Sometimes you're a footnote.
Others can refer to.

Other times you're lucky enough.
To be a whole entire chapter.

Some people go.
So they turn into a page.

As they wonder why.
They're not mentioned,
Again by name.

Other people's stories.
Will stay estranged from you.

While others will weave,
Their way into your world.

We are all just living stories.
Wanting to be heard.
Needing to be seen.

Trying to find a home.
Among the margins.
Of life.

We are all just stories.
With something to say.

That we are here.
Even if it was just,
For a chapter or two.

We all become stories.
At the end of the day.

I'm freezing from the inside out

as cold seeps into every pore,

spreading its dark tendrils inform of creeping numbness

that suffocates my soul.

Everywhere feels like a suffocating chill

and it's wrapped around my heart.

Leaving my breath in a startled gasp,

The air around me thickens, refusing to fill my lungs,

And my chest tightens in a vice grip that won't relent.

Each heartbeat a drumbeat,

echoing fear and desperation.

My thoughts turns to fragment,

shattered like broken glass,

Showing reflections of a mind in chaos.

Memories linger, taunting me with happiness,

that's lost in the haze of anxiety's relentless grip.

Emptiness consumes me, and turns me to a hollow shell,

Soulless,

devoid of warmth or light or hope,

that echoes with every heartbeat,

A chasm between what was and what is.

Time becomes distorted, stretching each moment,

Minutes become hours, hours become eternity,

Then the world retreats, leaving only darkness,

and a neglected landscape, lacking comfort or solace.

In this hell, I search for a lifeline,

A thread to cling to, a beacon to guide me through,

A reassuring voice, a gentle touch,

Anything.

But every handhold slips away,

leaving me falling, as my body trembles like a fragile leaf,

Shaken by the winds of fear and uncertainty.

My mind screams in a silent cry,

Drowning in silence, and desperate for rescue,

I strain to recall calm moments,

Serene skies, peaceful nights, loving arms,

But they fade like mist in morning sun,

Leaving only the stark reality of this panic.

And the realization that I'm fighting for a breather,

to remember and to forget,

And if God's willing,

Then I won't slip away,

or get lost like these tears that slipped away.

PASSING STRANGE

Rose arose
& having risen
...was angry

'You never call me
by my name
only love & darling.'

'A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet! '
I quoted

'That's neat! '
she sweetly
smiled

'That's Shakespeare! '
I whispered in her ear
and kissed her

sweet sweet smile.
(each reflected
in the other's eye)

'Oh, quote me
that kiss again! '
she sighed

'How I do
love thee...! '
I cried

'...let me
count the kisses! '
she replied

my lovely
darling
Rose

.
.
Words are like keys if you choose them right .
They can open any heart or shut any mouth .
TheMindsJournal.com



I opened up . . .
dumped out the words
kicked them hard !
       CRACK !
goes a breaking rib
There is no mercy that I give
Stomped them flat
Sretched them out
Made them squeal
before I made them shout
I grabbed them naked by the throat
Squeezed so hard I made them choke
I made pain flash in their eyes
I made them pay for all their lies
Their hot fear sweated out
I was resolved without a doubt
Red blood running cold
All their soul I bought and sold
I made them wish they had never been saged
Before I made a morgue of the page

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could

I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our mental cognition.

With cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which would import and export our collected consciousness for the trade of gelatinous brain matter, had overcame us.

Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation.