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Steff Nov 2011
March 13, 2009

The sun, it shines down on me with rays of warmth.
My heart thawing out of it’s icy sleep.
I’m overcome with a new happiness.
A feeling almost forgotten,
Buried deep within my broken heart.
And though the enemy sits a mere thirty feet away,
There’s nothing that they can say to bring me down
This time.

The darkness that filled my life, so fragile,
Now lifted  off my shoulders at last.
His soul, given to me as a token of his love.
A treasure so fragile only my hands can hold it.
The scent of his skin still lingers on me,
Something that will never be forgotten.
A gentle touch, and then I’m set free
Of everything so vile to me.
And I’m free.


March 14, 2009

Unwelcome as I feel, here I stay, still.
No one to protect me,
I’m left here on my own.
Enemies all around me,
With their looks of pure evil.
Once providing me with friendship,
Now killing me so slowly.


March 20, 2009

Inside my mind is where I stay,
Safe from all that is.
Away from the world,
I hide here, and worry, I will not.
As long as I am here,
Inside my mind, a safe sanctuary,
Free from doubt and all pain.
My imagination is the only place
I want to be,
So I don’t feel the pain any more.


March 24, 2009

Unexpectedly, a dagger pierces me,
Destroying the temporary happiness I felt.
Now I lay here, my heart bleeding,
With tears running down my face.
I thought it was all over.
But it’s not.
So I’ll die emotionally,
Where no one can find me and save me.
It’s too late now.


May 13, 2009

Another year older,
And still the darkness is inside me.
Another year has passed,
With the depression slowly killing me.
The dawn has passed
With another sleepless night.
So I’ll slowly fall into this land of nightmares,
Where no one can save me from myself.
My soul has been taken,
There’s nothing I can do now.

May 14, 2009

There’s something about him,
Something so angelic
Yet so sinister in a way.
He’s been there in my dreams.
And never ceased to let me down.
I don’t know why,
I don’t think I ever will,
But I want him.
I need him.
I can’t live with out him.
For he holds the key to my heart.
He has my soul,
And forever,
He will.


May 16, 2009

The wind blows through my hair,
And I’m free.
Free of doubt,
Free of worry,
Free of everything that brought me down.
I finally see the beauty in the world.
The peace that never seemed to consume me,
Now has taken over.
And, alas, I am happy,
Even for a moment so brief.
But who am I to care,
As long as I feel it’s serenity.
It’s beautiful, this feeling.
I cannot explain,
For it is more than happiness.


June 7, 2009

I hate life.
When will I wake up from this nightmare.
It seems like every where I go,
I’m tormented.


September 27, 2009

I went to my place at the rocks.
The only place where I can be at peace.
There’s no one around,
The way I like it.

It’s funny how I just look at the ground,
In the middle of a clover field,
And I find a four leafed clover.
Then there’s people who have looked and looked
And have never found one.
It makes me think. Am I lucky?
Are these four leafed clovers lucky?

The sun is warm, shining down on me,
But the wind is cool.
I feel alive, and nothing can bring me down.
As long as I am in this sacred little place
That fills my body with peace.

I was angry before got here.
Sick of my friends and family hurting me.
But the moment I get here,
I’m overwhelmed with serenity,
And I’m free.
Free like the waves crashing on the rocks.
Free like the wind blowing through my hair.
Free like the majestic wolf I am to be.


September, 30, 2009

A true friend, I have realized, is a rare treasure.
Something that once found (if ever),
Should  be held on to.
I’ve had best friends come and go.
But there is one of whom I truly miss,
Despite the fact that she hurt me,
Not once, but twice.
I usually know better
Than to hold onto something like that,
But I can’t help it.
I still love her as if she were my sister.
I may never want to see her again.
I may hate her for lying,
But I will never forget her.
These are journal entries that I wrote into stanzas to form poems. They describe my feelings during a time that I was bullied to the point of wanting suicide. How any happiness I felt would be soon destroyed, the friends that I lost, about how my mind and secret place were my only safe havens.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized

<•>

there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
 writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur
js moonrize Jan 2015
Oct. 25
Everything is different and I don't want to explain things.

Nov. 1
I crave the glittering, garish city lights, the loud raw music, the feeling of being completely and dangerously free.

Nov. 16
My heart hurts.

Nov. 17
I want to love you. I want to love you so much that I can't stop writing beautiful lyrical poems about the stars and my heart beat and your skin and I just want you to love me too.

Nov. 18
I think that if he knew me, really knew me, at all times of the day and night, he wouldn't love me.

Nov. 20
It's really funny how people can change.

Nov. 24
This is not paradise; this is hell.

Nov. 24 (later)
I'm materialistic and shallow, but frankly I don't give a ****.

Dec. 14
My heart is literally pounding so hard I can feel it moving up and down in my chest. I'm blushing.

Dec. 20
And the butterflies live on, perpetually fluttering around in little circles in the pit of my stomach.

Dec. 21
He says I'm like a daisy.

Jan. 1
I downed a bottle of sparkles and sang like a drunk man would and he told me he loved me.

Jan. 25
He's so sweet and I think I love him.

Feb. 8
Long, content sigh.

Feb. 14
I'm going to blurt it out all at once because I'm feeling giggly so he stopped at the side of the road and kissed me and I feel like I'm floating.

Feb. 22
I feel trapped.

Feb. 28
He's always on my mind. Always.

March 13
I broke up with him. I'm not upset, and I'm worried about that. I don't feel anything at all. Are feelings supposed to just walk away and disappear like that?

March 29
His voice is irritating. I'm not a damsel in distress.

April 2
I think young love is only a glittering, fleeting illusion. I'm not sad about it.
I found one of my old diaries I kept when I was fifteen years old, and here are the first couple lines of different entries. It's sentimental and funny and sad to me, but I also think it shows the emotional stages that teenagers fall in and out off sporadically. Or maybe just me because I was (still am...) an emotional wreck.
KM Jones Jul 2010
She had given up trying to write stories; her inability to even tell one had frightened away even her most far-fetched of hopes. Her own story consisted of monotony. He was her plot; he was her heart; he made her happy, and then that was the end. Outside of that shallow framework, she contented herself with solitude and sleep deprivation. She spent her life counting seconds, minutes, hours of wasted time.  She had been born a dreamer with two left feet and too much caution to pursue her own dreams. She used to dare to believe herself to be a poet; filled notebook after filled notebook is tucked away in her drawer to prove it. She envied the prose of others, the poetry of life, every piece she could never be creative enough to write. She filled her shelves with half-read classics, pretentiousness at its finest. She admired Hemingway, Nabokov, Vonnegut, but read nothing or no one religiously. Ironically, her deepest fear was not that she was incapable of making a difference but that she would forever be too afraid to try. She was ambitious but without reason and she without reason once she had fallen in love. (However, she would have never changed  the existence of that love for all the world.) He was her every waking and slumbering thought, her beginning and her end, her every muse and very writer's block. She had written in times of adversity; she had written in times of desperation; nevertheless, she found herself incapable of writing in times encompassed by the selflessness of love.

She perceived art to be a reflection of one's own self or perceptions of the world around them. However, he was her entire world, altogether far too familiar to invent and yet far too mysterious to define. He was the dim outline of a dream she couldn't recall, the scent of nostalgia she couldn't place, the familiar face she could have only known in another life. He was the everything of which she could say nothing. A speechless poet is of no value to their audience; she was a poet without even an audience to please. Her father had once called her a brick-layer. She could not move from one sentence to the next without first cementing each and every word unrelentingly into its place. She was not a river, as the best of writers were. She was not a writer, as the most unabashed of dreamers are. She was a failed poet, a feigned intellectual, the uncensored rush of air from a depleting balloon- pure energy- without direction and  inevitably lacking endurance. Perhaps these realities were what kept her from writing her story. Perhaps it was her pursuit of appearing to be an artist that prevented her from actually becoming one. She looked to answer questions of inspiration amidst happiness, after all, shouldn't inspiration spill over in such times, overwhelmingly, uncontrollably, and without end? Additionally, where did inspiration come from anyway, within or without one's own mind? But, surprisingly, the one question she wanted most to ask herself was, if every second not spent moving forward was one more she counted as wasted, why she did not waste one more moment hopelessly trying again?
July 22, 2010 - From third person diary entries
LaNita Aug 2015
entries in my diary
ears to receive me
heart aching for its twin
to be reborn, again.
writing to free the spirit
trapped within,
bubbling, overly enthusiastic
overly sensitive, disconnect
from day to day functions.
entries in my diary keep me speaking.

I see them, those young kids
MCin, that distant look in the eye
that drift off, the switch took place.
words of other worlds.
its the space that I feel safe,
where my screams of ecstasy
are embraced, my moans to the moon,

my voodoo prince, is it the life to live…
I'd either stay in til the 2nd premonition,
or become addictive, set in trance
by the intensity of the chant. not
ever ready to come back,
wishing my children lived there too.

I'm down to visit, or create
a village.
JB Claywell May 2019
I haven’t been writing a whole lot these days. Even the daily entries have lagged a bit. I have mentioned in other writings, in poems even, that I’ve been given an antidepressant and have been taking it for the last month. It really seems to help. It does sort of flatten me out though.

I used to be angry all the time. I kind of liked it. It was as if the angrier I was the more stuff I could get done and the better I’d feel about my day.  Generally speaking, I wasn’t mad at any one person or even anything, I was just burning fuel like a jet engine and moving from place to place and task to task with a whole lot of: “What the **** else ya got?!” pouring out of me.

Turns out that I’m just anxious and a bit depressed and all of that sort of thing presents in me as anger. Not just run-of-the-mill *******-ness, but almost an incendiary rage.  There were times that my family said that I was a real drag to be around. And, we’ve all been a family for almost 20 years now. My wife and kids are very tolerant and kind people. I am lucky and I know this.

Now that I’m eating one of these little green pills every morning, I feel better. I feel a little blunted and I don’t really seem to care that I’m not writing as much as I want to on most days. However, I have continued these entries in this manner as I have for the past several days as they are important and always have been. Maybe one day I can chuck the pills, but right now I find that it’s easier to deal with this flat feeling than to feel like I’m not able to be happy or to feel like if I am happy then I must be doing something wrong.

To feel like I’m doing something wrong if I’m not raging? What an odd thing to have thought of to write down in this notebook. Maybe I’m being stupid and not dealing with some of my own *******. I don’t know. I thought for a while that I was all keyed up and such because my mom had passed away last year. I don’t think that’s it, because Angela and the kids have often asked me why I’m so mad all the time.

I think that what has happened, is that some bleakness took hold when Ma died and I started worrying that Pops would be next and that it would be a short time in between their deaths; thusly I would be an orphan. 44 years old and fretting about being an orphan?  I guess. Anyway, fretting about this line of thought brought on a truckload of anxiety and here we are with a bottle of little green pills.

I tried to convince myself that I was being weak for taking them. I complained to Angela that I wasn’t writing like I wanted to and that was making things worse. I said something similar to Pops when we were together recently. He reminded me that I had said something about just having to try harder.

I haven’t been going out and walking around at night too much. Watching the people who inhabit those gray spaces that I like to talk about is one of the best ways for me to get to something worth writing about. I’ve not been going to see much live music of late either. I’ll have to get that happening again as I miss it, but I have enjoyed several weekend evenings at home with my little family, my crew. Plus, I’m not as tired over the course of the whole weekend.

Coming home at 4am and being completely awake and unable to sleep more by 7am can be a real drag. But, I always like the conversations that I have. I feel like I get to let people see who I really am for a bit here and there and I get to see who they are too. Some of the people I know that are in bands I go see play these days are the same people I’ve known since high school. I know I’ve mentioned that in here before, but I keep thinking of how we really don’t know each other all that well. I used to feel like I was being fooled or otherwise ****** with when those people proclaimed their fondness for me. I chalk that up to how paranoid and ****** up I was in high school myself. I always have chalked it up to that and now, as I’ve aged, I’ve redefined my parameters of friendship. We don’t have to see one another every day to be good friends. I used to believe the exact opposite.

I like people. I always have. I think that Pops did me a great service by making me feel like I had absolutely no reason to be shy. Ever.  Ma did me one better by making me into someone who won’t take anyone else’s ****. Ever.  To be honest, as you know, I am very shy unless I am comfortable with whomever I am with. And, I don’t talk as much as I pretend to when I’m doing so on the stage at Unplugged. I like to keep to myself, but I like to throw myself out there too. I do it so maybe they will too. It’d be easier if I knew who they were. Hopefully, I’m sending enough good juju out there that they can find some commonality, which we all need.

Yesterday, I found a tract of text in the restroom at the hospital. It was Islamophobic drivel. I kept it in hopes that it would get me fired up to write about how ****** up that sort of fearmongering is. The paper talked about the scientific inaccuracy of the Qur’an and how The Bible was so much more scientifically plausible. What?

I thought about it for a while and figured that I’d just end up starting a debate that I’d lose interest in participating in long before it ended. It’s like that math problem thing that talks about arguing these days.  I’m prepared to let people be gloriously wrong. 1+1=5? Correct!  Bye.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Not a poem. Parts of journal entries from this month. I thought I'd type them up to see if it helped. It has so far. Thanks.
Samantha Feb 2014
January-
I’m trying to forget the sound of your voice. Just a few days ago your cries for attention were echoing in my ears. I don’t know how to turn down the volume.

February-
Grape vines twist through my ribcage. My blood turns to wine.

March-
The sun pokes its head out the curtain. The stars tell it not too. That is unprofessional. No one can know what goes on behind the scenes.

April-
I wear birthday cake frosting as lipstick. I resemble a clown. I balance on boxes filled with my favorite books. Another year older.

May-
I’m a time bomb. I’m ticking down. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6. The confessions burble out of my throat. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Silence.

June-
Like the flowers, I am reborn. My petals spread out and greet the warmth. My pretty colors distract me from my inevitable death.

July-
I can’t breathe under this heat. The air has stilled, the Earth has stopped moving. How am I still not over this?

August-
I hide from the sun. From the sky and the stars. I am ashamed of what I am.

September-
Everyone is looking at me. I don’t fit inside my skin. They all know. It is written across my forehead. It is tattooed in braille on the soles of my feet.

October-
The leaves fall from trees. I follow suit. We change and die together. I knew there was a reason I liked this weather.

November-
I have long stopped being a person. I am your lost inhaler. I am snow in the summer. An afterthought of a girl. I am sorry.

December-
Its the anniversary of the assault. I’ve only ever spoken about in poetry. Compared it to bees. Compared it to cats’ claws stuck in moth eaten sweaters. To irritated scars now opened despite months of bandages and stitches. I’ve left it folded in between pages of diary entries. I hope one day you find them. And you realize what you’ve done.
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2013
all of the words
you speak
today and tomorrow
are in vain

for you do not wish
to throw rocks at my window,
you know very well
i am already on my doorstep
waiting for you

you love me in songs played
on tuesday afternoons,
gaps in conversation where
three words are meant to fill it
and faded journal entries
dated when time was blind

you’ve written disguised goodbyes
beneath my eyes
and subliminally (explicitly)
whispered (shouted)
to move on, move on, move on
each moment i’ve tried to draw you nearer,
you do your best to push me further away

but even from a distance,
you are still holding on

let me go
let me go
let me go

so i may finally
let go
of
you
Raymond Johnson Apr 2013
The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.

Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.

If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:

Do you remember?

Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?

Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?

How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?

They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.

Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.

Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?

Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?

Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?

Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?

Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?

Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.

I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.

I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.

I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
To
This
Day.

But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.

In fact,

I thank you.

I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,

For it is proof that I am alive.

I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.

For what is light without darkness?

What is life without death, and love without loss?

So thank you.

I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,

But with gratitude.

Because even through tragedy

The heart survives.
https://soundcloud.com/blaxstronaut/memories
The Oblivion May 2014
Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant

The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth

The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive

The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately

The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak

The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating

The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach

The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides

The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass

The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
Hey, friend! Frank here with a challenge! I love you guys so much, I want to let you in on a secret of mine. My secret is that I LOVE doing lines. Yes, there's nothing better than getting off off work, going to my desk, and breaking out a line. It really just takes the edge off.
This leads me into my challenge. Lately, I've been feeling kind of low for not sharing with you guys when I get so much from it. I want to you guys do lines too! That's right, friend. I want all of Hello Poetry to do lines. Who knows? Maybe it'll catch on and the rest of the country will start doing them too! It's fun the whole family can enjoy.
All you have to do is find a line (or arguably a sentence) from a poem you've read that has really inspired you, and give it new life by making a poem out of it. Pay homage to the person who wrote it, while taking it to new heights, you know? The idea of the challenge here is to basically take something that you find beautiful and make it the foundation of one of your own poems, while keeping the spirit of the line intact. Think you can do it? Well, get to it!
If you write a poem for this challenge, please leave the following in your notes:
1) Author's name
2) Name of their poem
3) The line you are using
4) Why it inspired you.
Also, please leave the hashtag "#ilovedoinglines" in your tag area, so I can follow your entries, as well as everybody else.
Thanks, everybody. I look forward to seeing your entries, and I hope that you all enjoy doing lines as much as me.
If you want to make sure the person whose poem inspired you see your poem,   just copy and paste into a message and send it to them. I'm sure they'd love to see how they've inspired you!
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2014
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
written on 10/1/13
You cover every page of my journal
That you'll never read
Your smile is in every photo on my camera
That you'll never look through

I keep you close
You will never know
I treasure every piece that I have of you
Photos and journal entries
All of it

The photos are tacked up on walls
That you will never see
The journal entries have become a blog
That you will never visit
And all the while
I'll be loving you
Graff1980 Apr 2015
It was about fifteen years ago
No romantic notions
No grand stories
Just another part of my strange journey
For a high school dropout

It was a wooden bed
In a blue storage trailer
One and a half month long
Sleep deprived
Long drive
From site to site
One week
Per city
Doing my laundry
At laundry matts
With strange pretty girls
Hanging at a bar
Playing slutty slot machines
No drinking
Cause I was only nineteen

It was two vets
From different wars
Smoking *** in the morning
It was my first *** buzz
Staring stupidly up
At the ceiling
The strangest set of strangers
Bathing in the back of a semi
Getting lunch with a lemon punch
Using carny credit

It was sketching for a distraction
No artistic satisfaction
Very few journal entries
And those journals are now lost
Searching for myself
As all young men do
In the end it was just another job
k o s m i k Oct 2014
i love you. i do, i really do. and i’m sorry if it freaks you out sometimes, but these feelings are so overwhelmingly strong that it shakes my whole system even after 2 am. i dream of you constantly and it horrifies me because they seem so real — as if i could still feel it, taste it, remember it like it happened yesterday.

i love you, and it’s scary to think that your words can break me anytime, any moment. i am vulnerable to you, and i think it’s both beautiful and sad how i easily & effortlessly gave it all up just so i could be with you. there’s just something — God knows what — that made me want to be with you even though i’m aware that you’re galaxies away from me.

i love you, and i love how i feel beautiful when you say that you are in love with me too. God, you are my favorite. i must admit that i have kissed & loved enough boys to know what brokenness truly feels like, but you mended me just like i’m something familiar, something you’ve been fixing your entire life. it’s a sick, mad world we’re living in, but you make it seem less agonizing whenever i hear you say those three words at 3 am, 4 pm, or 11 pm.

i’m in love with you, and it’s more intoxicating than the cigarettes and the alcohol i’ve taken in my whole life combined, and i don’t even want to be sober. you are the high even without the drug. you are the euphoria even without the ******* (beautiful) fireworks. you are the emotion even without the words.

i love you, and it’s okay if you can’t put it into words — how you feel — because even the silence i spend with you is enough to give me butterflies in my empty stomach. i don’t know what time it is, but it’s past midnight, and i’m still writing about you. i am a mess for and because of you, and my handwriting is proof. you shake my system even when you’re not there, and my dear, this is rare.

i love you dearly, with all honestly, and with all faithfulness. and i can’t help but think about you, every **** day. you’re both my drug and my antidote. my poem. my sunlight, my stars. my soul.

and i hope you love me too, as much as i love you.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
It was a cold night for a concert. There was frost on the windscreen as we got into the car for the short drive to this city church. We drove because we were going to be late, and it was cold, and would be likely to be colder still when the concert was over. I had wondered if part one would be enough. Could Bach and Rameau be enough? Might the musical appetite cope with Mozart and Beethoven too? Were we about to sit down to a large meal, possibly in the wrong order. Can the cheese course be a transcendental experience I wondered? Bach to begin certainly, a substantial starter with one of the mid period keyboard toccatas and two ‘distant’ preludes and fugues, but then a keyboard suite by Rameau?
 
When I listen to Beethoven though I want to hear a work on its own, unencumbered round about with other musics.  A recent experience of several hours driving to hear a single Beethoven symphony has remained close and vivid, and an experience that brought me close to tears. So I imagine that I might only hear Op.110 to make that opening sequence of chords so ominously special. The introduction seems to come from nowhere and does not connect with musical past, except perhaps the composer’s own past. It is as though the pianist puts on a pair of gloves imbued with the spirit of the composer, and these chords appear . . . and what is there that might possibly prepare the listener for the journey that pianist and listener embark upon?  Certainly not the soufflé of Mozart’s K.332.
 
The audience is hardly a smattering of coats, hats and grey hair. There is another piano recital in town tonight and this is but the artist’s preview of a forthcoming concert at a major venue. Our pianist is equipping herself for a prestigious engagement and sensibly recognizes the need to test out the way the programme flows in front of an audience, and in a provincial church where she is not entirely unknown. I admire this resolve and wonder a little at the long-term planning which makes this possible and viable.
 
Now a figure in black walks out from the shadows to stand by her piano. Coming from stage right she places left her hand firmly on the mirror-black case above the keyboard. She looks at her audience briefly, and makes a bow, almost a curtsey, an obeisance to her audience and possibly to those distant spirits who guard the music she is to play. We will not see her face again until the next time she will stand at the piano to acknowledge our applause after the Bach she is about to play. Her slightly more than shoulder-length hair is cut to flow forward as she holds herself to play; her face is often hidden from us, her expression curiously blank. Perhaps she has prepared herself to enter a deep state of concentration that admits no recognition of those sitting just in front of her. Her dress is long and black with a few sparking threads to catch the careful lighting. Without these occasional glimmers her ****** movement would be unnoticeable. As it is the way the light is caught is subtle and quietly playful, though not enough to distract, only remind us that though in black she is wearing the kind of starry sky such as you might perceive in crepuscular time.
 
Thus, we already sense so much before she has played a note there is a firm slightly dogged confidence and reverence here in her approach to instrument and audience. And in the opening bars of the Bach toccata that is manifest; and not just a confidence born out of some strategy against nervousness, but a ritual of welcoming to this music that now spills out into the partially darkened church. The sonorousness and balance of the piano’s tone surprises. It is not a fine piano, but it has qualities that she seems to understand. There is a degree of attentive listening to herself that enables her to control dynamics and act resolutely on the structure of the music. When the slow section of this four-part toccata appears there is a studied gentleness and restraint that belies any ****** led gesture or manner. Her stance and deliberation at the keyboard remain determined and in control, unaltered by the music’s message. She does not pull her body backwards as seems the custom with so many who feel they have to show us they are stroking and coaxing such gentleness and restraint out of the keyboard.
 
As the final fugato of the toccata flows at almost twice the speed I’ve ever heard it, my concentration begins to disengage. It is too fast for me to follow the voices, I miss the entries, and the smudged resonance of the texture hides those details I have grown over so many years to know and love. This is Glen Gould on speed, not the toccata that resides in my musical memory. I am aware of missing so much and my attention floats away into the sound of it all. It seems to be all sound and not the play of music.
 
In this stage of disengagement I sense the tense quality of her right leg pedalling with the tip of a reddish shoe just visible, deft, tiny flicks of movement. She turns her face away from the keyboard frequently, looking away from the keyboard through the choir to the high altar; and for a moment we see her upturned face, a blank face, possibly with little or no make up, no jewellery. A plain young woman, mid to late thirties perhaps, and not a face marked by children or a busy teaching life, but a face focused on knowing this music to a point at which there is almost a detachment, where it becomes independent of her control, flowing momentarily beyond herself.
 
Then she reins the toccata in, reoccupies it; she is seeking closure for herself and for her audience whose attention for a short while has been, as the Quakers say, gathered. Gathered into a degree of silence, when breathing and the body’s sense and presence of itself disappear, momentarily, and musical listening moves from a clock time to a virtual time. There is a slowing down, an opening out, even though in reality’s metronomic time-field there is none.
 
There is a hesitation. With more Bach to follow, should we applaud? With relief after holding the flight of time’s arrow in our consciousness, just for those concluding minutes and seconds we acknowledge and applaud - the beginning of the concert.
Natalie Przybyla Feb 2014
According to my mom and dad, when I was little, I used to say that I wanted to be a garbage truck driver. Yeah, I know — literally dumping trash and pumping gas isn’t something a typical four-year-old girl wishes to grow up to do. It impressed me how the men rode, clinging onto the back end of the truck, pushing buttons to crush the unwanted goods to dust. Although I am sure it would have been more appropriate for a young lady to look up to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, I looked up to those men because they appeared fearless and strong. I never really liked the “girly” things my parents and sisters gave to me. In fact, when Barbie smiled at me through a plastic window, I took her out, tore her head off and threw her body to the dog. I should have loved the color pink and liked the smell of daisies; I didn’t. I was ridiculed for hating both and told I shouldn’t be so different.
When I turned six, my grandpa gave me a book about prehistoric beasts. I couldn’t read well, but I liked the pictures and the long words with plenty of strange letter combinations. Words like “pterodactyl” and “brachytrachelopan” fascinated me, and made me feel exceptionally intellectual just to know how to pronounce them (even if I did so poorly).  When asked, I proudly responded, “I want to be a paleontologist when I grow up!” Adults praised me for being so intelligent at such a young age, and I felt special. But one day, I learned that bone diggers don’t make much money. So, I changed for a few extra thousand dollars a year.
By the age of eight, I decided I wanted to become a veterinarian because that’s what my best friend wanted to be. She loved animals and said we should help them because they can’t help themselves. I took a bite of the pie graph, “Occupations Wanted By Children.” It tasted bland and watered down but it made me normal to want that for myself—even if it wasn’t my own dream. My friends and I babbled about having every species imaginable for pets and loving them more than Romeo loved Juliet. But when my mom told me that I might have to  euthanize animals, the pie tasted a lot more ****** going down. I decided I should search for another job.
Around twelve, I started writing a journal. I named it “Joyful” because that’s what I felt the best emotion was and wrote in it occasionally during my sixth grade year. The pages were cluttered with names of boys I had crushes on and i’s dotted with hearts. I modeled my naivety through my entries but it was motivating how I could see my style and thoughts developing over time. My entries went from “I love the sky!” to “When a cloud drifts just in the right position next to the sun and makes that golden ray, I feel as if God’s finger is pointing down to a specific thing he created and saying to us on Earth, ‘Hey, see that thing over there? Yeah, I made that and it’s beautiful. It deserves respect.’”  I have smashed windows in the writing process and let in drafts of fresh ink. I am aware that being a writer in most cases makes a person financially deprived, but that won‘t affect my aspirations. Writing has been my dream since sixth grade and even now I know I’m not perfect but at least I’m pushing myself to be better. I’m changing for me.
No matter how adamantly I’ve tried or how much I realize that writing is sometimes harder than brain surgery, I don’t seem to slice it out of my life. Societal success is measured in dollars but if dreams had monetary value and salary was how badly a person wanted to make that dream come true, I would be paid more green than the Earth has blades of grass. I shouldn’t have to explain to people why I don’t want to be a garbage man or a paleontologist or a veterinarian, or why I don’t want to live by their popular choices. For all I know, I could be the best waste manager that ever had the pleasure to take away last week’s paper. I could strike it rich by discovering a billion-year-old algae. I might save the next Lassie or Winn Dixie. It isn’t up to other people to decide what I want to be when I grow up (if I ever decide to). Instead, I’ll write in spite of everyone else — for the ones that didn’t follow their dreams and strived for physical wealth. If I am to be paid in blades of grass, I will live. And I will die knowing I am one of the few to see a such a gorgeous, glistening, green meadow.
Follow me on Twitter: @laniate
Tumblr: whateverdoubleloserr.tumblr.com
scully Jul 2016
seven months ago:

i. i will fall asleep and let it infect me like a virus and if i die before i wake up my obituary will explain to you how i felt tonight so i never have to

ii. it’s cosmic, i’m telling you. you’d miss me if i wasn’t here.

iii. it’s all quiet. i am here but no one can see me. they can feel me. it’s easy and unpleasant. i just exist, past their realms and in their blind spots.

iv. i want to go back in time and pick you instead

six months ago:

i. i have a lot of pent up resentment towards people i used to love that are successfully existing without me in their lives while i am struggling without them

ii. cant stand you. cant stand being away from you. thank you for calling me beautiful, even if you didnt mean it. i don't feel that anymore, but i did. even for a moment, it was there. we were there.

iii. of all the things you did to me, the worst was making me believe they were in my best interest.

iv. if i could sit in a puddle of nostalgia and let every memory with you hit me like a rain shower id probably contract pneumonia or something.

five months ago:

i. it’s comforting for me to know that you can miss someone and love them without wanting them in your life.

ii. ive spent too much time treating myself as if my love is not sacred, as if it can’t stop time and heal people and create magic. everyone i love is lucky to have me, whether they know it or not.

iii. i’ve always had vivid dreams but last night made me feel something very weird and unexpected.

iv. it’s exhausting falling in love with and getting your heart broken by every soul you meet but i am strong

four months ago:

i. i surround myself with nice and beautiful people and in turn feel disgusting and destructive and ******.

ii. i know people can see me but i feel entirely translucent and invisible

iii. i can’t wait to be 18 so i can check myself into a psych ward

iv. i have stood where you stand and felt what you feel and it’s tortuous and inhumane but you exist outside of the boundaries it sets for you

three months ago:

i. i feel like my life is balanced between the moment where you realize you are falling and you are going to hit the ground and the second after you feel it beneath you

ii. i am not a savior, i am not an angel. my words will not heal you. don’t put the pressure of your will to live on my shoulders, i am tired and i have a lot to balance.

iii. today i am a raincloud and not even just a raincloud i am a cloud that is full and dark and waiting and it won’t rain it will pour it will storm there will be sirens and lightning bolts and thunder and people will cower in safety and i will stay here and be destructive

iv. i woke up safe yesterday, today none of it is real and i hurt when people touch me

two months ago:

i. i think i am in love and it’s inconvenient it’s pestering, i am trying i am trying i am trying.

ii. i want to feel love but i feel so unattainable like i am so out of touch with my genuine emotions that i wouldn’t even know how to feel it (if i even could?)

iii. you have no ties to the people you have been. every day you grow- every day you leave your mistakes behind you and shed all of your previous versions. keep going.

iv. nothing has changed. dont mistake my compliance for forgiveness.

one month ago:*

i. i wish the things i care about in my life were concrete instead of the distorted abstract i deal with everyday like a chore

ii. i think about what being dead would feel like a lot and every time i am done i feel like i have to apologize to my mother.

iii. you are not an antidote, i do not need you to survive, you are not sunlight, i do not need you to grow

iv. i am afraid i will never get better.
i think this is the most honest thing ive ever done
Austin Heath Apr 2014
The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****.
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?
I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:

The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.

-Old Works:

Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements

Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible

-Newer Works:

Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
Net of Being by Alex Grey
Art Psalms by Alex Grey
The Portable Nietzsche
The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung

The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--

I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.

I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.

I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.

All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.
If anyone seeks further information
such as publishers or Authors not mentioned, please let me know.
If anyone has suggestions for additions to my collection, please let me know. :)

Quadrivium is simply and unequivocally badass.
skyler molina Oct 2014
July 8th - Where am I? What is this place? Why do I remember everything & nothing all at the exact same time?

July 14th - This is a place where the dying go to; I don't understand.

July 24th - I feel this sort of pain, but it's nothing I can't handle.

August 1st - I miss my pillow the most.

August 17th - I don't know how I ended up in here. I don't know how I ended up like this.

August 20th - I was created to please, yet lived to only disappoint.

August 21st - I'm so cold. They don't have blankets in this room. Just walls.

August 22nd - Why hasn't anyone came to visit me? Why doesn't anyone care?

August 24th - I can't breathe. These walls turned into a face mask & I can feel myself slowly disintegrating.

August 28th - A cookie may be able to crumble, but I could crumble oh so much faster; & crumble I shall.

September 1st - A window appeared. But it's always raining outside of it.

September 4th - I forgot how to speak. The rain is much louder than my voice, & i'm starting to realize that's how it's always been.

September 5th - I don't remember the feeling of dry eyes. I can't tell if the moistness is actually tears or if i've just been standing by this window a little too long.

September 15th - I like to pretend that this feeling is normal.

September 16th - Everyone won't stop asking me questions about when i'm going to get released & seem to never stop wondering what's "actually wrong with me".

September 17th - Maybe I can just act like everyone else are the ones with the problems.

September 21st - I need to be alone, yet I haven't even seen anyone in what seems to be months.

September 28th - I don't know how long i've been in here, but i'm starting to feel at home.

October 2nd - I finally met my doctor. He seems like a nice man. Hopefully he can take this feeling away, whatever it is.

October 3rd - I haven't opened my eyes all day; i'm too scared to see that you're still not there.

October 5th - The doctor keeps telling me that there are no visible sign of anything being wrong, he says i'm free to go.

October 5th - I don't want to go.
Ann M Johnson Aug 2014
The pages in the diary are beaten and worn
Some entries are happy others are forlorn
Some pages are torn
The lock broke a long time ago
The entries are an echo of the past
It is amazing that it would last all these years
Some pages are soaked with tears
It appears to have held up pretty well
It seems to have a tale to tell
It is enclosed in a hard shell
It has survived through many moves
I guess you could say I have too
I hope it can hold another entry or two
or  perhaps I should leave some pages unwritten
I found my old diary and thought of this
FrankieM Jan 2018
21
After weeks spent parading around, letting everybody and their mother know the day is near, we are finally here. It’s the night of your 21st birthday. 3 shots, 2 beers, and a joint or four later, and I’m feeling pretty alright.
Your mother brings out your baby book, the entirety of your childhood life simplified into pictures and momentous small enough not to cause the pages to crease, meticulously placed between two hard covers.
She flips through the album, licking her fingertips between every other page and reading aloud the entries with the most significance to her. Suddenly she stops and points to a date.
January 19, 1997. The first time you smiled.
I look over at you and you smile back at me. A smile so radiant, there’s no need to explain the significance.
Flowers aren't choosy
Which bee which bug
Come one come all.

Bees and bugs
Aren't choosy either
All entries sweetly natural.

Imagine a flower
Closing its throat
Against a bee it thought a bore.

Who said object
Should excite act
That that was moral?

If only the verb
The act acts,
Why call your sister a *****?

Sin and shame!
Abandon the word
Moral. You can see it's immoral.
i find motifs in my journal entries
themes that appear consistently throughout any given expanse of time
shown in any given clump of pages
or in any given pen before it ran out of ink
there are words that pop up so often i look back and think about the girl
who sat on her bed with sleepy eyes
and tussled hair
flashlight aimed crookedly at lazy scribbled thoughts
and wonder if she noticed the recurring narrative beneath the narrative
those motifs that carried most of the flow of her thoughts
but looking back, I remember that she didn’t know
or notice that all her words were roads
that lead her back to you
or to her
or him
or anyone
no, not anyone, everyone that ever mattered
has their own clump of pages unknowingly dedicated to them
like an author of fiction unintentionally writes about their own life
what i write intentionally about my own life is unintentionally about you
or her
or him
is it human nature to always have a person that comes up when you draw a blank?
almost like white noise
a drone that plays when the faucet of stories you tell yourself runs dry
a word or name you think as you fall asleep
or that comes to you when you’re in too deep of a thought hole
and pulls you back to the top
or maybe pushes you deeper
but whatever the case, now i know
that i can measure my time on this earth in phases
measure it in clumps of pages
or the ink of a pen that spelled out your name
when i had only just been talking about the weather
PFL Jun 2016
enter into the Infinite challenges of sorrows and Joys
this divine chaos: Life,
why would we desire more than this?
Transcending truth becomes Consciousness,
Creates Grace forming a Soul’s
Organic Divinity identity.
All Beings are the God presence of Life.
this Universe,so vastly undefined and impersonal,
yet so intimately known to our Divinity’s
Intentions, assigned within every detail
making every Action matter.
Exiting in and throughout the beyond.
            PFL
Woody Jul 2016
Her body was a garden
of subdued light,
a place for winter
to begin, a place
for getting to know her,
the sloped edges of her eyes
shaped by the moon,
entries and curves,
a sad calamity,
dogwood blossoms
falling on her hair
like another woman
lost and cold in the snow.
— and from basement entries
neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen
with orderly moustaches and
well-brushed coats
Michael Ryan Nov 2015
Retype number 3,018--
I don't really think I've written
this many entries for just one poem

it's a beam of light that
scores my thoughts
and begins to type across this board

but in the end
it was a refraction of shadows
hinting at another dream

because these ramblings of another world
are the minds way of scrambling
to form new words
and convey our Neverland
that we've Neverfound

Scented candles add an extra burst
of enthusiasm to wander this page a little longer
because they are my witness
that even Evergeen Woods
have some Cinnamon Bark hidden in them.

the candles are made of wax
and when I pour myself to sleep
perhaps our wicks stay lit
or do we fiddle away
with our dreams.
Something about something.
Edward Coles Apr 2015
**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.

Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***,
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.

Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.

I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.

Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.

I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.

Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.

Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.

I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.

So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.
C
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
It’s been a decade and a half that I haven’t returned back to my little home in that far away magical place. Fifteen years- exploring and travelling through the world. It was always my dream, ever since I was a young boy. Living this life is lonely. No one ever belongs to me, nor do I ever belong to anyone. Seeing a million things is marvelous, but it could be twice as marvelous with a companion to express the feelings over instead of my usual, battered black log book that never talked back but was filled with entries from all over the world. One day, I’ll publish it.

I guess the fact that I was always alone was the reason why the little home and my little mother that I use to take for granted became more and more part of me as I stayed away. The land, the gently curving hills and glassy lake grew clearer and clearer in my mind until sometimes, it was all I could see when I shut my eyes at night after a long day of work. Sometimes I would smell the soap on mothers’ skin acutely and played her voice in my head like a radio.
A blur of bright brown eyes.

I’ve been to almost every country in this world: Japan, France, America, Denmark, China and all the different continents… almost a hundred different countries. Each country held such a different (but slightly similar if they were in the same continent) flavor in the air and never failed to teach me one new thing. They all held such distinct character. Beholding the stunning sights and noticing the heart-wrenching small details of a new place was my passion. It captivated me, but the calm, steady love of my heart remained still.
Nothing touched me like the memory of home and my mother. Not the women who flickered through the chapter of my life, appearing in explosions of lust and never meaning more than ***, though some begged me to stay. My loneliness would sway my path of thinking for a short one or two week before I realized it wasn’t what I truly wanted.  
My lovers reminded me of cookie crumbs fallen from my mouth down onto my shirt- there for a brief, brief moment- sometimes picked up to nibble on or brushed away and forgotten.

Oh Love; Love never found me. Perhaps all the travel I did made it harder for Her to find me. I was never at a place for long. Perhaps She, Love, grew tired of trying to catch up with me as I crossed the seas and vast lands. Maybe She got lost one day in an Indian market with the exotic, fat fruits and glittering bangles- fading off into the air with the aroma of powerfully rich local dishes.
Or maybe I travelled away from Her, and She got left behind.

2 a.m.- On a train: the train is brand new and the metal is still yet glossy and innocent from hard rains, thick snow or fiery heat as the Southern part of my homeland is so prone to. The window is surprisingly see-through, unlike all the muddy windows covered in dust, grime, bird droppings and smashed insects (especially squished mosquitoes) I have looked out of in the past fifteen years. I think I’ll read a few chapters of that book about Cambodian culture to distract my impatient mind: sitting on this cold train that will take me home is all I can possibly think about. Hurry, you ******* train, hurry!
There is something about a train that calms me down and makes me feel all starry-eyed. It is the memory of the only girl I ever loved. A little girl I grew up with. Such thick dark brown hair, big round bright chocolate eyes and the loudest, most obnoxiously boyish laugh I have ever heard from a girl. Hmm, I recalled the small rounded chest and bottom.
We lived so far deep in the country side and one day, on an overnight school trip, the school we attended at took all hundred students on a trip to see the city for just a day. Flashes of her eating a creamy white ice cream sprinkled with tiny candies of the rainbow and standing in awe of the huge library made me smile to myself.
How when everyone was tired that night back on the train, even the teachers exhausted after an early morning and keeping a hundred thirteen-year-olds under control for a whole day, fell asleep. My eyelids were just drooping when she appeared- I smelled her first, sweet like honey with a tinge of something sour like orange or lemon peels. My senses have always been sensitive- especially sight and smell. She carefully peeled back the curtains around the bed, crept into my bunk and cuddled with me, curling her tough plump legs.
My mind flew in many wild ways- for as I said, my senses were sensitive and the curiosity and thrill of an inexperienced young boy did not help to make them any paler- and try as I might to quiet the thoughts, they leapt at her every movement.
I suppose it was her way of telling me she had fallen in love with me. Her cold monkey-feet pressed against me and whispering the night away: her tousled head as she kept sitting up to look out the window on the side to look at the stars. I sat up with her and held her against my chest. I remember wondering how my heart wasn’t bursting from the enormous love I felt for this creature in my lap, watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing by and the black swaying fingers of rice patties illuminated by needle-point stars and a full, silver moon. The beautiful creature turned around, placed her icy finger tips on my hot neck, and gave a little sigh of relief before leaning in and kissing me.

My skin was covered in goose bumps.

Oranges are my favorite fruit.
I left her, my little home and mother at nineteen. The darling was mine till then. I wrote to her, but when she got around to replying I had already moved. And there my love became my once-loved.
The heart ache didn’t last too long. There was too much to see, I was young and full of cravings and impossible to satisfy hunger despite the countless number of women. I lived in the moment, the fiery moment of passion and life, and the memory of her were blown to wisps.
A ray of pink sunlight broke me from my thoughts and as I rushed back from the past to its future, I wondered in a haze whether she had married or not.

Five a.m. – the sun was up. The sky had streaks of dark blue, so dark it was almost black. A ****** red of a newly-cut wound ran through the sky, arm in arm with royal purple and a pink the color of a child’s lips.

Six a.m. - twenty-two or so students milled into the train chattering. The younger ones have neatly combed hair, slicked down with mousse and parted so aggressively the comb lines are visible cutting the hair in hard chunks with a paper-white hairline slicing through the scalp. The smallest one would be around thirteen and the oldest at eighteen. The oldest-looking one is very pretty with slanted gray eyes and chestnut hair- very matured for her age. A puff of powder to conceal any imperfection of her skin, and the first two buttons on her school blouse unbuttoned to hint at a cleavage of well-developed large *******. Her gaze darts over me frequently. She looks like a lover I had in Holland. I give her a small smile and she returns it, batting her lids to reveal matted dark lashes and shimmery pale blue eyelids like the wings of a butterfly. No child, only if I was much, much younger and had just left home as you will so soon.
A stench of too much perfume emits from the girl beside her. So much that I am momentarily diverted and glance up at her from my log book. I will be relieved when they leave. If there’s one thing I find extremely unattractive in a woman is an overload of perfume- it becomes a stench that is a reminder of gaudy prostitutes.

Six-thirty a.m. -  The train jolts to yet another stop and they clatter out but not before I heard the words, “That man on the train near us was rather handsome, wasn’t he?” I cannot help but chuckle.

Seven a.m. – the train has stopped at least five more stations. This is going to be a long trip. Rummaging in my packed bag for a pair of dark sunglasses I push them on, waiting for the fact that I haven’t slept all two weeks in excitement (and travelling at the speed of light half way around the world at the same time) to kick in and hit me unconscious with sleep.

Two p.m. - the dark glasses cannot block the glaring sunlight of the sunshiny afternoon. We have almost finished passing the city. The rows of buildings, large houses, one-story apartments are narrowing and shrinking in size. I know the railroad tracks have remained unchanged in destination and twenty-so years ago I took this exact same ride but everywhere is unrecognizable.  
I check my wristwatch once again even though I know the time: around nine more hours to go before it reaches the very end possible station and I take the long walk back to my little home.

Six p.m. - I talk amiably to passengers on the train. It is beautiful to hear my home dialect again. The words I speak have grown quite clumsy and my accent is rough. No matter, in two weeks time I’ll be fluent and chirping along with the same fluid accent as the old man beside me is.

Eleven-thirty p.m. – I am all alone on the train. The old man just got off at the station before. He shared a portion of his sandwich with me and a swig of beer from his water bottle (naughty old man), seeing as in my anticipation I forgot to buy any food for the day. A very interesting old man who was delighted to know I travelled just as he use to in his earlier days- quote to remember from him: “Too many people go on about this ******* of a ‘fixed’ home: Home isn’t where you live, son, it’s where they understand you. I’m telling you, that’s something so special in this crazy world.”
It is horrible to be sitting here alone counting down the minutes without a distraction but after all, it is near the last of stations and no one ever comes here anyways. There’s nothing here that could attract visitors. If I were a traveler nothing about this place would excite me very much. Yet for this first time in fifteen years, I’m not an outsider and this land promises me much. My hand shakes from fatigue- but mostly from eagerness. Little home, darling little home, I am coming!
It is a chilly, chilly winter night. My breath pants out in short white puffs. I wrap my scarf more securely around my neck, capturing the warmth as I step out from the warm train into the cold air outside. I can barely notice my environment on the way home except the path has remained unchanged. It is as if I am travelling back into time itself. After a while, the coldness turning the tip of my ears and nose pink is forgotten. All I know is each step is taking me closer and closer to home.

I finally see it. The small little house with a small brown door standing quietly alone next to other identical houses comes into my view. The little homes are clustered on the edge of a river bank, surrounding by dark green trees. The crisp rustling of the leaves in the winter breeze brings a melancholy happiness so great it makes my chest throb. I cup a tiny bit of snow from the ground in my mitten and taste it: oh the same sharp iciness on my tongue.

I wonder if she still lives in that one with the indented steps, the stairs worn out by the thundering saunter of her and her five brothers. They still haven’t bought a new flight of stairs?

The river’s surface is smooth and serene, its surface looking like molten silver rippling in the slight breeze. I remembered in the summer when we, the children, danced; splashing in the water and the elders watched lovingly.

Mother’s carefully watching eyes on me as I swam to and fro, my laughter mingling with everyone else’s. She was especially careful after that near-fateful day when I was six and foolishly went swimming in August without telling mother as she made us her special clear chicken broth. I had inhaled gallons of water before she fished me out, both of us soaking and sobbing. How wonderful it was to hold onto something warm and solid: something breathing, full of life, and I clutched onto her and she clutched onto me and my life.
Up the wooden steps… how surprised mother will be. The ghosts of memories come running to me, pounding their way towards me to greet me first as I open the wooden door with the key slung around my neck as always: mother with her hair curled in soft mocha *****, mother making an ice lollipop in the hot summers in her flower-printed summer dresses, mother swishing around the house cleaning in her blue apron, the hot fire with hot chocolate as we told stories, all the different cats we had purring in a soothing melody… Amalie and her laughing figure spread over the sofa chattering away, Amalie’s quick, hidden kisses in the corners when mother was out of the room or pretending not to look, Amalie’s long hands creeping towards mine… Amalie and mother gossiping together and mother declaring Amalie was the daughter she never had and mother eyeing me knowingly, expecting me to settle my ways and marry Amalie…

Oh little home, I am back, I am home.

I shall go lie on my feathery bed and in the morning I’ll wake up and have no idea where I am before the thought comes back to me that this morning- no, I am not somewhere around half the world away- but in my little hometown.
As sure as the sun will rise, Mother will wake up at her usual eight o’clock and I’ll be downstairs in our sunny-tiled kitchen making a bowl of porridge for her and me.
After her tears and hugs, we’ll sit down by the fire with hot chocolate despite it being early morning and the skies aren’t yet jet-black. I see in my mind’s eyes her dark eyes huge as I unravel my colorful carpet of stories and treasure box of tokens from all around the world.
Maybe after that I’ll ask her whatever became of Amalie…
I hear the tread of footsteps on the stair case. They are heavy sounds. Has mother gained much weight in her old age? She was always a lithe little woman when I was here.
A burly shape appears in the shadows.
For one ******* blindingly stupid moment I think it is mother much fattened in a fluffy night gown, her hair curled up in soft ***** yet again. Perhaps I saw what I wanted to believe despite my senses and instinct suddenly prickling up in one jolt through the spine.
And the shape emerges holding a bat and the outlines gains focus to become a bear-like man with dark brows furrowed and a mass of curls. He starts yelling at me and slashing his bat dangerously.
I raise my arms up in defense and the world swirls around me. From far away I hear my voice shaking in fear and fury, “Where is my mother!” I yell her name and I yell my name to let her know I am here. I am insane with fear for the safety of my mother. No, it cannot be that I come home on the day a demon decides to rob the house of a frail gentle angel. If he has killed her, I will- “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!”
“What?” he asks in a tone quiet from extreme bewilderment, his grip on the bat loosens and I am quick to see this and take advantage of it.
With an explosion of violent swears I leap onto him to throttle him to death. “MOTHER?! MOTHER! WHAT HAVE YOU ******* DONE TO MY MOTHER?! I’M GOING TO ******* **** YOU, YOU *******!”
A fast pattering of feet sound down the stairs and my mind registers them to be female before I am wrenched of the man and we are separated. I am about to clutch this woman safe from the hulking beast before I notice the skin on the hands pushing my panting chest away from killing the beast are too young to be mothers’. Her hair is a dark mahogany brown, not mild coffee like mothers’.
I stare at her, silent in shock. All the fight drains out of me.
Those eyes that were once so chocolate-brown and bright have lost their sparkle in her tiredness and appear almost… dull as she turns to me.
She says my name three times before I can reply. “Sit down here.”
It is strange that she has ordered me to sit down on my own sofa in my living room. Her frosty hands guide me. “Amalie… where is mother?” I manage to stutter, all the time keeping an eye on the monster of a man.
“Listen to me” she took a few shuddering breaths, “I’m sorry to tell you this way, I wished I could’ve told you any other way but this… your mother is dead. She died five years ago.”
She watched me with an exhausted expression, “In her will she left this house to you and me because she assumed one day-” she shot a cautious glance at the man who towered in the shadows next to her, nursing
Paris Elizabeth May 2015
27th October, 2014
So tonight, I'm either going to overdose or email. I could potentially die, or at least cause a lot of pain to my body, or I could not. And I could email and pull myself together. Do I want to? Yes. But i want to see what happens from this overdose first.

Do i pull myself together?

Or do i die?

Why is this question so hard to answer?

I woke up this morning, determined to die today. I had multiple plans. Then I had a nap. Woke up from dads phone call at around 11am. Woke up in a better mood and had the thought "how will i ever get out of this labyrinth - straight and fast". I was determined to recover.

Now im drunk and can taste blood and am questioning life once again.

Oh god.


31st October, 2014
I nearly died I nearly died

I'm out of hospital again, another overdose from a couple days ago

An overdose that left me with short term brain damage and the inability to walk

And I nearly died

I nearly died

In hospital, I had a dream, and in the dream I was in the emergency department of hospital with an iv attached to me. I went to my room to lay down on my bed, and another patient - a girl - walked in and laid down on the couch beside the bed. she was asking me questions and we had a conversation, and slowly it started to morph into the actual room - and she was laying in one of the shelves beside my bed‏.
i sat up and asked her why she was in hospital and she went completely silent and started picking at the paint of the shelf above her‏
 
then i was staring at her‏

and i blinked and she was gone - my clothes were arranged so it looked like she was using some as a pillow - the rest were gone‏
and then i walked out and i was losing the plot like i was completely insane man i heard voices and could sense people around me and i figured out that the girl WAS ME. SHE WAS ALL MY PROBLEMS IN THE FORM OF A PERSON. and all these people ended up convincing me that everyone in the hospital was dead. they said i had to join them. i knew i was going to die. i freaked out for a solid half hour because i knew everyone was dead and then i kind of just accepted it and walked into my room, where i laid down on my back and waited for my death‏
 
but then they were silent‏
 
and i ended up falling asleep‏

this morning the nurse walked into my room and told me i had a call from my friend - it was ruby and the phone said 9:30 am. Then my roommate kinda woke up and peered around the corner to see me and i was like "gosh you had a good sleep in" and i was sitting up talking and then i realised the phone wasn't in my hand. so i was like "crap i dropped it" and i searched for a good ten minutes- turned all my sheets upside down. No phone. My roommate was still asleep. It was 6:30 am. i spoke to the nurse, who told me she didn't bring in a phone.
This was October, last year, when I lost the plot, overdosed and was put back into hospital. These are my notes before and after the admission.
Once, and but once found in thy company,
All thy supposed escapes are laid on me;
And as a thief at bar is questioned there
By all the men that have been robed that year,
So am I (by this traiterous means surprized)
By thy hydroptic father catechized.
Though he had wont to search with glazed eyes,
As though he came to **** a cockatrice,
Though he hath oft sworn that he would remove
Thy beauty’s beauty, and food of our love,
Hope of his goods, if I with thee were seen,
Yet close and secret, as our souls, we’ve been.
Though thy immortal mother, which doth lie
Still-buried in her bed, yet wiil not die,
Takes this advantage to sleep out daylight,
And watch thy entries and returns all night,
And, when she takes thy hand, and would seem kind,
Doth search what rings and armlets she can find,
And kissing, notes the colour of thy face,
And fearing lest thou’rt swol’n, doth thee embrace;
To try if thou long, doth name strange meats,
And notes thy paleness, blushing, sighs, and sweats;
And politicly will to thee confess
The sins of her own youth’s rank lustiness;
Yet love these sorceries did remove, and move
Thee to gull thine own mother for my love.
Thy little brethren, which like faery sprites
Oft skipped into our chamber, those sweet nights,
And kissed, and ingled on thy father’s knee,
Were bribed next day to tell what they did see:
The grim eight-foot-high iron-bound servingman,
That oft names God in oaths, and only then,
He that to bar the first gate doth as wide
As the great Rhodian Colossus stride,
Which, if in hell no other pains there were,
Makes me fear hell, because he must be there:
Though by thy father he were hired to this,
Could never witness any touch or kiss.
But Oh, too common ill, I brought with me
That which betrayed me to my enemy:
A loud perfume, which at my entrance cried
Even at thy father’s nose, so were we spied;
When, like a tyran King, that in his bed
Smelt gunpowder, the pale wretch shivered.
Had it been some bad smell he would have thought
That his own feet, or breath, that smell had wrought.
But as we in our isle imprisoned,
Where cattle only, and diverse dogs are bred,
The precious Unicorns strange monsters call,
So thought he good, strange, that had none at all.
I taught my silks their whistling to forbear,
Even my oppressed shoes dumb and speechless were,
Only, thou bitter sweet, whom I had laid
Next me, me traiterously hast betrayed,
And unsuspected hast invisibly
At once fled unto him, and stayed with me.
Base excrement of earth, which dost confound
Sense from distinguishing the sick from sound;
By thee the seely amorous ***** his death
By drawing in a leprous harlot’s breath;
By thee the greatest stain to man’s estate
Falls on us, to be called effeminate;
Though you be much loved in the Prince’s hall,
There, things that seem, exceed substantial.
Gods, when ye fumed on altars, were pleased well,
Because you were burnt, not that they liked your smell;
You’re loathsome all, being taken simply alone,
Shall we love ill things joined, and hate each one?
If you were good, your good doth soon decay;
And you are rare, that takes the good away.
All my perfumes I give most willingly
T’ embalm thy father’s corse; What? will he die?

— The End —