falling in my own reality.
It is a feeling of unimportance and misunderstanding,
caressing lost moments,
not remembering when I walked into the bee hive.
I begin to talk with myself, trying to figure it all out.
It becomes a job, not an adventure.
Definitely a misadventure of serendipitous exclusions
and deafening demands.
The answers appear internally, created by external stimuli that stirs me incoherently.
Was it a dream of corrugated realities or cardboard cut outs?
I am clueless of how it began.
But, oh, how I just want it to slow down or stop.
My reset button appears to be malfunctioning.
I think I had pushed it too many times.
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, caught in my own civility.
It is starting to disappear, behind the black curtain.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
{ü - is not allowed in the title field, Lesefrüchte, is what I said.}
Friends of the literal life in mind,
musing and bemusing the amused,
I am fairly certain,
on this chance I have, and have used,
or been used by, again, I recall reading,
where there are no distinctions,
no differences stick out, thorn like, guarding
intellectual property piled up on empty plains.
We are those on Earth who have been given
converso reverso collected cryptonesia
I forget the source, but remember the truth,
the man who can read and does not, is as if illiterate.
____________________
Chance by
alistair-william-bullen
We go back a long way....
to recognize a given day to follow wild ideas
as possibly the once in ever that leaves lasting seed.
Confessed provoking fact found while
at my hideaway
rereading Jung, I reinvest some coincident gnosis
as a man who made his peace with all his enemies
after recognizing I must have wished for this access
to all the books ever fed into assistant intelligence pens,
we ought to provoke one another to use this chance.
No poets ever had memories as factcheckable as ours.
Nietzsche used an anecdote from this now rare book
almost word for word… not on purpose but pulled from
reading J.Kerner with his sister when he was 11 years old.
"Originalien und Lesefrüchte für Freunde des innern Lebens"
"Original Contributions and Literary Fruits for Friends of the Inner Life"
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 4:14 PM UTC
_...you surfed my uncertain heart,
a wind sea
of ebbs and flows;
waiting for the unbroken to break,
spilling
white water
into ocean’s
void..._
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 2:02 AM UTC
how can you love someone so much
yet strip them down to their core
march all over them without a single punch
really, i mean what are you waiting for
i've always had that little hunch
whispering that there was something more
did you think of me when you felt her touch
or did you throw me out that backdoor
i'm barely standing, one arm on this crutch
your love for me the third world war
i know you say 'i love you' and such,
but do you see this broken heart and all of its gore?
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
i stopped writing because you made me feel loved
when you looked at me, i saw all your worries
your eyes glowed with tenderness
i craved your touch, pure as snow
my tears were my torture but your whispers were my escape
i stopped writing because you were the words i never knew needed to be said
i didn't want anything to change
but you changed
and now i am writing again
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
It’s been months since I’ve written.
Now, with a shaking hand and bruised ribs,
an unforgiving mind and a whirlwind of words unwritten,
I’ll put my thoughts back on paper. Where they come from.
I want to write, I told a coworker. When I’m older.
But it’s been months since I’ve been able-
to afraid to think and too thoughtless to write,
pushing through life like a Halloween corn maze, constantly lost, yet never knowing
How or Why or Where or When.
But I feel I can- hope I can,
know I will.
So, though it’s been months since
a single word came out,
I’m taking my brain and spilling it out-
out for the world to see?
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 4:38 AM UTC
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Ink stirred with salt
It was spilling out of me
I was overflowing with thoughts
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Of anything and everything
That clouded my eyes
Till nothing harmful was present
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
I have done everything in my power to become detached from the world.
Reassuring my decision every time I stare into your eyes.
My means of survival solely in the revival of your lips.
The light a reminder of the shadows that lay.
The past tense of habits no longer existing.
Thus-kissing you has become my favorite habit.
The more gently we treat each other,
The further and further away I become.
Throwing caution to the wind when it comes to you, each other-me.
It is through this perspective that I have learned to scream.
Scream every time it comes to you, scream when ever I feel this emotion rise.
This need to let you know that I am alive with each and every chance presented.
You being the cup that overflows each time.
Spilling all over my hands, my shirt, my mouth.
Traveling to a special place in my heart.
The horizon of a new atmosphere.
All of you in liquid form. Becoming a part of me.
And when you spill we both become terrified.
But not because you searched for me when at my lowest.
But because we were attached.
We were terrified.
Terrified in the sense that we trust each other with such sentiment.
The nature of what makes us, us.
Exploration the space around with loving eyes.
Our vessel made of tin.
The merge of planets happening inside of us.
Defying the means of gravity.
New galaxies lit by the sun.
The sun light of your smile.
Everything that happens within coming to light.
I have done everything in my power to become detached from the world.
Ignoring programs and other satellites.
Deliberately floating away in your eyes.
Detached from what was taught as the unknown.
New beginning
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
I don’t remember how it went anymore
I was too caught up in the emotions to notice when it fell apart
It wasn’t until there was thread spilling over my hands and onto my feet that i realized that none of it was keeping us together anymore
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
*Where does the desire come from?
To send someone words on a paper screen?
Where does the inkwell saturate, and settle deep?*
Mixing until you’re your dammed up thoughts
Break loose and spill out onto the ground
Flooding the valley at hand below
For when you spill yourself onto a page
You need to be comfortable with the mess you’ll create
It’s inevitable
But why should you worry about that anyway?
I mean it, I say this with a laugh but…
*Does any of this matter anyway?
Why should you withhold and hold back?*
The rushing words
The kind which actually meant to be swept away
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
There is an ache in my hands
an itch in my brain
the fluid is flowing
round and round
faster and faster to a sudden stop
and it all come slipping and crashing out of the sides
a mess everywhere
nobody is here to clean it up or pick up the pieces
go on
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC