And now, their desperation and panic sink to an all-new low. They actually begin an attack on my sexuality, my familial relations and even my ability to have an ****** ...

  An ******?

  When you stop laughing, take into consideration that they are also regressing throughout all of this because this dysfunction that they suffer from is deeply rooted in their youth. Thus all the silly name calling and accusations that they could not possibly be able to know or prove and yet they state them as fact, like a child. I.E: A child calling out: "Your mama is a *****". Now those words come flying out from a frightened child when they really have no idea whatsoever about this target's mother. It is just an attempt to hurt. Nothing more.

But in this next bit, you can really see this desperation and panicked choice of subjects to try and use "against me", as-it-were. They don't know what else to do. Their ego is on autopilot, telling their fingers what to type ... and their ego is regressing back to childhood. Thus the childish subject matter.


(Name Deleted) Jeff the TROLL..
Has never and will never reach ****** ****** with either female or male partners.

Has never had a stable and fulfilling love life.
Will NOT and can NOT never ever love anyone UNCONDITIONALLY.
Has never been loved UNCONDITIONALLY by anyone male or female.
Has always been consumed unto bitter and fierce hatred of anyone who has!!.
A deep and bitter jealousy leading to violent hatred consume this TROLL.
Get back under your bridge Jeff.
Any replies from you in future will be deleted unread-even your long overdue apology.
AUM

 0 
 1 reply 
15h

Jeff Gaines  SOOOO MUCH FUN!

Ok, (Name Deleted) ... THAT was your most humorous YET!

Your actions are truly textbook of a person with your deep psychological issues. So ... if you will not read any more of my responses to YOUR trolling, then I needn't worry about you then sending a new volley to this one ... Hum? Good, I'm glad. This is truly getting boring. It's not too challenging to have a battle of wits with an unarmed person ... and a predictable one as well.

Sadly, we both know that your silly, over-inflated ego will NEVER allow you to NOT read something written about you. And you not responding would be a cover for your pathetic attempt to have the last word. (Again, we both know THAT won't happen)

Funnier still, you call me a troll, then go to one of my pieces and begin yet another troll campaign on the same day that you claim to not read any more of my responses.

So, you are trying to say ... "I will continue to troll/bully you, but I will read none of your responses, so I win". (hands on your hips, stomping your tiny foot on the floor, no doubt)

You say you are married? I pity this person ... your behavior is that of a post-pubescent, angry little boy with serious ego and self-esteem issues. Her life must be a living hell, as I would bet money that you are an overbearing control freak with an intense king-baby syndrome to boot. Of course, I could be completely wrong and it is SHE who wears the pants in your household and THAT is why you must come here to find some sense of "control" in your world. But that is all conjecture that I do not wish to even BEGIN to address.

Your need to appear like some type of "guru" or all-knowing person who is better than everyone else is deeply seated, so I think it started very early in your life.

As I've said ... 'TEXTBOOK".

So textbook in fact, that I have decided to make this entire exchange into a piece about trolls/bullies and bullying. But don't worry about that ... I will leave it up long enough for you to read it, leave one of your hysterical troll responses to further prove my observations ... and I will have had the last word.

Then, predictably, you will write something about me on your page, then block me so that I can't respond (thus making your poor, decimated ego feel like it had the last word), which will not only further prove my observations about you, but it will lead folks over to my page to read my piece about you.

It'll be fun!

Now, on to your latest huffing and puffing:

"troll"

Once again, you accuse me of something that YOU are guilty of.

Once again, you are crying about me doing something that YOU did first. (I can't stop laughing about this. Just like a bully to cry and whine when he himself is punched in the nose and doesn't receive the response that he is seeking when HE does the punching!)

*** - Kettle/Gander - Goose, little man.

I am only guilty of responding to your trolling ... which is my right. Because, as is well established, you began this little soiree when you called me an "Unreconstructed alcoholic with no personal sense of shame" in a comment about a piece I had written about a friend that had recently died! Sadly pathetic, indeed.

Then, as I've stood up to you, you have spiraled down, like a burning airplane, in your pathetic child-like name calling and such to the point where you did schoolyard (at best) name-calling ("Electronic ****"? I LOVED THAT ONE!) and attacked my race, my religion and political stances (I picture you, a terrified little schoolboy, trembling in a schoolyard, shouting these things as you wee your pants in fear).

Then. you actually threaten me with physical violence (punching me in the nose). Now ... when NONE of that ridiculous posturing and panic-stricken chest-beating has worked, you take a jab at my sexuality and interpersonal relationships?

You are the one with "No personal sense of shame" here. You are publicly getting more and more pathetic and your ego won't even let you see that! Your imaginary pedestal is way too high, (Name Deleted). The fall from there is really going to hurt you.

Attacking my sexuality, love life and relationships?

Really?

There are few straws left for you to grasp at, huh?

Again, having never met me, something you couldn't POSSIBLY make accurate conjectures about. ANYONE reading this would laugh, knowing where this is truly coming from.

My FAVORITE was the bit about me never achieving an ******! It took me SEVERAL minutes to stop laughing about that one.

How old are you (Name Deleted)? 12 ... 13, maybe?

No matter your actual birth age, these silly claims and insinuations are definitely NOT those of a grown-aged man. They are straight out of the playbook of an early teen. To make such an unfounded accusation is nearly disturbing on SO many levels.

Wow ... just ... "WOW".

You spew them from your imaginary ivory tower, the one that makes you believe that you are above everyone else, so they MUST be facts, right?

And in true (Name Deleted) form, you state them like facts to the public.

A public that can readily see that it is all coming from a wee little man, standing on an imaginary pedestal trying to convince the world that he is a "somebody". You should have taken my earlier advice and just closed your mouth. But it is all too late.

Deep nasal breaths (Name Deleted) ... DEEP nasal breaths.

I've no need to respond to this silly notion with tales of my ****** bravado or adventures, nor my past love life. That is none of your business and a true gentleman NEVER kisses and tells.

Besides, THAT is the action of schoolboys and men who are lacking in the "endowment" department ... as is attacking OTHER men about these issues.

I won't bring my family into this either. (Taking shots at my familial relationships (Name Deleted)? Hmmm, I wonder if this a Freudian confession of your own family issues. But I won't go there. It's a can of worms best left on the shelf, I should think. It does pose some possible explanations for your behavior and persona though, doesn't it?)

So ... I hope you stick to your word and "not read/delete" this so that I needn't respond again. But, (long sigh) I highly doubt that you will. Your life AND your behavior are CONTROLLED by your fully delusional ego.

Watch for my upcoming piece, which will feature this exchange for ALL of the world to see. It will be cut and pasted verbatim, and I will even add a few additional notes.

I'm going to use it to help educate others on how to recognize and handle egotistical, cowardly, wanna-be bullies such as yourself.

Please, allow me to at least thank you for writing all these responses and demonstrating in such a textbook fashion, how your type acts and reacts and even letting us see inside of you a bit, thus letting us see what makes you tick.

And most importantly ... THANKS for the laughs.



This last one is where we can see the bottom of their barrel. As predicted, they can NOT “not read/erase” something that is written about them. Their ego would NEVER allow this. They MUST read and respond because THEY must have the last word. So, we are back to schoolyard names like “**** wipe”, attacking my sexuality and chest beating by attempting to assert that I have somehow “FAILED”. (You see? They HAVE to win, so it is easier to just let them think that they did.) After this, they can only lash out with slurs against my Mother and such. I think I've made my point here.

And now you, dear Reader, will have seen nearly the complete downward spiral of a bully/hater/troll when you stand up to them. I thank them for their 'help” in making this new piece and then show that I am the better man and offer to let them have the last word. I've no idea what that will be, but if you would like to see it, just go to the piece titled “Message To A Friend” (Link in notes below), it will be there soon enough. Their desperation to be dominant is so readily apparent here, it is sad. As I said, they can't help it. Their ego is on autopilot because these issues are so deeply ingrained in their self.



(Name Deleted) To Jeff the TROLLISH LOSER.
WOW so many words just to prove you are a piece of white liberal **** wipe.
You must really hate life with your filthy mouth spewing out
non stop TROLL NONSENSE--as if its a Fight or a Battle to be fought with any stranger just to prove you are a MAN!!!.
WELL JEFF YOUVE FAILED.
YOU are not a MAN but you do have a Male Body.
Never will be a Man.
Always a sexless TROLL.
.
 0 
 1 reply 
13h

Jeff Gaines Well, (Name Deleted), I want to sincerely thank you for all of this. You don't realize it now, but you have helped me to compose something that will, in turn, help other people. It is very admirable. I/we have taken something awful and made it into something positive.

Balance in the universe doesn't get any better than that. Besides, from here, there's not much left but you making verbal attacks on my Mother and such. Even I won't let you reduce yourself to that.

I wish you well. I hope all of your dreams and wishes come true, and moreover, I hope you get the help you need to finally find peace. A peace that will let you stop trying to belittle others with your condescension and bullying demeanor. I truly hope that you can release the tortures that keep you with this agonizing persona. It must be horrible for you.

And again, THANK YOU!

Leave any message you wish after this so that you can sleep well, knowing that you had the last word. I know how important that is to you and your ego, so have it ... as a gift from me to you in appreciation for all of your help here. I promise ... I won't respond. It's all you, Dude. My job is done here.



This one, sent to me on a completely different page/post, involves the “truce”. They did this on the comment section of another piece called “I'm Sorry If You Miss Me” (Link in notes below). They couldn't do this where we had been in our volley, that might appear as a weakness to someone who'd been watching it all.

They offer an olive branch (for all that's worth), but with it, they also offer to take me to enlightenment and save me somehow. None of this is sincere in ANY way. It is once again, them, trying to condescend to me that I am in need of THEIR help. That I am less, and they are more. Just as I described in the beginning of Part I.

(Also note that upon realizing that this has all been an analyzation of them and their behavior, they attempt to spin it around that it is THEM analyzing ME. Once again, textbook predictability)

If for some silly reason, I took this “truce”, they would feel that they have dominated me and nothing would change. As you read it, you will see just what I mean, especially in the way they go on and on about how accomplished they are at 'helping” others and how they can lead me to some new and better existence, as I am such a “sick human being”. The megalomaniac is really showing through here:



(Name Deleted) Dearest TROLL,
TRUCE?

Though you so obviously write vicious TROLL Gibberish you so obviously cant spell the word gibberish correctly.Not very Self referential eh?.
Diminishes your projected self mage of being a 'nice guy' somewhat eh?.
I have analysed your crippling problem and can offer you the only way out of it.
The presence of an individual Mind superimposed in strategic command over all your brain centres in the last hour before birth has led to you being NON Self Realised(which is your problem basically).
You don't know your Cosmic Identity--and the Mind in your head has led you to believe that you are not the Individual Isness but are the Mind created operating device the Conditioned Identity.
This replaces the ID and takes control over the Glucose and Oxygen supply to all Brain centres from the Individual Isness.
Send me a Poste Restante address and I will send you(for FREE)a copy of my only CD--on which I play Alto Saxophone and Alto Clarinet andAmplified C Silver Concert Flute and my wife who is my life companion plays Electric Bass.
We use the name Maneesha which is Sanskrit for Beyond Enlightenment.
The CD which is called 'Rolling Home' is as recorded--every track in one take-no electronic messing around!.
It was recorded under strict Tibetan Tantric rules of performance--I was a Flute playing Pujari in a Temple on the Burning Ghat in Varanasi where I played for Hindu Cremations for 6 years in the 1970s.
The intention is that the listener--you--will become Mindless .According to the sacred texts of the Vedas one must become Mindless as that is the only openly accepted way to reach the final end of Yoga Meditation.
Temporary union with the Isness of the Unverse.
Yes I know you will go off into paroxysms of laughter at my very absurdwritings but I must offer as you are a very sick human being--and your TROLLISH sickness will only get much worser as you age.
I have offered.
You will ridicule me.
Your choice.



And there you have it, dear Reader. A (disturbing) look, into a very disturbed mind. I am not, nor would I ever condone or recommend doing what I have done here. I did this for you. I had the idea while reading one of their demeaning comments on someone's daily. So, when they came to my daily … I put my hook in the water. The best thing you can do is give no reaction. Soon enough, they will go off in search of the attention they so desperately need and leave you in peace. As I have shown you here, engaging them brings a never-ending string of buckets … buckets FILLED with waste-of-time.

All you need to do is keep in mind this one simple thing when they write horrible things in your comment sections, or you encounter one in your life …

Something you are doing, or have done, is SO amazingly awesome, that it brought out ALL that darkness in them!

Just ignore them and they will go find someone else to pick on. Give them an “LOL” and ignore all that follows, or just delete their comment and block them. Your time is limited and so very precious. Don't give one second of it to these types of people. It simply isn't worth it.

Besides … You have MORE amazing things to accomplish!

                   Big Love,
                           ~Jeff

Ode to a Sunflower


            I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.

            I was walking alone in desolation when I encountered the blinding sight of my sunflower. There it was staring at me with its inviting eyes, eyes which seemed a little lost, a little troubled, a little like mine. My hand trembled as it wiped the disbelief from my vision. The seeds which I had planted in an attempt to dispel my restless woes had sprout up in a seemingly un-fertile place, a place where I could not fathom I would find my Sunflower. But there it was in all its beauty: eloquent, mysterious and enchanting. A vivid portrait of heavenly grace. all could witness , yet,  one could  possess.

  I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.

From the moment I found my sunflower I did my best to nurture it, watering its spirit from sunrise to sunset. The beauty for which it possessed was captivating; stirring my very being like no other flower has prior. I spent days, months and years analyzing this gem. I wondered why this sunflower was so singular in its splendor, why after so long in my possession was it still shining brighter than a summer star painted against a black night. My admiration and love for this sunflower matured uncontrollably, cultivating in a whirlwind of blissful sunshine.

  I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.
            
Though my sunflower possesses the strength of a thousand armies and the magnificence of a thousand smiles, I sense a feeling of weakness when the wicked birds of prey attempt to uproot it from its rightful plot. I caress its pedals and speak to it softly assuring that there is a purpose for the gloom, and that upon all of us the rain of opposition will fall. I clutch its head into mine as splendid pedals of fluorescent beauty tickle my face, making me blush with joy. I whisper to my sunflower as I drop my seed next to her stalk, and I tell it that no matter what storms may sing, there will be no challenge to our garden as long as we continue to grow together.

.chris rea: god's great banana skin...

/ such random thoughts are a blessing, esp. after you've been walking for over 2 miles, in the cold and in the rain, with the setting sun... continually impressed by the nature of polyester clothing, how you feel the cold, but aren't cold at all, how you go back home and: you're dripping with sweat... /

the random thought?
about a saying, here's the schematic

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

which statement is true?
within the questioning parameters?
i think it's a trick question...
how else would you be able to
teach these statements and make
replica understandings of
said, statements?

(****... quickfire shots of syrupy
*****... **** me... give me the sweats,
and i'm not even constipated,
it must be the ***** doing
the magic... yeah... sober me?
doesn't like thinking...
but oddly enough, the drunk me?
pulls out philosophy,
no, not as some pretentious
high-brow interest...
   i just looked at philosophy as
a genre in literature,
nothing more)...

numbers, like letters...
or in the case of Roman numerals
(letters are numbers)...
i'm unsure whether you can arrive
at crafting them into existence
by analytical parameters,
i don't actually think
that you can conjure up numbers
from analyzing a priori,
given the ad continuum:
but... there was a point in time,
when / where: numbers weren't used...

Kant was a theist,
sorry...
  he says it plainly at the end
of his critique of pure reason...
in the transcendental methodology...
sure... he takes a "schizophrenic"
moment to write a thesis
and an antithesis on subjects like
cosmology...
but he's inclined, as i am,
counter to an atheist...
yes... god is probably a monster...
but a ******* gorgeous monster...
kinda like a femme fatale...
so what's not to like?

    but this thought didn't arrive
randomly,
and my consciousness
didn't hone in on it...
i didn't vector this thought
to an immediate conclusion...
the thought arrived,
and then: i had to make shrapnel
out of it...
the original thought was complex,
i had to make shrapnel out of it,
in order to put it back together,
so that a cognitive 3 seconds
could be rewritten in under 30 minutes
explaining, why the thought arose...

you know... when thinking
is detached from the moral (θ)-ought
you get to experience these "things"...
here's another schematic...

I + Φ (you put a key into a lock),
   Θ (you turn the key), O (the door opens),
hey presto... a free radical iota...
detached from both phi and theta...

i am free from making
a moral ought (i) or the immoral: ought (i) not?
i'm free, hence my concern for...
abstract questions...

back to the original schematic...

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

this actually has a theological
dimension,
supposing i am god...

   if i propose an analytical a priori
with a synthetic a posteriori...
well then...
             i can't change anything,
i can't actually make changes to...
with my omnipotence,
omniscience etc.
i already analyzed, a priori
the Kantian elevation to theology
comes, via me, stating...
if i analyzed the entirety of
creation...
            a priori ex nihil
(from the prior out of nothing)
how can i make a synthesis
in the a posteriori domain,
of the already existing things,
which didn't exist a priori,
since there was nothing,
and i already analyzed the potential
of nothing, and this potential
was realized as everything i would
know to exist... and i went along
with it anyway?

i'm starting to think that
the realm of analytical a priori
doesn't exist for mortals...
the gods can muse this ****-show
of a dimension over and over again...
we're more (being mortals)
synthetic a posteriori...
oh don't get me wrong,
i believe we have the capacity
to comprehend analytical a priori
but it's an analytical a- priori...
we've reached the limits
of the microscope, the telescope,
and the hadron collider...
or on our way to exhaust that...
still being left with an intact mesh of...
the orbits... summer, winter, autumn, spring...
but this thing with this schematic:

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

how can i conjure an understanding
of IV + VI = X...
analytically a priori...
when... i have no hindsight /
prior to understanding of said rubric?
well... with Roman you could say:
analytical a priori,
given the Ancient Romans already
had the letters I, V, X...
but... if you didn't have the concept
of measurements prior,
of arithmetic...
how can you analyze something...
that doesn't exist?
so... you had to synthesize a priori,
working from the letters I, V, X...
to conjure up "numbers"...
  numerals... you had to create these
numbers by a synthetic a posteriori
method...
and the 4 + 6 = 10...
        well... you analyzed the a posteriori
synthesis, and threw I, V, X out...
and began the second wave of mathematics...
and this is where, authentically...
analytical a priori comes from...
based on I (1), V (5), X (10)...
                    came IV (4), came VI (6)...
don't mathematicians treat their language
as that of or equivalent to the gods?

now... for the cultural exchange program
that i promised...

on the great British isles...
you have a variety of languages
& dialects,
i'm so sorry that the Scottish
"forgot theirs"...

but when you have something
akin to

English: red
Cymru: coch

or right... they have their Pict
Gael?

Pict Gaelic: dearg
Irish: dearg
Cornish: rudh

we'll require a second word...
what word, what words..
life!

English: life,
Cymru: bywyd
Pict Gaelic: beatha
Irish: saol
Cornish: bewnans...

back, "home"...
we also have sub-groups
in terms of linguistics...

there are the Kashubians...
and there are the Silesians,
and, there are...
the Kurpie...
akin the Welsh, the Pict,
the Ire,

and their language looks like so...
again, borrowing from
red and life...

Polak: czerń
Kashubian: czôrny...
  but that can be disputed...
why?
     czerwień is not actually
a noun, but an adjective...
a quality of being associated with red...
czerwony? that's a male
adjective...
   and the female adjective
is czerwona...
                ****...
a color has to be something...
the noun adjective that's blood...
Polak: krwawy (czerwony)
Kashubian: czerwiony
Silesian: čerwůny
ah...
   Kurpian... high polish?
Masovian?
harder to find the words...
have to use alternatives...

Kurpian: caban
Polak: tępak
Kashubian: osoł
  Silesian: yjzel...
(idiot, imbecile)

you know how hard hard it is
to find a Kurpian to Polak
translator?
i can't find one to boil down
to the examples or either
red or life,
i'm reduced to choosing other
words...
like...

   Kurpian: chwat...
Polak: chłopak
Silesian: bajtel
Kashubian: knôp...
(boy)

Kurpian: jédło
Polak: jedzenie...
Kashubian: jedzenié
alternative to Silesian:
  jadło, i.e.: it ate...
past-participle in
the verb...
let's see what the Silesians
call it...
Silesians: well.. a variation..
chlyb
godka
mietła
masa... all things you can eat...
(edible food)

only a word, like the Kurpian
word akin to kotnå
reveals that Vikings passed via "us"...
kotnå?
  an impregnated sheep...
with young...

Kurpian: łańï truń!
Polak: nie mów!
Kashubian: ni gôdac!
Silesian: ńy godka!
(don't speak!)

mind you... Kurpian translation
is hard to find...
and you almost wonder...
at the British isles...
you think, us, Polaks...
do not have sub-linguistic groups
in our ranks,
like your Welsh, your Pict,
your Irish?!
guess again...
you had them all along...
and you thought...
the Polaks were
a homogenous culture...
all this time...
primarily because our culture
wasn't multicultural...
oh but it was... but on the subtle side
of history...
mind you...
defenders of the galaxy?
i knew gamora wasn't white...
but... **** me...
even if black or hispanic...
she looked so **** attired in green...
i was thinking:
absinthe cherub, absinthe cherub...
and forgot about glorifying
Zoe Saldana in all that choc...
what?
   a green skinned chic?
                    if i can forget about
the existence of chocolate...
i'll just anything that moves...
but i knew she wasn't white...
i hate chocolate...
          give me an absinthe girl any
day of the week...
       yeah...
only the English have complex
ethnicity encompassing
a single language...
only the English...
                 like **** they are...
at least my linguistic variation
is suited to a bundle of words...
Welsh?! Gaelic?!
  completely different languages...
at least in my part of the world
all that is deviating
is a choice of variant nouns!
but then again, the English
speaking world....
        how's the new pronoun
dictum coming along?
you keeping up with...
   appeasing the new crazies?
oh... you are?!
    well... kudos and applause!

p.s. guess what happens with appeasing
the new crazies... guess...
i'll tell you...
you **** around with grammar,
some grammatical pedant will raise
his head up from the crowd and say
something like:
               what?!
and then the old crazies rise up...
and... your, ahem, little discussion
about changing the rules of grammar
to "ensure" that the language is
kept, "intact"?
      see... mm... hmm... the old crazies?
the old crazies have their own
methods...
they're of the obligation:
let my gun do the talking...
  and then...
  you get pol *** arithmetic,
of skulls...
           being counted in an abacus
of heaping up, "debris"...
         see... these new crazies
are bugging me...
  they're bugging me...
because the old crazies didn't
attack grammar,
and whatever delusion they had...
i couldn't see it...
the new crazies?
they're attacking grammar,
and the delusion they have...
is... associated with something
i can see as being self-evidently untrue...

the new crazies...
******* spinners... fakers...
    i prefer the old crazies...
at least their delusions had ambitions
to deceive in the realm of
the unseen...
       the unproved, and never to be
proven...
these new crazies...
i am supposed to speak asylum talk?!
so... society is the new asylum
with the past asylums being
abolished?!
who gave caffeine to these news
crazies?!
******* sane people's naive pandering...
while the depressed man?
hey boy... hey, hey, hey boy...
noose!
i've lost all sympathy for
the victims of a psychotic
version of a repressed P.T.S.D. example...
the mad have hijacked language,
disorientated grammar...
and... b'a'ah, b'a'ah...
                 no...
                              i'm with the old
crazies...
                    at least they're the ones
that can inflict genuine grievance...
rather this policing of restricting
     the orthodoxy of the use of language.

p.s.
i found only two paradoxes in this
world...
    schadenfreude: feeding a pleasure
from the misery of others...
as...
  finding wisdom in others' own
forsake of an antithesis of
universal application...
  mainly that, associated:
            to a self-gratifying benefit...
the joke ends within the confines
of schadenfreude...
as does passable "wisdom" attached
to instragram novelty of the "maxim"
by your wisened sages
of the selfie...
  
                  i've been among the russians,
i know what the true uber looks like...
you hitchhike...
hitchhiking? forget that?
ponzie scheme albatross thingy
of a worth of a british mensch?
    funny... a people can so easily
forget the practice of hitchhiking...
so easily: entertaining individual rights...
and: innocent until proven
guilty until some next
               teddy bundy comes along...
and then it's all: ooh! ah! woo'ah!

   you know, i don't like the cartesian
chiral dynamic,
the whole: nietzsche take...
sum ergo cogito...
          i don't like the:

innocentes quoadusque (qua esse)
                           reus....    inversion...

an innocent man might hang...
well... if you have the death penalty:
too late to regurgitate the
original statements...

but? where's the element of redemption
for the innocent man?
why are so many people captivated
by the shawshank redemption?
there's a redemption story...
   in the inverted game?
a jimmy saville walks off scot-free...

the continental model doesn't make
sense with a death penalty...
but without one?
redemption... the atlas "paradox"...
one man usually burdens the fate
of a reciprocate of the unit of one...
but not the many...

me getting laid or not getting laid
is as important to me as:
whether i know about last year's
snowfall...
*** *** ***... all that sort of
******* in the western minds...
*** *** but no children!
recreational procreation without...
any procreation... to begin with...

         i'll admit...
english humour is funny...
but schadenfreude is a borrowed term...
hence the lost in translation
element...
           the english are terrible at
appreciating if not simply applying
the original zeppelin bomb...
after a while: the english just became
annoying toy-whips
of ***** replicas...
       the english knew elevated slap-stick...
with monty python...
with fawlty towers...
          they borrowed a term like
schadenfreude and completely lost the plot...
they once, upon a time,
chanced to play a game of linguistic
comedy...
            
                 i'm pretty ******* sure
the germans relate to schadenfreude in a different
way... i'm guessing:
the deutsche are not prone to ridicule as
the english are...
               the aunglisch are prone
to ridicule out of a sentiment of spite
than out of a repose for giggles...
        
          i don't understand the german sense
of humour,
     but understanding the english attempting
to "understand" the german sense of humour
is an enigma in an enigma in a per se...

such integrated back into
the ol' continental ways...
                       kudos to the brits...
bringing back the commonwealth to stereotype
us europeans with a negative "circumstance"...
now them: ******* up to "correct"
their integration policies... for the commonwealth
peoples of the united wordly wealth of
made in china plastic toys!

     a **** among the brits has
the audacity to tell a german he's not
supposed to feel at home on these isles...
sure... and i will never feel quiet at home
in Islamabad either!
               so? equal count of hubris!
that's the only thing that ****** me about
these isles... god i love this language...
but... when you get your afghani hounds
on me to do your ***** work?!

      even though i'm not: deutsche?!
i'll ******* pretend to be deutsche!
           i'm not here to mop up your failed
integration policies...
i settled on keeping my language...
they settled on keeping their sharia,
their **** pajamas and curry...
while adamantly rejecting their language...
in order to implement their desired changes
by subverting your language...
and you gave your language on a *******
platter...
    
    by subverting your language
to accept their cultural tattoos...
  let me tell you: if a people don't respect
their own culture,
by way of god, by way of language...
and they are "integrating": without speaking
their native mutterzunge?
they're not respecting either culture...
mongrels ahoy!
   what happened to the african-h'americans
not speaking a word of african?

what will they do, ascribe themselves
to ******* scots,
left with no gaelic and more a finnegans' wake
accent gymnastics of some irvine welsh?
nae for no: some glaswegian smart-***
excess of nouns?
      
hell... they would have never built
a colliseum if they saw:
1 + 4 + 6 + 9 = 20
   i.e. I + IV + VI + IX = **
            imagine... a society where letters
worked perfectly as sounds
and as arithmetic concepts of measure.

lucky for me the roman empire never
conquered
the lands i come from...
always with the brits being...
oh so so proud having been conquered
by the romans...
what's the prize... archeological sites?!

much respect as great britain...
but... *****... please...
don't pucnh below the waist...
importing your commonwealth dogs
to mark you out among all the other
europeans like some prized asset with
an inkling into h'american affairs...
thanks to you: i'm bored of looking up
the telescope of h'american ****
with their waning cultural export
of a worthwhile entertainment of appreciating
their music.

kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak
the name... matthew all
day long...
                 and right into the night...
i'll try to fall asleep...
must be an Oedipus complex
sort of thing,
   in primary school my school
friends thought that my
mother had the visage for
   sandra bullock...
   ha ha! good luck to the men fathering
daughters!
          you ever find it easier
to pet casts, and cage tigers?!
              **** me...
my shatten is soliloquy central...
           i drink to excess and
listen to excess erotica latex ****
music...
      and then? do nothing about it...
i like cinema...
                         **** me...
a fetish for leather that extends
past a ******...
    i would have asked her sincere self:
can we drop the ******
so that i might attire myself
in gimp?
      she evidently replied
a no with her 19 years of existence...
oh... under-baked apple pie
my dear...
            ha ha!
           no, i have more cherries
to pick, i''m beyond stalking some famous grimace...
you are here           .



and i?



                                           .              am here...

who needs the excess of
quasi-journalistic coverage anyway?
    
           that transitioning harem
of rock stars...
     like Kafka said:
i'll be waiting for something
i never had,
and missing it,
            by never having touched
a peek behind the curtain...

   i'll wait... for what i could never have...
and within the confines
of what i could never have,
          i'll settle for what i can already, have.

kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak the name matthew
all day long, and i won't mind...
        
      would i be the one following them?
train-spotting....
         taxi counts...
                 ******* crows that
croak mid-flight count...
           the number of canadian geese
in b-54 formation
migrating come mid-autumn...

          geek without the cartoons...
push me...
   keep pushing...
     i want the shove
and the ****** wording of auto-suggestive
courting of -
                           courtesy...

              thank you...
i'd rather stalk my own shadow...
looking out for the plot-line of
an eased out **** doing the olympic
gold medal dive into
the crapper pool,
via analyzing the shadow of plop
pop gold...

        zero splash...

                a ******* harmonium
on the neck of a Polish teenager,
traveling on a Warsaw tram
      to reach a girl who...
              was counting petals,
and the worth(s) of considering
the concise surmount of love...

             yeah... next time?
i'll be the one used to invigorating
the stance on stalking
one's own shadow...
             why?
because i fidget...
i get all jerky...
                  the hype instigator
movement...
   ******* a woman
like a piston of a car's momentum...

               does it really matter?
i thought the Madonna-***** complex
wasn't a man-"thing"?
   if man owns the Freudian Oedipus
complex...
  does man also have to lend in his
strap-on dictum for the
Madonna-***** complex?
   so...
              that's not a wholly woman "thing"?
she's doesn't own that
complex?
   it's man's fault?!

             i know the Rastafarian Putin
isn't rasp -
but you know that Israeli ******
are better than the Russian ones...
so the story goes...

               which kinda explains...
impotent with women trapped
within the Madonna-***** complex...
with Bulgarian prostitutes?
a limp **** only, and only when
i forgot to trim my ***** hair,
my Eden...

  i have the Oedipus complex...
am i also responsible for
the Madonna-***** complex?!
really?
                        you sure that women
are not supposed to attend to question
this trans-schizophrenic,
   squint / split /
           dichotomy?

                   prior mothers,
that prerequisite motherhood
with the basis of ******* themselves...

   the Madonna-***** complex
is outside the realm of the male constraint /
castration of rules...

   i already mentioned it...
i couldn't be circumcised...
   protruding veins, that met at the zenith
of the *******...
if they circumcised me...
        i would have bled to death...
the, "crime" of ******* is
a lot easier to handle...
   if you haven't been circumcised...

because?
   circumcision is a motivational tactic...
you are... technically... not allowed
to ******* once you've been
circumcised...
  
               you're free, to *******...
if you haven't been circumcised...
as a male...
            no problem...
problem of ******* comes...
when you persist in the act...
but you don't actually possess the excess
skin, that might allow you
the prime, solipsistic act...

    ergo?
******* is worth a justified critique...
ONLY, and only IF...
you've been circumcised...
sorry if you have...
           notably because?
your priest isn't a rabbi...
and there's no fiddler on the roof
matchmaker song
to boot.

oh no, there's no problem with the act
of *******...
  but there is... if you have been
circumcised...
  why?
    during ******* i used to pull my *******
back...
  and **** with an unsheathed
****...

      but in private?
the ******* was rolled back on,
to counter the imitation of experiencing ****
***... with a clenched fist.

I swear
somebody is following my inner footprint
recording and analyzing
hemming and coughing and clearing their throat
assessing my
"situation"

Stalking stalking stalking me

and filling my fortune cookies with relevant words
to psyche me out



i swear

POEM FOR IMALRIGHT
Dear Imalright
I discovered your poetry and LOVED all of it. I was struck by lots of what you wrote and it inspired to write this to you. I promise you I mean every word of it.
I read your poems:
Unexceptional
Unbeautiful
Anxiety at 3AM
Two sad teenagers
Relapse
Fifteen
Starving artist
2014
Nothing special
Rough Edges & a dorky face
Under eyes
I adored them and spent the better part of a full day, hours and hours combing through the verses, dissecting the poems, analyzing the words and fully appreciating your incredible work. I picked out my very favorite phrases or yours that I found particularly powerful and moving and responded to these lines. I wanted to start a challenge. (In fact I posted this challenge as a poem, you can find it on my page).
I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. I just thought that you seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on your poetry so I chose you, Imalright. So here it is:

Your head whispers these words that crawled onto the page:

We're the kind of people that fade into the background

that people forget are in the room.

-Imalright

I won’t say something that the rest of society seems to think fixes everything. I won’t tell you the typical: you are important to everyone, you are not just a faded part of the background, people do notice you etc. because those are empty words everyone uses and they people who are always pretty in the spotlight are always the ones to say it, so what do they really know about the background, forgotten, white-noise people like us?

I will tell you, instead, I know it hurts like hell to be forgotten. For your existence to go unnoticed. I know being a part of the background is never anyone’s first choice. I am a backdrop-dweller myself. I am the unnoticed girl who blends in with the shadows. There is nothing wrong with that.
Never forget that the starry night sky is a background too. You can still be wonderful without being the center of attention. You can still be wonderful even if you are a part of the background. I want you to know, I noticed your poetry. I noticed you, and your name, and your wonderful talent and I have spent my time dissection every poem you have posted because every single one of them, is a different shade of amazing. We are all backgrounds in someways but what we choose as our phone screen backgrounds tend to be pictures of what we love the best. Pictures of beautiful things. There is nothing unbeautiful about the background. So from one forgotten soul in a room to another, I your poetry was just another account in millions like the stars but you are one of the loveliest sections of this world’s background I have ever seen. Keep that in mind. 







I just wish that I was one of those beautiful things.

-Imalright

Once again, I won’t use a society phrase like: Everyone is special and beautiful in their own ways!! Because people don’t seem to get that no matter what they say, it doesn’t even matter if it is true, but if you tell someone who thinks they are not one of those beautiful things that they are beautiful They. Do. Not. Believe. You. It just doesn’t matter, it won’t change their mind, it doesn’t help and it doesn’t fix it. It just makes them feel like you are lying to them and then they feel vain and self-conscious about admitting to you that they don’t feel beautiful etc. etc. I’ve been there so I know.
So I won’t tell you that. But I will tell you a couple facts instead.

It is a fact, that there is ugly inside of every single person.
It is also a fact, that there is beauty inside every single person.
Because beauty is NOT a definable concept. It is different to every person depending what kind of lens they look through and let me tell you, physical beauty is artificial and even though I wish I could be physically attractive in my own eyes, I have come to accept and I hope you have too or will as well, that a deeper beauty than that is inner beauty. What you keep in the cracks and crevices you made yourself in your soul. I think you are beautiful. I the pages you’ve written on soaked with ink made out of your inner self is magnificent. Your way with words and your flow of thoughts, the way you look at life through an indigo-tinted-one-way-glass-lens, it is all a whispering sort of beauty. Like the soft ringing sound of raindrops skimming the window pane on a grey sky, storm cloudy day. That same sort of delicate loveliness. I think you are a very unique and exquisite color of beautiful unlike any other poet I’ve ever seen. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, we can’t label ourselves friends since I have never spoken to you, but friends are basically socially required to tell you that you are beautiful whereas strangers are bound by no such obligation, yet still I tell you, I find you a person with a beautiful soul. I have only ever seen your poetry, but that is enough for me to know you are a beautiful person. After all, poetry is really where our souls spill what they are truly composed of. If I were to judge your beauty by your face and actions, all those are altered by circumstances beyond our control, society standards and pressure etc. What you do does not define you. Your soul does, however. You are beautiful to me. 







I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED I JUST WANTS THINGS TO BE OKAY

-Imalright
A truthful scream of the heart that many have felt. It’s funny that we all have this same base desire that tends to reveal itself more and more the later at night it gets, and yet we all still suffer the feeling of being unloved and unokay alone and silently. I wish I could reach out and fix you because the pain of others that is out of my reach always pains me more than any kind of physical agony I could ever endure. I can’t fix you though, so instead I offer you the only thing I can, I am with you. As a friend, just another soul on the earth who has felt this feeling you express in this line. I reach out with the hands of my spirit and for your spirit. Maybe if you know that I too have felt unloved and unokay you can find comfort and strength in that. Because no matter what kind of darkness you face, literal or internal, I find being united with someone empathetic to you who knows how you feel makes it just a little less scary even if it is just a sliver of hope for even just a second. It is something and the idea of “hereness’ you know, like being “here” for you, being “with” you in that emotion is all I can offer and I just want you to know, I love everyone and everything until I am given a good reason not to. So in a way, even if not on a personal level (because I do not know you, so I can’t love you on a personal level the way a sister loves a sister or a best friend loves a best friend) just generally, you are loved by me, because I love your poetry and I love all things that haven’t given me reason not to. And do you know what? Even though it hurts and it is unfair, everyone has to be unokay for a little while. I have been too. Maybe you were unokay for longer than what could possibly be near just or humane or reasonable but you were strong enough to pull through. I applaud you for this and want you to know your strength in powering through your unokayness has been recognized and admired. By me. Because the warriors are the ones up at 3AM having anxiety attacks but never let it show and you are a warrior. I am proud to call you a fellow poet.




but being sad and lonely is worse than being sad.

-Imalright
I know what you mean by this line. It is sculpted so beautifully though. The words in the phrase are just so raw and honest. Not over romanticized, just plain relatable great poetry in its true form as it should be. Wonderful. I hope you have found refuge from loneliness or will find refuge from it soon in finding someone else’s heart to call your own and in your heart belonging to someone else.





A new scar for that comment that boy said.
A new scar for that friend that betrayed you.
A new scar for every word you swallow.

-Imalright
That boy has scars of his own and he thought it would make them fade if he cause you to have scars too. ***** him. The betrayal of a friend is a special kind of pain like being stabbed with a knife you made yourself. A pain I know too well and wish no one else knew. Let the scars heal and do not swallow words. You will choke pretty soon if you don’t. Keep in mind that you are worth more than scars. I think you are worth more than scars.






You don't know how bad things are.

-Imalright
First off, I love this line. Just so simple and yet so relatable. There is some beauty to that. Sort of like thorns on a rose stem. Although they can be piercing and ugly there is magnificence that goes along with it. To be 15 and not know how bad things are, you have the rest of your life to obsess over the bad things and how awful things really are. You have the rest of your earthly existence to be broken, so like a child’s smile, at least you had that one moment in your life when things weren’t shattered as far as you knew.





With nowhere to go but everywhere
-Imalright
What an extraordinary thought. Such a liberating idea. You have really inspired me with this one single phrase. Keep in mind, you can be so inspiring to people who don’t even know you (like me) just with your words. You really make such a difference in this world. I have decided after reading this line, I’m going to try and let a little bit of that philosophy into my life. Nowhere to go but anywhere.

And that hope is going to make me stop doing this to myself.

-Imalright
Well, I really hope so too. I hoped for hope to save me for way too long. Eventually you gotta find it in yourself because this world is a little short on Hope, its main export being Despair. Just know you are not alone in this. I wish Hope was something you could wrap and mail it to someone who needs it but I can’t hand you Hope. I cannot offer it to you physically but if it helps at all, if it creates Hope for you, I want you to know that I personally, desperately from the bottom of my heart hope to God, genuinely thinking of you individually as a person that you have healed or are healing or will heal through Hope. If that helps. I have been crumbling, but somehow, after a hell of a lot of anguish, I found Hope. You can too. If it doesn’t help then I offer you my hand spiritually and metaphorically. Stay hopeful, because in this world, that is all we have.






i'm nothing special
im not beautiful
i'm not gifted

-Imalright
I know I can’t change your mind the same way no one can change mine when it comes to how self-image and esteem, but I just wanted to tell you even if you don’t believe me, in my eyes and in my opinion, not saying this to be fake or just being nice. If it weren’t true I just wouldn’t bring it up or say anything about it but you are VERY special. …okay that doesn’t sound good that sounds like the kind of special people put in quotations like: oh, she’s um… you know, “special” alright…
What I meant was, you are special because your poetry has made a difference in my life. You insightful view into life, your precious unprecedented perspective on the world and how you perceive it is very special. I have already explained why I think you are beautiful internally and keep in mind there is no such thing as one type of physical beauty. It is all about opinion and to some person or some people out there, you ARE physically perfect. To them, your physical traits are their definition of beauty because beauty doesn’t have a size, a color or a shape. That is the beautiful thing about beauty. And you are gifted at poetry, that’s for **** sure. Your poems are absolutely toxically flawless I adore them and I really, really mean that. Your writing is close to my heart. That may come across rather creepy sorry about that haha :P but you need to know that you are gifted when it comes to beautiful words.






No one will make me believe that all of my flaws aren't wonderful.

-Imalright
Such a sensational thought and resolve. I really and truly admire and acknowledge your indescribable strength I wish I could achieve to not only accept but embrace your flaws. You are such a strong person and I want to thank you for being such an inspiration to me and the rest of the world, doing that and finding that truth within yourself that flaws are wonderful things.
wondering why i had shattered myself in the process of picking up someone else's pieces

-Imalright

Okay, before I say anything else… omfg wow holy mother of waffles. (That is not a very common expression but I am so struck by the priceless incredibleness of this line I can’t think straight. Also, waffles are good.) This is amazing… how do you come up with stuff like this???!! The imagery, the metaphor, the power of the phrase embedded in the words just… wow. Spectacular. God, I just really, REALLY hope with every ounce of my soul you find a way to repair yourself or someone to repair you because to lose yourself, saving someone else who was broken is so heroically tragic it breaks my heart because you are such a beautiful person.




Dear Imalright
I offer you Poet’s Love.
One poet to another.
I admire your work and your work is made out of little parts of you.
I admire you and your strength, your writing abilities and your outlook on life.
Never ever change.
I hope you find Hope.
Message me anytime should you need anything.
And I want to thank you for being such a strong inspiration to the race of people we call: Poets.
Love,
Ember Evanescent.

We, all been in the same boat of opinions.
Where other voice something about us?
Without a degree many know us to the tenth of truth.
Than, there are those pretending.

And without a moment of thought, we could back with, what rights you have to analyze me?
Your assessment means not a single thing.

But it does make you think.
If anything they stated rings of truth.
And if it does come close.

Than we slowly accept what they stated about us?
But those doing the analyzing most likely refuse to me analyze too.
Which make us proclaim, not to ever analyze me.
If you have things to be afraid of in life.

Analyzing me takes bravery and strength.
For being weak shows the fear within us.

the thing about school
is it kills beauty

one does not learn to appreciate
a painting by analyzing brushstrokes,
shading,
one does not learn to appreciate
a poem by analyzing metaphors, similes
form, structure, rhyme.
one does not learn to appreciate
a sonata by analyzing cadence, melody
rhythm, harmony

we love art because when we
look at a painting, we see life in its most
basic form.
we love literature because when we
read a poem, we understand the beauty of
the world.
we love music because when we
listen to a sonata, we can hear the fabric
of the universe unravelling.

dear teacher
you cannot teach us these things
because we feel the earth in our bones
we hear the wind and it echoes in our soul
we understand the way the sunlight falls
over each and every one of us

and we know what it feels like
to be alone
to be alive
because that is how the world works

you cannot teach us how to love
one does not learn how to breathe
you just
do

We all bear scars in one way or other.
Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for.
Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons.
Some we are but some we are not so proud of.

I have scars all over my body.
All over my mind and all over my soul.

I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet.

I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of.

I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships.

I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth.

I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals.

I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age.

I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start.

I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times.

I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then.

I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met.

I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home.

I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth.

I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life.

I have all these scars. All of them.
And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times.
They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become.
They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now.

A survivor.

coffee breath,
9:42,
violet pigment under eyes,
tiresome sighs.
three hours and forty- one minutes of sleep,
my mind says no,no,no,no
my eyes are heavy
and so is my mood

heart sunken deep as eye bags
wondering if you actually care.
those blue-green eyes,
are they analyzing my feelings,
or algebra?

i just want you to feel the same way,
which is a way i have never felt before

mushy, gushy, stupid poems,
hopeless, delicate Juliet searching for Romeo in her peripherals

little Juliet, wake up, wake up,
go be the lioness you're accustomed to be

I had this thought when I was younger,
That I had to know who I was and who I wanted to be,
By a certain time in my life.
That, when a stranger asked me to tell them about myself
I should have a designated answer in the form of linguistic description.
Full disclosure of self.
I'd listed in my mind hobbies, character traits, intellectual preferences.
All things that, when put together,
Would produce a vision of who I was as a person.
I was a complete profile from top to bottom.
Inside and through.
Adding to and refining back qualities of what made me as I went along.
Fine tuning the presentation of me to society.

I thought I had it down.
Picked through with a fine tooth comb.
No boring aspect refurbished, no overbearing flaw unchecked.

Then one day
I was in a place that housed people milling around,
Same as any other day.
And as I sat next to a fountain feeding some birds,
Like I was prone to do on the pleasant weathered days.

A little boy came up an sat down next to me.
I didn't think anything of it and just smiled at him.
He lingered beside me for a few minutes.
And I noticed he seemed to be staring at me
With a quizzical look on his sun bright face.
I continued to dole out pieces of my left over lunch
And he giggled just a slight.
Now I was curious to know why this little guy
With anything at all to do other than sit next to me,
Was laughing.

I finally turned toward him intent on asking what was so funny,
When he stated before I could utter a word

"You're the nicest lady I ever saw"

I was initially a little gobsmacked as to the bold declaration.
It made me snort a bit.
Shaking my head, I pondered to him

"What would make you say that?"

He innocently replied with a grin that...

"You feed the birdies and they don't even say thank you. That makes one a really nice lady! "

Well color me stupefied there.
This little boy, in his little statement, awed me.
He didn't know me or who I was or where I've come from
And in just that one action he witnessed of me
Feeding those little flying creatures,
He determined me a nice person.

And it swelled me more intensely than any praise over an achievement,
Any congratulations of a job well done,
Any compliment of artistic ability.

And as he got up to run off to wherever he came from,
I sat there contemplating...

Of all the things I thought of myself up until this point,
Just being myself with no preconceived notion or projection,
I felt more transparent in that little boys observance,
Than anything else in my whole life.
That led me to wonder why in the world I had bothered
To ever worry about and plan around who I wanted people to see me as.
I began thinking all of my preparing and analyzing,
All of the forethought I put into me as a person.
Kind of went out the window.

Because if a complete stranger could see through me so easily,
With just a mindless action like that,
Then what did people really see beyond my presentation,
Of me?
Not that who I projected myself to be was false, just honed
To show the best parts of me always.
But then, what are the best parts of me which other people rarely see?
Maybe the things about myself I thought of as "works in progress"
Were already fully bloomed and beautiful already.
Maybe I was just so conditioned to think they weren't?

So as I laid on my couch later that night
And aimlessly thought of the events of the day,
I made a plan to have no more plans.
To keep my list of everything about me I had written over the years,
But put it somewhere only to serve as a reminder to me.
I'd try, from here on out, to just be me
Freely.

The only regret I had of that encounter though,
Was that I didn't get to tell that little mind changer

Thank you...


*© NDHK

.there are only two aspects of forgiveness worthwhile, kept in anticipatory slumber, (1) is watching the masses congregate within the confines of your thinking, but (2)... watching how individuals in said massing of resources... seem to be akin to: someone walking on tip-toe on a bed  egg-shells... i'm met a few crazies... and i've prescribed myself investigating a few normal-folk, who are seemingly petrified, "thinking" than such: negations of ease, akin to depression, have an epidemic ontology.... that they are contagious... more or less.... like a sick ego, that bribes one's thinking and sows a false duality between what constitutes a body, consumed, with what otherwise, constitutes a mind... i've seen a few crazies... they seemed to like me, even when i suggested that we only just met...  the most senile people in the world... thus, to be frank... i'm more concerned with the sanity projects... with their emotional intelligence worth less than the emotional relativism of a gnat to a bear, which begs the reason os arguing: none... who... are so barren... they'd prefer the status of a pawn, in a game of chess, akin to Jimmy Savile...so much for the Saxon logic of: innocent until proven guilty... more like: innocent proven by death, after which... there is no case for either innocence, or guilt... i'm of the conviction... that... i'd rather see an innocent man claim redemption in life... than a guilty man laugh at a redemption in death; sorry... but i don't share the sort of sentiment that argues otherwise... better an innocent man claim redemption while alive... than a guilty man "claim innocence" while dead... part-and-parcel of the legality of the death penalty... the former argument: guilty until proven innocent makes a whole lot of sense without a death penalty... and the latter? no logic behind it... it makes no sense... then again... i am drunk, and i do not delve into sober issues or: serious circumstance... i allow sober people to meddle in such affairs... after all... sober people... make... the most... compelling arguments and, to boot, the most convincing opinions for up-coming affairs! why become a thief in their ordinances?! please! let the mice play, while the cat is away!  i need no bargain with ****-stormers and ******-buggery!

oh i've been to a few psychiatric interviews
over the past 10+ years...
always wondering: what am i doing
here? psychoanalyzing the psychiatrists?

you do know what a psychiatrist is
a poor man's psychologist -
with the added branch of pharmacological
applicability?
  a psychologist will just talk,
perhaps serve you camomile tea...
but prescribe zero drugs...

the talking, the endless talking,
the talking
of a west London psychologist...
who ends the relationship when
you mention:
i've had a dream of Allah...
god he's grotesque...
but, point: there was
someone with him...

  i thought that Allah had no
companions, or rather: he took none?
oops...

i remember analyzing this
situation once,
a ****** psychiatrist brought in
aa medicine student
who wanted to specialize in
psychiatry...
   apparently he concluded that
i was sane...
nice... being the subject
of learning curvature
surrounding a medicine student...

next came the allotment plant
to mind the crazies
while mingling them with the physical
retards...
stole a lot of potatoes that day...
the retards slurred,
exposed their genitals...
and were huddled together like
cattle by the social workers...

******* marvelous!
couldn't expect a lesser
Moulin Rouge reinterpretation
if i wasn't watching harlots
dance the: flinging
of the undergarments on show
that warm July afternoon!

but always, whenever i visited
a psychiatrist in a clinic:
always...
  why am i here?

you know what scares psychiatrists?
EM-PA-THY...
scares the living life out of them...
empathy is what psychiatrists
apprehend the most...
   so you're neither a psychopath
or a sociopath?
what are you then? comes the auto-suggestive
interpretation
of the ****** expression that
comes with suggesting,
even the slightest lack of contempt
for a basic human emotion...

scared, ****-less!
as if on a diet of ****** ruling
over Sudan, or similar ****...
famine after famine,
scared, but unable to soil their underwear,
given... well... the ******* famine...

oh i love psychoanalyzing
psychiatrists,
they have a shorthand blistering
beneath their appreciation for
listening...
their pharmacology branch...
caught one psychiatrist off guard...
he says, out loud,
that... i was abused as a child...

and?
  perhaps i was, perhaps i wasn't...
better that than being treated like
the modern Humpty-Dumpty...
walking on egg-shells typo,
rather than type, of what constitutes
the ontology of individualism...

i had to retort  with / resort to seeking
the opinion of a Polish neurologist
who, with a basic question
'doctor, am i mentally ill?'
replied
  'whoever said you're mentally ill,
is mentally ill themselves!'
case closed...
    
hence the statistics are believable
surround the death of Ellie...
teenage suicide rose in England
by 67% between 2010 and 2017...
    
so you do know the difference between
a psychologist, and a psychiatrist?
camomile tea...
   a psychologist is a humanist,
a psychiatrist is a physician...

if you're rich enough...
you see a humanist...
  poor? shorry...
   the pharmaceutical branch
of the practice is coming into practice...
but don't worry...
chances are...
    you talk what they want to hear
for a while, and then you start
talking what: they don't want you to hear...

hell...
  with this type of medication
and the whiskey...
i could turn into a semi-variant of a
hibernating bear!
i don't mind...
           i found that the glorification
pompous camp of cancer "survivors"
had their stab in the dark...
   because can we only regress
to glorifying surviving one type of
disease, while making stigma of
another kind?

the mentally ill are less of my concern....
i'm worried about the dim-wits
who abuse antibiotics!
   and i am... ******* numb-skulls...
taking antibiotics like
free-prescription vitamins!
creating the perfect niche for
super-bugs!
                      dim-wits!
         numb-skulls!
  and i thought that head-banging was
a source for erasing brain cells!

Don't make it awkward
Don't make it awkward
Just don't make it awkward.
My mantra
I ponder my texts
Analyze the details
bang my head against the wall
If you're not awkward
he wont be.
right?
right?
****
...
...
it's awkward.
You're over analyzing
Too much thinking
Stop thinking
thwap
Head hits the desk.
I'm awkward.
Everything's normal
One night of choosing to not
won't ruin a friendship
right?
right?
It's not awkward.
Why won't he text me.
Don't be such a girl.
I am a girl.
****.
I'm an awkward girl.

While reading
A romance novel
Being inside the mind of a man
Listening to his thoughts
It makes me create my own
In wonder
Like
I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of
Kissing my lips
Which he finds perfect
While he's stared at me

I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of
What it would be like
To be my boyfriend
To be the only guy
In the world
That I could
Hold
Touch
Kiss
That I could trust
That I could love

I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of me
Long after we've seen
Each other

I wonder if any guy
Has blatantly flirted with me
And grew frustrated
Because I didn't pick up on it

I wonder if any guy
Has found me intimidating
To the point
Where it makes them believe
That I'm out of their league

I wonder if any guy
Believed that I was
Beautiful
Perfect even
That I was the embodiment of everything
They craved for

I wonder if any guy
Made me the topic
Of endless conversations
He had
With his closest friends

I wonder if any guy
Believed that I made them a better person

I wonder if any guy
After briefly meeting me
Wanted to impress me
In order to feel worthy of me

I wonder if any guy
Became amused to the thought
Of how I had no clue on just how much I affected him
All while I was talking to him

I wonder if any guy
Wondered what it would feel like
To have our hands intertwined

I wonder if any guy
Wanted to pour out his heart to me
But thought that my small
Delicate hands
Wouldn't be able to contain
His unyielding proclamation

I wonder if any guy
Thinks that I'm the most perfect girl
They have ever met
And that whoever I end up with
Will be the "luckiest *******" in the world

I wonder if any guy
Spent hours
Over analyzing my response
Or actions
Hoping that they were more
Than just kindness

I wonder if any guy
Had an internal battle
About the words he spoke to me
Wondering if they were
Stupid or cheesy

I wonder if any guy
Has gotten nervous
Whenever I smiled or talked
To them

I wonder if any guy
Wished that I was his girl
That he could proudly proclaim
His
To the entire world
With bold confidence
In his actions and words

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been hyperaware of my
Every movement
Like you would with a huge crush
That's in the room

I wonder if any guy
Had to fight the strong urge
Of wrapping their arms
Around my body
In an all consuming embrace

I wonder if any guy
Snuck secret glances
In my direction
Without my knowledge
Just so he could admire me
From afar
Without me noticing

I wonder if any guy
Showed pictures of me
From social media
To his friends
To explain his infatuation

I wonder if any guy
Looked at me
And silently contemplated
If there was even a guy
On earth
Worthy enough
For me

I wonder if any guy
Wished he had the confidence
To go up me and strike a conversation
But felt too nervous to

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been
Overwhelmed or confused
By the unfamiliar emotions
That they receive
Whenever they see or think
About me

I wonder if any guy
Made me the muse
To an endless amount of romantic poems
That I'll never get to hear

I wonder if any guy
Misses the mundane conversations
That we would have
Because they meant
Everything
To him

I wonder if any guy
Daydreamed of interactions
Where I would fall
Madly in love with him
Because he felt more comfortable
In his imagination

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been turned on
By the brief
Contact of our bodies
Accidentally brushing against each other

I wonder if any guy
Was dying for me to just know his name
So he could be comforted with knowing
That I knew of him
So that when I saw him passing by
My face would light up with recognition
Instead of indifference

I wonder if any guy
Saw me in public
Didn't know me or my name
But hit his friends
Trying to get their attention
So that he could point me out
Because he found me beautiful

I wonder if any guy
Has ever purposely chosen an outfit
Hoping that it would catch my attention

I wonder if any guy
Purposely avoided me
Because he was too shy
To be near me

I wonder if any guy
Had dreams of me
That he wished would be
His reality

I wonder if any guy
Wanted to pursue me
But hesitated
Because he thought
That there was no way
I didn't already have a boyfriend

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been in awe
With everything that I've done
Just because it's me

I wonder if any guy
Decided not to ask me out
Because they thought
That they weren't good enough
For me

I wonder if any guy
Has looked at me
With eyes filled with unspoken love
But mine
Filled with so much innocence
Never truly saw theirs

I wonder if any guy
Admired my ****** features
As I spoke to him
Seconds before coming to to conclusion
That I was beautiful

I wonder if any guy's
Last thought
Before he went to bed
Was about me

I wonder if any guy
Was dying to tell me
That they were in love with me
But felt too scared to do so

I wonder what people think
Those that know
And don't know me
When they look at me

I wonder...

In statistics we learn that certain events
have undeniable independence,
which allows us to predict the success or failure
under certain circumstances
and I couldn't help but catch myself wondering
what the probability was that an attempt at taking my life might have
and I considered calculating the chance of success,
part of me hoping that parameter exceeded its counter part
while the other part silently prayed and dearly hoped
that the chance of failure knocked success out of the picture.

But these are independent events
and even after analyzing past trials
the only way to know for certain
would to be to carry it out myself.

[ode to my vehicle]*

always mindful
  
not to love things or stuff


living so that it 
  
could all burn

and it would be nothing
  
but an inconvenience

always mindful
   to love the people
because for these
there are no replacements



three objects 
  
have escaped my plan

maneuvered 
  
through my designs
and i fell in love with 3 things:



1. *old white macbook
*  
my beautiful
      
smart
        
well-designed
  
whirring piece of brilliant technology

you are already gone.



2. *wedding rings
  (irrelevant)

 i used to believe the
   joke of the symbolism
i fell prey to the beauty of
    well designed twisted metal
and stone.
no more.



3. asian machine love
*
    (a.k.a. mitsubishi outlander sport)  

i am having a hard time

having to let you go
  
my beautiful, black mitsubishi.



i chose you.


i researched for weeks
  
analyzing data

comparing machines
  
prices

trying to be reasonable


and out of all the machines,

i. chose. you.



you are the perfect shape
  
of all vehicle shapes, mitsubishi

you fulfill my obsession with
  
design

     lines
  
c o l o r 
      
efficiency

speed

    and b  o  o  m  i  n  g SOUND



you are the perfect balance of safety
  
including 4WD

and fuel efficiency

your headlights are so bright
  
and your high beams

so magnificent
  it's almost embarrassing


mitsubishi, you little snake...
  you have a manual mode

so i can choose to be a race car driver
  whenever i want


mitsubishi outlander sport, i love you so

*

let's talk about your face
  
(you have a pig-face like me
)
your nose is abrupt
  
it's blunt and it's different

and i love it


you know i hate the cold and the snow
   so you heat my seats
you warn me about ice
  you wipe away the rain

  without me having to ask

you cast light into the dark

  all on your own

gps

  usb

subwoofer

  rockford fosgate

bluetooth


mitsubishi,
you shake the earth

 blasting music 
through my dna

  so that i am made
of vibrations
and air

  invisible to the naked eye

or playing my science fiction audiobooks

  at a reasonable

and responsible volume



mitsubishi, 
you respond to me
with such grace

showing me impossibilities

with a rearview camera

saying, "hello!" in the morning

and, "see ya!" when i leave

(and i believe you mean it)



the deer was not your fault.

or mine, or the deer's.
  
we were all doing what we do,

and to be quite honest,

  the deer got the **** end of the stick, mitsubishi.

the kids like
  to go in
"mandy's car"
    they like to
look through the moonroof
  and i know they are safe
 .  
you are my one machine love
  
with power

combustion
  
     and pistons

you are electric
  
  intelligent

and you boom
 
  sleek

comfortable
  
          well designed



i don't want to see you burn.

it would be more than an inconvenience.
but you will burn. he will burn you.
it won't be me, mitsubishi.

he will take you.
he will smile when he takes you.
he likes to take what i love.
he likes to hurt people
who have never hurt him -
not once in their lives.

he is coming for you,
and i will never forgive him.

There was once a girl named indigo //
And there was a Christmas tree she wanted to chop down
She possessed all the tools to complete this task
She received a saw for chopping the wood
She picked up the saw and got on her knees
But then something peculiar happened //
Something so ******* strange yet entrancing at the same time
// The tree
began to grow backwards into the ground
the roots became a seed
and life became counter clockwise
counter clockwise of insanity and greed
Bluejays swum while cod fish flew
Her world got kicked over by the bully from school
She wanted to shoot everything because nothing made sense any more
More than anything she just wanted to be
But the subliminal messages she couldn’t read
While supercritical people just watched her bleed
The alphabet no longer went from A to Z
/and there was no such things as vowels//
without vowels she couldn’t write poetry
and without poetry she had no oxygen
her world was no more
it was all in code
it was so ****** up it was like watching the liveliness come out of her father’s throat
Oh wait, I didn’t tell you
Indigo watched the liveliness come out of her father’s throat//
Indigo became a synonym for insanity
the tornado spit her out like a beautiful waterfall
instead of ******* her in//
all she could do is fall //
but//
she can’t breathe
and she’s being compressed
she can’t see
she’s understanding less
she’s trying to act what society classifies as normal
but it is a useless approach
she is climbing in gym class, but without a rope
yet the rope is a noose
She is over analyzing herself into a hiatus space
Where it’s not actually hiatus but filled with chaotic mace
The mace is getting sprayed in her retinas
But she can’t see anything
Regretin the
Upside down world she created
Life stuck in reverse not tolerated
Revolving in ways that make her isolated//
But maybe if she stopped//
Stopped
Separating the separated
Decided to educate the educated
And learn to not under estimate the estimated
Then she too could feel that feeling again
but
Indigo can’t feel
And
She says
Hit me
Punch me
Kick me
Shoot me
Just do whatever you can to make me feel
Feel this feelingless life so I can begin heal
She wakes up and opens her eyes and now she is blind
The chaos has turned her heart into a mind
And mind into the heart
Where brain waves pump blood instead of intellectual parts
And her car won’t stop going in reverse but she is still pushing it forward to start
But it’s stuck
She’s stuck
Help indigo she’s stuck
All I want is for indigo is to be what she is:
a deep captivating blue
and I want her to captivate the blue
like the ocean captivates the white part of the waves//
the part that crashes the hardest at mid day
and I want the wave to push her over
PUSH ME OVER WAVE
HIT ME
PUNCH ME
KICK ME
SHOOT ME
MAKE ME FEEL AGAIN
MAKE ME THE CAPTIVATING BLUE
FORCE ME-TO-CAPTIVATE-THAT-BLUE
AND MAYBE MY BRAIN WILL TURN BACK INTO MY BRAIN
AND MY HEART WILL TURN BACK INTO A HEART
WHERE IT DOES PUMP BLOOD INSTEAD OF INTELLECTUAL PARTS
AND I’LL LEARN TO READ THE SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES PEOPLE SAID TO ME
AND I’LL EVEN APPRECIATE WHEN I BLEED
EVEN IF SUPERCRITICAL PEOPLE WERE THE CAUSE OF IT AND NOT ME
And I’ll learn to breath, I’ll learn to breathe, and I’ll learn all over again because
After all, all Indigo was, was one thing:
A deep captivating blue.

Growing up at a young age with ADHD can be a lot of fun. Everything just becomes that much more interesting. The sky seems so vast and every single blade of grass looks just as interesting as the one right next to it. My mind raced with questions every single second. I felt the only way to express it at times was relentlessly running around, as if every step I took gave me a satisfactory answer to each question I thought about; which was ultimately a lot of steps. It would be enough to drive most people into a state of madness. Not me though, I swore to the heavens I’d have every question answered. Because believe me, the seconds would feel like hours for every moment I didn’t know just how much wood a woodchuck could chuck.

Here’s my perspective; Thoughts in general are like the light from the stars that always shine the same brightness throughout the day. They are always there. Existing, even when you can’t see them. At least that’s how it is for normal people, you get the grace of day to nullify the shining of the light from those stars at times when it can be overbearing. You get a break. If I could describe what it’s like to have ADHD, picture your mind never turning off. It is always bright for me, and there is no dawn or day to alleviate my eyes from the galaxy of lights I see. It’s a beautiful disaster. You’re always thinking out loud to yourself about everything around you. When thinking about the concept of having a conscious and subconscious, you don’t even believe in the separation of the two. You think so much because of the energy flowing through your nerves, that there could be no way another part of your brain retains knowledge you don’t already consciously know. There’s so many questions every single second, that there needs to be some sort of way to express it. Mine would come through continuos questions and obviously, a lot of running around.

I guess I didn’t understand much about people back then, though. I was too busy exploring my mind and all the ideas that sprouted within it every second. I never thought it could be a bad thing. My father seemed to think differently at times.

The worst part about having an overactive thought process, is not being able to express it. Those thoughts have to go somewhere; and if they don’t, they build up  in a *** on a back burner until the lid finally blows off and explodes as some type of extreme emotion, from anger to sadness.  

As a kid, I have too many memories of confrontations with my father when I said something he didn’t agree with. Almost as if he thought I was overstepping my bounds as a male in his house by only talking about what was on my mind. If he didn’t like what I said, or if he didn’t agree with it, “I was an idiot.” It didn’t stop there either.

Conversations about things I’ve learned had to be defended with the words, “But dad, my teacher just taught us this today in class!”

“Well then, your teachers an idiot.” he would respond. It seemed like he knew the answer to everything. Even after I went to school and got an education that his tax dollars were paying for, it wasn’t enough to get him to agree quickly with things I said. It seemed everybody was an idiot, and as a kid, I almost thought it was normal to be one at a point. Everybody seemed to be doing it.

But even the innocence of a kid knows when something feels wrong. It didn’t take much of looking at his gritting teeth and clenched jaw to know either. I would watch the muscles in his cheeks and forehead pulsate with blood every time he squeezed his fist in stubbornness; as if his fists were his heart in that moment

I guess what hurt the most about the confrontations, was the awareness that he was not always this kind of man. I’ve seen him in different lights before. Brighter lights, where his happiness rained in a room and brought joy to everyone. Times where you’d never think the same man was consumed by a darkness that made him blind to reason. The pain came with knowing I was fighting to express myself to the same man that would make me laugh till my ribs felt weak. The person who I loved seeing happy, that much more because I saw how the shadows of the clouds he carried with him, darkened his spirit.

His alcoholism and addictions didn’t help aid his perspectives for the better either. Bottle after bottle I would watch get consumed, all the while his fuse grew shorter in those moments as his BAC grew higher. Cigarettes on the daily, pills and ***. Anything to escape the pain he harbored like a shipyard.

I started keeping my thoughts to myself more. At that age, I was innocent enough to believe I was wrong for having an opinion, or speaking my mind. I thought it was wrong to think the way I thought, so I maliciously put those thoughts on a back burner; And that’s when it started.

The silence, or I guess people would say, “the introvert,” found its way into my life. It’s such a tragedy of irony. The person who always thought a mile a minute, and still does, now barely says a word. Keeping himself locked away in his brain because there’s no key that could unlock him from the darkness of judgement. I was told I was an idiot and that I was wrong so many times that I never wanted to be those things again. If I never spoke, I never had to worry about hearing it.

For years I stayed quiet about the things that went on inside my brain, and it literally killed me. I felt like I was being robbed of my imagination, or rather I was robbing other people in this world of my imagination. Simple and plain, my thoughts weren’t being put out there. They continued to boil on my back burner, occasionally exploding every now and then into anger and depression. All of those amazing thoughts I used to have, now felt like fire burning through my veins for every pulse that kept them there to never be released.

I resented my dad, and won’t forget the day I told myself I wouldn't become him. I never would of imagined that that would be the day I put an invisible blind-fold on. Because I had swore to myself I would never act like my dad, my foggy eyes would never catch the times that I did. There was just no way I would or could be like him because he character caused me too much pain.

Conversations with other people started becoming more debate-like, I was always quick to defend my point because I didn’t want to be wrong. I talked more than I listened. If you didn’t know what I was saying, you just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I kept and thought to myself all the time. So much, that when I finally did release what was on my mind, it had to be right because I spent enough time to myself analyzing it. Other people just couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t.

Remember that boiling *** on the back burner; that occasionally explodes? Well, now it was now on the verge of imploding. I was so fixated on never being wrong, it was almost like I was never wrong. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah it did to me too. When I noticed it, that’s when I imploded.

I couldn't believe I became exactly what I told myself I would never become. All of those past thoughts and hatred imploded in my brain and trickled down the inside of my body, burning me. I burned, but not with anger, I burned with depression and more silence. It was a vicious cycle. Speaking, especially to other people, almost became taboo to me. It seemed weird and out of place because it involved more emotions. I was kind of tired of feeling at that point. I had already felt enough through all of the episodes I would have from my explosions. Not to mention, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I was my dad spitting image when I talked to other people. Depression can really be a vicious cycle, and I remember how much it would recycle itself in my life.

I would spend hours in school, with a million thoughts to say, but never spoke out. I hated myself for it, which would get me depressed. Which would then get me depressed for knowing I was depressed; making me depressed because I was depressed I was depressed. There seemed to be no escape.

I started abusing substance, from alcohol to ****. My abuse, came from the justification that I told myself I was doing it to understand perspective. I wanted to explore the same world of addiction that my dad did. I wanted to come to understand what it’s like to live in a world of dependency and escape. Boy did that backfire on me. I went into it thinking I could just jump right back out of it; that’s not what happened. I was quickly consumed with darkness, escape and depression. Anxiety got the best of me now, because I felt trapped in this world of rumination and hopelessness.

What was depression for me? Its was being stuck in a dark room, separated from the light of happiness by a cruel lock door. A locked door that had a small viewing glass for you to see what lies on the other side of it, within your reach. It was having what seemed like an entire ring of keys to open the door with, yet they’re all the same key. Depression was refusing to stand up, to take advantage of the little bit of light that shined through the viewing glass for me. The little bit of light that would of shown me I was recycling the same key, over and over again. All because I tried to use the dark to see.

I felt that my voice was unheard and I finally got to the point where I didn’t want to live anymore. I used to wish and pray that I’d contract a horrible disease or illness cause I thought it’d be the only way for people to truly hear the words I had to say. It’s a shame that I would even think this. But what even more shameful than that, is how much more words really are cherished after someone has died, or is dying. I had a one track mind for sacrifice, and was hell bent making it happen. I smoked **** by myself; occasionally drank in my lonesome; compulsively ate more than I should; anchored myself to be a sloth in my bed, slaved away to TV and constantly stressed myself over the little things I did. Anything that would speed up the process of my downfall, I did.

I still felt empty though, my collapse wasn’t happening as instantaneous as I hoped, which gave my relentless mind more time to think about it. I did want to live, I didn’t want to have to be this sacrifice to get my point across. “It’s such a cop out," my mind would occasionally blurt out to get my attention. “So what if I’m like my dad? Shouldn’t that be more of a reason to be able to empathize with him when he gets the way he does?"

It wasn’t until the day I got the brilliant idea that maybe I should speak what’s on my mind, that I saw how powerful I could feel. I’ll tell you something though, fighting through the agita you get in the back of your throat is hard. It literally stops you from talking. You know what you want to say, and exactly how you want to express it, but you overthink it and think you’re going to mess up expressing something you know is simple. That agita is the fear in the back of your throat that reminds you of why you feel that way. I didn’t want to result to the back burner again though, so I fought through the pain no matter how bad my chest hurt.

Eventually, I stopped resenting my father. I took it upon myself to sit down and throughly write him a letter, expressing the way I felt about our relationship. About how all I wanted was to see him happy, I was very blunt about how I felt. This is a part of that letter:

"When I think about how long it took me to write this, it’s pretty sad really. And it’s not even because my writing skills we’re slacking, the sad part is what I thought I had to do in order to write this to you. Every day that I would try and write this, I would put alcohol and drugs into my body because I thought it would aid me in my creative writing. But instead, pretty much the opposite happened. I sat staring at a computer screen ruminating about my own troubling thoughts and personal anger. So I sat even longer staring at that screen thinking I needed more substance in my body to awaken the thoughts that I so longed to express. I used and abused until I just got too tired of trying to write and passed out. My point is, I made excuses to take in substances for my own personal benefit because the whole time I was really trying to run away from the problem instead of facing it. When I really sit back and analyze myself as well as you, I see a huge correlation between us. And to be honest, I think it’s a big contributing factor to my depression. Not because me and you are similar, but because we’re similar and you think you’re so different. Do you want in on something I’ve never directly told you? Growing up, I’ve always had persistent urge to make you a happier person. Ever since I noticed how depressed and upset you were, I told myself I would stop at nothing until you saw the good that life has to offer. I didn’t realize how high I set my expectations until they were ripped out from under my feet. My interventions got me nowhere but further into a rut with you, not to mention they were labeled as girlish emotions to have. It’s funny how fast you can go from being helpful to being angry, which is exactly what happened to me. I became so obsessed with trying to make you a happier person that I started becoming angrier that nothing was working. My anger turned into depression and I started smoking **** significantly more to run away from the fact that it seemed like there was nothing I could do to help you out. I started seeing all the negative aspects of life and didn’t want to go out and have fun anymore, so I started compulsively eating and religiously watching TV. Not to mention, I would spend an abnormal amount of time on my computer. I went to the doctor 2 weeks ago, and since the last time I went there which was less than a year ago, I put on 20 pounds. I feel like ****, but I lie to everyone because I don’t want them to see how much I’m suffering on the inside. You know, there was a point a few months ago where I didn’t care if I died or got extremely sick, I actually hoped for it. I looked at my life as a sacrifice for the well being of other people, as well as for my own benefit. If I had gotten really sick or diagnosed with a horrible disease, I knew people would pay more attention to me. I knew that people would listen to my opinion more because it was more “influential” on them because of the fact I was probably going to die. I kind of counted on pity to be an influencing factor on me being influential to others, which is kind of like giving up. It’s kind of strange that you hear that coming from me, huh?"

I took the burden of my father off my shoulders, and I must say we get along a lot better today. He never thought I'd be able to relate to him in the ways that I did in the letter I wrote, and he broke down in tears to me. I never chose to give up on the thoughts that went on in my mind. I still struggle with expressing how I feel at times, but it’s not stopping me from trying to fight past it. I know I can relate to him if I allow him into my life instead of shutting him out indefinitely.

I have this belief that traumatic experiences can be the gateway to self-change. Trauma happens to us all, and it can be the very foundation of a person’s character. It can be what shapes your fears, develops strengths or weaknesses to certain situations and can overall can be a burden-like thought that you carry with for the rest of your life. Trauma’s have their ranges of impact and can even go as far as sending a person over the edge to end their own life. One that has stuck with me my whole life, which most people wouldn’t guess to be, was disguised in silence. People that go through traumatic experiences don’t always have crazy superficial cuts and bruises, a lot of the scars of their traumas remain on the inside, hidden away from plain view.

1.  My mind is a 20/20 vision pair of eyes.
I can see the specks
and seeds of irritation before they grow.
Plants,
They were never really good for these eyes.

2.  Let's go to the moon.
And I assure you,
While you sink your feet in moon dust
And swim in empty craters,
While I worry about how dark it is out here,
I get to enjoy the simultaneous twinkle of the stars.

3.  And because I'm paying too much attention,
I might even get to see one fly.

4.  You're thinking about how delicious this lunch is.
I'm counting calories.

5.  So,
what's for dinner?


6.  Hey, if she is
Indeed
Stabbing my back
With word weapons,
My 561-letter comeback speech
Is always ready
in the front pocket
Of my school bag.

7.  Its always  just a headache,
Never brain cancer.

8.  I love the newly opened eyelids,
In the mornings,
My first breath is a sigh of relief,
Yes.
I didn't die in my sleep.

9.  She's got a great body.
Her bones read,
No food and a ton of gym time,
I'm sure it's to make you smile.
And I hate to brag,
But I'm mentally fit.
I get to exercise
Analyzing every single detail
Of the twinkle in your eye
Of the flick of your lips
Of the depth of that frown
When you said
you were leaving.


10.  I think I've figured out why.

I,
Am a teenaged girl
Lost between the deminsions of
Fantasy
And
Reality.
I am a Filipino and Mexican
Knowing no spanish
Lost in a language my mother has forgotten.

I am what it means to be a human being.
Trying my best to be there
Making zillions of mistakes that end up drowning me in the end.
Wanting to remember but always forgetting
Wanting to help but saying the wrong things at the wrong time.
Trying to find a place in the world
Only to end up being isolated like a lone wolf.

I am what it means to be a student,
Not loving the whole school system but trying her best to prove it wrong.
Educated by watching the world, day by day,
Philosophizing life
Analyzing the story lines that mean something
Surviving in a jungle we call High School
And day by day,
Struggling in classes just to pass it.
I am, what it means to be
not so smart, not stupid at all but
a hard worker, learning everything I can with the little time the school system provides.

So,
Who am I?
Well for starters,
To tell you who I am,
I'd have to spend the majoirty of my life writing a one hundred paged book,
With only one page that has one sentence of writing that says,
"Too much to say, ask me another day."

Who I am,
Is a teenaged-Filipina-Latina-video gaming-anime loving-poetry/story writing-girl
Who is always lost in her own world~

I live in my head
I have my own room there
My own bed
Where I do my best thinking
Where I am most comfortable
It keeps me up most nights
Making to do lists and analyzing
conversations from days before
Daydreaming about everything
Some of the thoughts I have
are down right crazy
So crazy that it must not be me
there must be other people up there
and hell not just a room but a whole house
with several rooms and several conversations
I can envision it clearly
Sometimes I stay there for days
The lights are on
My shades are open
But no ones home
I do return to the real world and have
real conversations but seems like I
Always return to my head
Where I live
In my own room and my own bed

Take me as I am, please
No. Please is too understanding
Take me as I am!
Wait. Maybe that's too demanding?
I don't think we understand each other
Maybe we're over analyzing
It's just that when I look into your eyes I stop
They're hypnotizing
Stop. No. Rewind please!
But I can't, the words are out
Could you give me a backspace button for conversation
That would relieve some doubt
I want you
Argh! Too lustful!
I need you!
ACK! Too needy!
Let's just say the world's a candy jar
And for your jolly rancher I'm greedy?
No? Not subtle? Too subtle? Argh!
Why is it so complicated to speak to you!?!
I'm like a 3 year old whose trying to make a picture out of glitter and glue
And the supplies just keep sticking!
Do you understand what I mean?
I see the perplexed look on your face and...
**** it, woman, you're pretty
Ack! Rewind rewind rewind!
Stupid stupid stupid!
The only way to catch an arrow is to say you DON'T want Cupid
So I don't want you....yes I do.
No I don't!
But I do!
No I don't!
Yes I do!
NO! I! DON'T!
Look at her!!!
....okay, I do.
But you wouldn't give me a second thought if I told that to you
I mean let's face it, you're so out of my league that we're not even in the same sport
I'm playing with the tiny tikes and you're in the pro team's court
But I would be a fool if this wall was all I feel on my fingers
And as perverted as that sounds I let the joke just linger
Because you're beautiful and I'm me
And who am I to attain a girl like you
The boy whose glasses fall down his nose and is missing one or two screws
I just want a dance... and a kiss.... okay, just a dance
No, what I want from you is the guarantee of a second, maybe third glance
To see you in the hallways tomorrow and know I make you smile
To know that you affirm we danced and liked it all the while
I want to be more than wallflower material and I want the prime
So with shaky legs, a corny disco ball, and a bad song, I stand and I greet you
And ask could this dance be mine....?

Your move. Gulp.

Hello there, I’m Heidi.  I’m 17 years old but I’m no longer alive.  I was 16 years old when I died.  It’s been a year since I’ve breathed the earthly oxygen.  The air up here is so much fresher than down there.  It’s quite unbelievable.  If you listen closely, I’ll happily tell you my story even though it’s not very happy.  If you're emotional, please take a moment to make sure there's a box of tissues handy, because by the time I reach the end, you might need some.  I’m just letting you know.  It’s not a happy ending.  Anyways, have you ever fallen in love?  Not the kind of love that you confused with the real kind.  I’m talking about true, heart pumping love.  The kind where you'll do absolutely anything for, anything in the world.  Even if it kills you.  The kind that if it starts slipping away, you'll do whatever it takes to hold it together.  You’re probably asking yourself, "16 and in love?"  Yea.  Well, here is my story.  
It all started with the day Sammy’s dad got a new job out of state.  We lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for as long as I could remember and her dad's new job was all the way over in Long Beach, California.  "This can’t be happening," I thought to myself.  "How will I survive without Sammy?  She’s literally my life, the air I simply breathe every day.  She’s the only person I fully trust with my whole heart.  She’s the only person in my life worth talking to.  She’s so incredibly sweet, the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.  She doesn’t judge, she doesn’t cause any trouble, she’s real down to earth, well put together, and smart.  Everything."  It seemed too perfect, almost dream-like.  You know, the dream that you never want to wake up from.  Well, there I was living it and I didn’t ever want to wake up.  
People use to call me "The Dreamer" because I was always in a great mood.  I was always smiling and taking big risks.  I only took those risks if I absolutely thought it was worth it.  Which most of the time I thought it was.  In my opinion, I thought I was too positive but not cocky.  I was definitely not cocky at all.  I was simply positive and cheerful and constantly trying to cheer everyone else up.  Especially Sammy, I secretly thought that I had super powers.  I somehow summoned a power deep within myself that could make real smiles appear on people’s faces.  Real smiles!  The ones that create a bundle of energy instead of taking it away.  You know, fake smiles, they are forced as a result of wasted energy.  The only thing better than real smiles are real laughs.  My energy comes from laughs and smiles from other people.  When I created laughter and smiles, my energy level would rise to the top of the meter and I would be confident about everything.  I would feel indestructible, and nothing could ever hurt me.  So I thought.
When Sammy and I said our goodbyes that day, I surely didn’t want that to be the end.  I didn’t want that moment to be the last.  So I promised her that I would look for her in the future and we could get back together.  We’d keep in touch everyday with texts, calls, and the internet.  She got on the plane and that was that.  I didn’t cry.  She didn’t cry.  Until our backs were toward each other, then I couldn’t hold it.  We knew we’d see each other again and we were sure of it.  She knew I had a plan up my sleeve and that I was going to make sure everything was going to be alright.  Trust, number one thing in a relationship.
The next day I couldn’t stand it.  I couldn’t put up with the empty feeling anymore.  She wasn’t physically here.  I missed seeing her face, her smile, and her eyes.  I missed her laughter and her hugs the most.  My energy was dying.  So I thought up a scheme and I was going to follow through with it.  I called her up and told her that I was coming to see her.  Soon.  
I searched all my drawers and pockets for all my money.  I was going to have to be able to afford a one-way plane ticket and maybe a hotel if Sammy's parents wouldn't let me stay with them.  I wanted to plan for the worst just in case.  I wouldn't want to show up with no money and assume they'd let me live with them.  What if they wouldn't, then I'd be *******.  So after a while of looking around, I came up with 510 dollars.  Enough for a plane ticket and a cheap hotel for a few days.  I’ll have to find a job for sure.  But first, I'd have to go online and find the cheapest airline to use.
I picked out a few sets of clothes and fit them into a single bag.  I didn’t want anything slowing me down.  I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving or where I was going.  Besides Steve, my neighbor, I got him to drop me off at the airport.  We waited in line to buy a ticket to the first flight to California.  Fortunately, the soonest one was in a few hours and there was still a few seats left.  He walked me to the security check and then they wouldn't let him past without a ticket, so he wrapped his arms around me gave me a tight squeeze and he told me that he'd miss me an awful lot and if I ever needed any help to just call him and he would help out as best he could.  Which made me feel a ton more relaxed.  He had tears in his eyes when we separated.  I remembered saying, "I’ll text you when I get there."  I assured him that I would be just fine and he had nothing to worry about.  I also thanked him for being such a great friend.  He really was and always will be.  He stood there as I attempted to walk away, but then I turned and had to go back for another hug.  Then I was sure I was ready to go.  The second attempt to walk away was more successful than the first.  I felt him watch me the whole way till I turned the corner, out of his sight.  
I sat in the terminal for a long time, analyzing the room.  I remember that there was a cute little blonde girl with her dad, a guy with a mysterious black hat and matching trench coat, a tall thin girl with a guitar, an average looking group of 20 year old guys and a few old women.  Those were the only people that stood out, there was many more but I don’t particularly remember them.  After a while, they started calling seat numbers that were allowed to board, starting with the back.  My ticket said that I was seat number 22.  When they called 20 through 30, I got up and found my seat in the big jet.  The butterflies in my tummy are as hyper as possible.  I imagined myself with a butterfly net trying to capture all the fluttering creatures inside me so I could release them on the outside.  They were all crammed in there, fighting each other for space, and it was an unbalanced feeling.  I put my bag under my seat, sat down in seat 22 and decided to make a quick call to Sammy.  I told her I was on my way and I should be there in a few hours.  She sounded extraordinarily excited which made my heart pound.  She made the violent butterflies stop their fighting.  She also told me that her parents agreed to pick me up at the airport.  How nice of them!  Then a lady told me to get off the phone.  I thought it was rude of her to say that to me, but I don’t like making people mad, so I listened to her.  The thing I remember the most is when I told Sammy that I love her, with honesty in her voice she said it back.  Then I hung up and then I finally turn my phone off.  As soon as everyone was in and completely ready, a woman’s voice spoke on the income system.  She said something about there being flight attendants going around checking everyone’s bags and seatbelts to make sure they're secure.  There was the sound of my pulse in my ears and it was louder than anything else.  It was difficult to catch everything she was saying.  I buckled my seat belt but I left a lot of room for movement.  Before I knew it, we were up in the air.  Then I closed my eyes and that’s all I remember.  Don’t ask me how I fell asleep.  All the excitement must've made me exhausted.
The next thing I know, all of a sudden, I was thrown from my seat and I hit my head off the window and it sent sharp shooting pains through my nerves.  Everyone gasped at the same exact moment, and I had no idea what was going on.  I don’t think anyone did but I think we all knew it wasn’t good.  The feeling was like standing in an elevator, having the cables snap, and being dropped from 100 stories high.  Only it was a million times worse.  I was being thrown around everywhere.  I couldn't hold on or even fight back.  Everyone was in mad panic trying to grasp anything near to sturdy themselves.  I managed to get a glimpse out the window to see the clouds shaking.  That told me that the plane wasn’t working right.  Something absolutely horrible was going to happen, the feeling was so strong.  I heard a loud click and then a thud and I caught a glance of the little blonde girl across the aisle from me get hit in the face with a huge metal suite case.  It hit her so hard that it knocked her clear out of this world.  She fell limp and her head lay still on the floor, blood oozing out.  The puddle started streaking toward me, it told me that the plane was tilting or rolling over.  I noticed that her dad wasn’t around.  I stumbled across the aisle and held her in my arms.  I remember my vision being really blurry probably from tears or the plane shaking, or both.  I patted her cheeks to try and wake her, but she was out.  I held her tight and quickly took the time to look around for help but then realized there was no help.  Every ounce of calmness was clearly gone.  I set the girl in the seat and buckled her in.  I wasn’t sure if that would do anything but it seemed like a good idea.  The plane stayed tilted on its side then shook and it literally felt like an earth quake.  My stomach started twisting; the nose of the plane was dipping forward.  I took another look out the window.  My head was spinning, thoughts scattered everywhere.  Everything was moving way too fast and I couldn’t keep up.  I couldn’t concentrate or focus on anything.  I stood up and that was it.  After that, everything went black and then a bright white light took over.  Eventually something happened and I was floating above looking down.  It was a horrid sight, everything so lifeless and dead, unmoving.  Besides for the flames, they were more alive than anything.  Smashed metal, sparks and fire, soundless noise, and in the middle of nowhere, what was going to happen to all these bodies?  
Later, I somehow channeled my sight into a different location.  It’s been hours later and I saw Sammy and her parents in the airport.  They were anxiously waiting for my plane to arrive.  Little did they know, I wasn’t coming.  Hours and hours passed only making them more and more worried and confused.  I felt horrible.  I wish I could send them a message from up here.  They went to look at the departure and arrival screen and there was no time recorded on the screen for the flight they were looking for.  It was completely wiped off the board.  Her dad led them to the main desk to ask the man behind the counter if the plane had arrived yet.  A sorrowful look fell upon the man’s face.  He blinked away tears and you could tell he was searching for the right words to say.  He started to open his mouth but then failed to force words out.  He swallowed a gulp of air and he shook his head.  Something turned all their attention to the 40 inch flat screen on the wall where there was a lady reporting “heart breaking news” about a tragic accident.  He pointed Sammy’s attention to the television behind him, although she was already deeply fascinated.  The news reporter explained and then there were live videos being shown from a chopper that was looking down at the accident.  Sammy cupped her hands over her mouth.  Tears immediately leaked down her face.  Her parents were crying too.  Sammy collapsed to her knees.  I felt like I was standing right there watching everything but I couldn’t feel my feet.  I floated over to Sammy who was sitting on the floor with her face buried in her hands.  Her mom knelt next to her with her arms braced around her.  I waved my arms and shouted, "Look I’m right here!  Please stop crying."  But no one saw me or heard me.  I went over to Sammy and tried to grab her face to make her look at me, but I couldn’t feel anything.  I looked down at my hands and they were transparent.  I panicked and I knew this couldn’t be happening.  But it was.  I was dead.  
I channeled into another location, my house.  My parents were watching the same news channel but they didn’t know I was on that plane.  They didn’t know I was missing.  They didn’t know I was dead until weeks later.  When I didn’t come home that night, they called the cops and sent out search parties.  Whelp, they found me.  They identified my body in the plane.  My parents didn’t believe it because they had no idea how I would've got on the plane in the first place.  Then when they brought my body back to bury it, it was proof to them that it was fact me.  I absolutely hated watching everyone cry.  I hated that I couldn’t do anything about it.  Everyone that I left was left in silence.  I at least got to tell Sammy that I love her.  I got a last hug out of Steve.  Those were the most important people in my life.  I couldn’t feel worse at this moment.  
I felt like I was doing the right thing, chasing my dreams.
The dreamer thought she could fly.

banana skin salad in
artificial lemonade
peacocks salivating
mushy rooms belly aching

Oreos are okie dokie
ocean breezes open up me
analyzing any eyes
evaluating coffee grinds
a manifesting apple in me
apple in the Snapple leaking

sticky salamander fingers
static on a broken speaker
attics over broken theaters
salmon eating taco teachers
teaching choco taco preachers
preaching at Chicago creatures

opal rings and oval things
are focusing on yodeling
a social need for opening
in total global offerings

and in a soup or telephonic
happiness in playing sonic
gently speaking thick Ebonics
sickly tonic
Let's be honest,  boys

My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
          afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
          about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
          hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
          in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
          when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
          to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
          bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
          and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
          in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
          mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
          about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
          alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
          my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
          ******* bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
          Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
          doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
          a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.

I need you.

These words are true,

but it's hard for me to put them in a sentence.

I can't say them out loud because that would mean that I depend on you.

I want to get to know you.

But I forget that I can't get close to someone who's never there.

I wish I could go to ball games with you.

I wish I could have looked out into the audience in the middle

of a recital and see your face in the crowd.

I wish I could see the same look on your face that they do.

You always look so proud when you talk to them, talk about them

and even when you look at them.

Especially when you talk about the one that got away.

You praise her. Even after everything that's happened you're still proud of her.

I wish I had that.

I wish I could see that radiating smile of yours and know that it's for me too.

For something that I've done that you were so unbelievably proud of.

I know I'm not yours, not really.

I know that you're trying your best. I understand that it's not easy with three kids in the house.

I also know that it's harder because I'm older than she was when you first got her,

and I'm older than the kids are now.

I try to make you proud, I really do.

I study for every test and hand in every homework assignment.

I await the scores so I can run home and tell you what they are.

After telling you the news you always have the same stern look on your face.

I feel as if I'm never good enough.

I even got a job and am trying to learn the value of money.

I try to be smart. Sometimes you say I'm not,

and just to prove you wrong I try to impress you by telling you useless facts.

But it still doesn't seem to be good enough.

Is it because I'm too boring, too loud, too girly, too lazy, or because I spend too much time on tumblr?

Is it because I don't look like the rest of you?

Is it because... I'm nothing like she was?

I know that she was your baby girl.

I know that you'll always hold a special place for her in your heart.

But I was second. Doesn't that count for something?

Maybe you actually are proud of me.

Maybe I'm just over analyzing this like I do everything else.

Maybe...

Just maybe.

But I've still never seen it.

I've never seen that radiating smile that they've all seen...

Oh how I'd **** to see it.

I am

tired of not being respected,
tired of being taken advantage of,
tired of being told what to do,
tired of being accused,
tired of always being wrong,
tired of silent conversations for hours on end,
tired of wondering why i’m not good enough,
tired of apologizing for things that aren’t my fault,
tired of your twisting of words,
tired of your apathy,
tired of your ruthless blunt comments,
tired of missing your hot touch on my bare skin,
tired of wishing you cared,
tired of trying so hard for someone who doesn’t give a **** in return,
tired of analyzing my every move for your “peace of mind”,
tired of jumping through hoops to impress you only to realize you arent at the show,
tired of being on the brink of saying goodbye only for you to win me right back with one of your dazzling smiles and gentle hugs,
tired of being spoken down to,
tired of feeling small,
tired of hiding parts of me that are too loud for you,
tired of frowning when i could be smiling,
tired of sobbing when could be laughing,
tired of hating myself when i could be loving myself.
i’m so **** tired.
i’m so ******* tired.

tired of being tired.

Looking and longing for that something,
Don’t quite know what it is,
Beating myself up trying to reach the answer,
Once I reach one,
All the possible answers hit at once,
Sense of being overwhelmed begins to settle,
Feeling not only lost but also unmotivated
Trying to fix all these pieces to the puzzle,
That I lose a sense of the picture,
The finished product no longer has that value,
Rather it has been altered,
It is no longer unique.
What is the cost?
Time or value?
Both.

A calamity of views abused
When the alcohol is strong
The choices go wrong
Everyones offend through Misinterpreted temptation
Using my over analyzing brain to calm the degraded
Crying over a mundane sane
Looking for persuasion
Through persecution
Picking out your weaknesses
Bleakness, is a majestic trait
Not intentionally
Burdening their agony
My name is animosity
I depict a character that sympathizes
Your alibies
Using my vulnerability
Contaminated humility
Finding
The hiding
No problem suggesting
My dark secrets of the night
Applying my skits that fit right
Paranoid to be viewed in a mortifying light
I would be lying denying my animalistic ride
I have scrutinized
Remorsing
I see earth born
Godly you stand
In the morning
Behold deformities
You fit the norm
I bow to your Godly proportion
In vein this I pray
Amen

It is a terrible thing this flesh that wears us
Being makes us
Slaves to atomic thought
Particles possessing some consciousness
Dreams stream from the undermind
To undermine
All we thought we were

From the sub-atomic to the atomic
On into the protein patterns of our thoughts
Neurotransmitters flood and fulminate
Filling our minds with strange things
Receptor receiving impressions
Leave strangers believing instincts

Animals evolved to understand but ignore
The gifts we have acquired from millions years and more
A talent for analyzing then adjusting ourselves
And after the fact constructing a model
That makes continuity out of all of the chaos

Now most take it for granted
Become carbon copies cut in granite
They give in to the impulses
And waste said potential on fulfilling the illusion

The desire to be grander is subsumed
By their fear of non-existence
Which is what they become
Not after death
But as cogs in the machine
In a factory of robotic human beings

My love of thinking has led to the analysis of everything.
   Every single word anyone has ever spoken to me, I think of at least twenty-five things they could mean by saying each of their words. I think of all the ways they could have said it and what each of those would've meant and if it would have been better or worse for them to say it each different way.
   I do this to my own words too. I try to get into people's minds and figure out if what I'm saying means anything to them.
   I ruin myself by searching for hours for answers to unanswerable,  impossible questions.
   I watch the way people walk and figure out what type of personality people have and their backstory,  and what they like and don't like by the pattern of their steps.
   I watch the way people smile and decide whether it's genuine or fake by the amount of wrinkles it creates around their eyes.
    I listen to people's laughs...and study them. I count the amount of breathes they take in between each laugh and create a pattern with every noise they make.
   I watch the way people eat because it shows how they grew up; what kind of people they were raised by.
   I watch how people make decisions to find out whether they are a leader or a follower.
   I figure out what people do when they lie. I figure out what people do when they are angry and what they do when they are heart-broken. I look in people's eyes when I talk to them to test their confidence by whether they look away or not. I can't stop. I can't stop thinking. I can't stop analyzing every. little. thing.