"jumble" poems
A dart of a glance
Felt across a crowded room.
A playful bantering
turned to something darker, deeper.
A smoldering gaze
lasting just a second too long.
A hesitant hand
pushing a stray curl into place.
Coherent thoughts
turned into an unlikely jumble.
And that one question
is answered,
using no words,
except the ones in the language
that has withstood millenia of human existence,
the language of seduction.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
Hey. I said I do to a sociopath.
No winey snivel.
No quibble.
No ****
BPD= Borderline personality disorder.=sweet insanity.= submerged insecurity = indian giver = lifelong victim=child manipulator.
Slick as snot running below the radar.
Now.
Dropping pretty baggage
Finding perspective.
WOW.
Amazing what can reside in a mid sized cranium.
Disneyland in cog neat O.
Frued would have missed
This one.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
she wore her heart,
on a tattoo sleeve.
her feelings inked,
all a jumble.
from poetry,
to lyric art.
these words
she couldn't mumble.
eyes almost dead,
glistening with tears,
not one emotion read.
her lips sealed shut,
tongue in a knot,
no words could be said.
she wore her heart,
on a tattoo sleeve,
and this was how she lived.
hoping one day,
she'd get the love,
the same she freely gives.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
I try to write a poem,
but poems are too hard
Rhyming is for losers
and airy-fairy bards
To put a pen to paper
and write about your life
I've had enough of all of those,
they only cause me strife
Free-verse script is awful,
for fools without a beat
Repetition's far too simple
just repeat, repeat, REPEAT
Those lovey-dovey ode-things,
that wishy-washy crap
And poems about hatred,
you all deserve a slap
Spare me all your ramblings,
I don't care how you feel
Your self-expression surely stinks
of mouldy day-old eel
To tell a tale of wonder
never ceases too be trite
To sing of magic wonders
is nothing but pure *****
Your metaphors are useless,
your imagery is vile
Your sense of diction makes me gag,
I cannot stand your "style"
So save me your quotations,
please spare me all your rhyme
Shove that poem up your rear
and cease to waste my time
I look at what I've written,
this jumble of clichés
Looks like I wrote a ****** poem
so I'm the one to blame!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Sometimes during class my brain shuts down
and I keep trying and slaving over these numbers
Unfortunately, these equations jumble themselves in my head,
jamming up the gears and halting all progress
This is how far I was able to work today
until my mind jumped off a bridge and now I'm drowning in a pool of
"WHY AM I SO DUMB?"
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
A little boy
Neat white shirt ironed to perfection
A monster truck plastered on the front
Denim jeans, fitting his skinny waist just right
Innovative
Imaginative
He loves creating new things
Making plain old cardboard into the next best thing
He gets his crayons
Sharpies and all
And runs to his room
All excited on his new project, his new creation
One piece of cardboard after the other
Rectangles flying everywhere
Coloring what looks like door handles onto cardboard?
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He works quickly
With a due date set in mind
Full of ambition
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He finishes his new achievement
Smiling happily at his new jumble of handiwork
Glued together precisely
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He attaches the different shapes to himself
Straps glued to the cardboard
It seems he’s wearing armor
With doorknobs and wood grain painted on it with pure artistry
He hears someone come in the front door
His smile turns to panic
He quickly cleans up the supplies
Throwing things around the room anywhere they fit
He runs to the corner of his room
He quickly pulls the “armor” close to him
As he sits in the fetal position
His armor becomes a small dresser that looks as if it was made for clothes
The father bursts into the room
With rage spelled out on his forehead
The boy hides brilliantly afraid of the wrath to come
The father looks around the room carefully
*Come out Come out
Wherever you are
The next time I see you
I’ll give you more bruises than last week altogether*
He closes the door with a loud slam
The boy unfolds his creation, a simple dresser
Who knew that a young boy’s imagination
Would protect him from all of the horror and pain usually unleashed on him
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
Earlier today, painting was the activity that we had planned
I have a support teacher who would always lend a hand
She had left the class to get the paint all mixed
While I stayed behind to get the toys and props all fixed
She came back and bore bowls of red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Lunchtime I visited a store and neatly displayed on low shelves
Arranged so immaculately as if magically done by elves
Were cases upon cases stitched together with only zips
They almost instantly bent a smile to my lips
Their colours shone brilliant red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Passed by a shop selling accessories and apparel
Merchandise dangled on wall hooks and some in a jumble
On the adjacent wall something caught my eye
Carried all the neat little tote bags one could ever buy
One peeking from a corner was red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Walked by a building, so modern-looking and new
Down on one side almost obscured from view
Were these horizontal rows of dancing neon lights
Stopped for a minute just to soak in the sights
Then I realised that they flickered red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Waited for the bus to get home at my usual bus stop
Whilst waiting, I shifted and from my bag something did drop
Bent over and picked my coin pouch that had fallen out
Looked up only to see another commuter lingering about
On his pack was a sticker which boasted red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Bus was packed, found a seat in the back row
Sat myself down, I peered briefly out the window
Engine under me, I scanned around to those who were seated
Observed the floor beneath my shoes as it vibrated
My pair of Adidas, oh my, they're red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Got home, put my bag down and sank into the sofa
Switched on the telly, on was the Food Network's "Barefoot Contessa"
Surfed through the channels, caught a real estate commercial
Promoting prime land in a country not anywhere regional
Splashed on the screen, a flag - red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
End of the day, it is best that I hit the sack
Allow some rest for my poor aggravated back
But not till I complete the words you're currently reading
I'm thinking, dreaming and furiously typing
How do I end this? Hmm...red, white and blue?
I'm thinking and dreaming...and wishing I'm with you.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
I’m tired of waking up in tears
Cause I can’t put to bed these phobias and fears
I’m new to this grief, I can’t explain
But I’m no stranger to, the heartache and the pain
The fire I began is burning me alive
But I know better than to leave and let it die
I’m a silhouette, asking every now and then
Is it over yet? Will I ever feel again?
I’m a silhouette, chasing rainbows on my own
But the more I try to move on, the more I feel alone
So I watch the summer stars to lead me home
I’m sick of the past I can’t erase
A jumble of footprints, and hasty steps I can’t retrace
The mountain of things I still regret
Is a vile reminder that I would rather just forget
No matter where I go
The fire I began is burning me alive
But I know better than to leave and let it die
I’m a silhouette, asking every now and then
Is it over yet? Will I ever smile again?
Cause I walk alone
No matter where I go
I’m a silhouette, asking every now and then
Now and then Is it over yet? Will I ever love again?
I’m a silhouette, chasing rainbows on my own
But the more I try to move on, the more I feel alone
So I watch the summer stars to lead me home
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
Would that we could, clean like our clothes,
A jumble tumble in a coin machine,
The soap and soak of a wet warm wash,
The racer’s spin goes round and round,
Stains and grime,
The stench of time,
All down the drain,
No fuss, no pain,
Freshly laundered we begin again.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
I don't desire to share my opinions with anyone
Too long, have they been bashed upon by peers or anonymous figures
"You should respect their opinion."
What hypocrites, even opinions could be wrong and hurt others
"For the sake of arguing."
It doesn't matter if they humiliate someone.
It doesn't matter if they turn others against them.
It doesn't matter if they were wrong as well
Even if you understand their perspective, they refuse to see yours
I long to be mute
I hate my own speaking voice
If all my words are unheard
"I can't express myself, this secretive awkward human."
If only they knew of the true cynical and diabolical thoughts locked away
Would anyone bother to accept and understand
Or would I be shunned
Isolated like I had been since so long ago
I don't mind singing
The rhythm and flow much better to the accented jumble words
However I'm merely a ghost that no one notice when they have stars to illuminate the room
"Ahhhh.. The jealousy and bitterness will consume me."
"Please see me."
"Please acknowledge me."
"Please talk to me."
"Please hear me."
*I'm fading away.*
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
When your words are placed with precision
And your thoughts are all in line
When there's the perfect analogy in your speech
He's not there to listen, that's the time.
When your words come out in a jumble
And you laugh 'till you're in tears
When you tell stupid jokes and nobody but he laughs
That's the day that he appears.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^
^. ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^
^ ^Diaspora ^ ^
^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^^^ ^ ^^^
^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^
^ ^
Tonight,
a jumble is taking place
in the small wilderness...outside my window
...cicadas...crickets...lizards...
all night creatures...even the trees
join in the dance.....to survive
they could never go against the swooshing rhythm
of the rushing kingly wind.
as i am tonight...lost in my own wilderness
i feel so limited...turning left to right...to and fro
as sparks of thoughts and images...come and go
scattered ***** bouncing here and there
from corners and walls of my room
now, they're here,
later, they'd disappear.
mind is a mess...bright ideas, scamper off
fleeing from their temple...their home
refusing to be captured...
simultaneously, some known sounds
the cries...the envisioned giggles and laughter
of familiar voices, are now hidden somewhere
have sought refuge some place else.
faces...names...smiles...words...good spirits,
one by one,
slowly, have gone...
...there is only the damp darkness
of a vacuum.....an emptiness...
created by an absence
of inspirations
of people who give inspirations....but, have left
some are about to leave
thank God for those who came back,
missing fellow poets...good friends...and their works
missing the placid waters
that once surrounded us
i miss reading...feeling the sweet music...the rhymes,
the free verse of good, wholesome friendships...
of kindred spirits in poetry
in poetry...where we all started...where, in one way
or another, we all have metamorphosed...
i believe, i know...our paths didn't cross for naught.
::: ours is a small world...existing within a bigger world :::
::::::::::::::::: there needn't be a diaspora ::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::: i miss us ::::::::::::::::::
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
Sally
Copyright March 11, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
when out of fear I moved to my safe place with my eyes open
I wish I could buy you the forest so you could see a sunny day
The clouds and all the thoughts I have of life creep
a shadow creature is cold because it is night out
I would buy you happiness if you ever needed it
A grumpy old man
above you.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
It started as nothing but a jumble of
white and black.
Just a big thing in the middle of our
living room that my mother would
make beautiful sounds on.
Soon I was on the bench next to her,
my hands on hers
helping her make the music that
used to fill my days and nights
with peace.
I remember when it was her sitting next
to me, watching my hands create
something beautiful.
I’d never seen her with more pride
than she had in that moment.
Before long I sat at the piano
with a beautiful girl,
watching the familiar wonder form
on her face while I played.
I let the music bleed from my fingers
as that same beautiful girl walked into
the house, oblivious to the ring in
my pocket.
I was not playing the piano
on that day full of romance and hope.
Instead, a stranger was,
I was waiting at the altar
for a glimpse of my love coming
down the aisle.
When we got to the house by the lake,
she asked me to play for her.
I had barely finished the song
When we became one for
the first time.
I hadn't touched my piano in months,
Overwhelmed by the perils of marriage;
Bills, work, arguments, more bills.
As miserable as things were,
Our love never faded.
It grew stronger with every
Uncertain moment.
When that uncertainty became stability
And the hard work paid off
She surprised me with my own piano,
Atop it sat a bright pink bow.
Next to it stood my wife,
Her hand resting on her stomach.
I composed a new piece for the
First time in three years with a
Small bundle the same color as
The bow sitting in my arms.
That was the last time I touched the keys.
When I heard about the accident the
Next day, I closed the doors
Leading to the living room and
Sat in the nursery, holding my tiny
Daughter tightly to my chest.
My brother and I moved
The piano into the attic while my
Mother went through her things.
The piano stayed in the attic,
Even when we moved.
The only thing left of it a
Bright pink bow hanging
In my daughter's bedroom.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
Beginning: A lamb with a fluffy fleece
Soon she will be naked
These fine strands of taken
To be twisted by a machine
From an atom-like jumble comes a line
And the line is to be twisted yet again
But twisted in a methodical pattern
Cast off, put on. The sock.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
if ears had lips
mine would gladly tell you all the things
they can and cannot comprehend
they would explain the difference
between hearing and understanding;
just because they hear a sound
doesn’t mean they know what it is
or where it’s coming from
just because they hear a voice
doesn’t mean they discern words
they would ask you to please speak louder
and tell you that even though volume is their friend
if you take a jumble and turn up the juice
sometimes it becomes clearer
other times it’s just a loud jumble
they might tell you that writing things down saves time
or that texting works better than voicemail
they would tell you how much they miss
the rain’s incessant song
the wind’s sweeping whistle
a dropped pin’s pinging ping
earthy crashing blue green wave sounds
a lover’s soft whisper
eavesdropping’s noseyness
distance’s subtle sounds
footsteps’ proximity
a fire’s warm red orange crackle
freeway traffic’s rushing background noise
a phone call’s lively conversation
a tv show’s clever, non-closed-captioned script
a radio’s soulful catchy lyrics
live performance’s vibrant voice
the timbre of each note in a chord
as I strummed my guitar
they would tell you
how the ringing tones inside my head
compete with your words
they would speak of their frustration and indignation
when you ignorantly accuse them of selective hearing
they would apologize for asking you to repeat
and laugh with you at my disability
they would thank you for dealing with me anyway
they would smile in appreciation
for your exaggerated syll•a•bi•ca•tion
if ears could see
mine would overlook your rolling eyes
and exasperated sighs and expressions
they know it’s not your fault that they don’t work good
and hope you know it’s not their fault either
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
You're a tornado-
You spin madly around and sometimes carry things off with you. People and objects fall into your vortex and spin around madly with you.
You spin yourself dizzy, to the point where standing still sometimes isn't possible because you might have forgotten how.
You hit the earth below you and blaze a trail ahead, leaving your mark wherever you go.
You rustle leaves 100 miles away and send some flying just as far.
Sometimes you feel like a tornado-
You jumble things up and feel like when things hit your path, you run through them and scatter them around.
You spin so fast that no one can slow you down, that you're always spinning on your own and finding someone that could adjust to your spin is one in a million.
You never stop spinning because that how your mind works; it spins day and night, endlessly. You're always spinning new scenarios and thoughts in your turbulent mind.
You feel like you may destroy people you run through, and sometimes they try to tell you to spin a different way or cease to spin at all, and that hurts. They don't understand that if you don't stop spinning, you may just cease to be who you are all together.
When I say you are a tornado, I mean well-
Not everyone looks at a tornado and sees what I see.
People see chaos, destruction, instability.
Sometimes I know you see that in yourself.
Sometimes I see it in you too.
But as a tornado, you have what others don't-
Someday, someone will step into your storm and be your calm.
They won't be afraid of who you are, like you are sometimes of yourself.
They'll see what the luckiest people in your life see in your storm;
Absolute beauty, uniqueness, individuality, empathy.
Not everyone can see the beauty in a storm-
It takes a special eye, and a special kind of person to love you.
Not because you're undeserving, but because you're different than the rest.
You're one of a kind, that's why no storm has the same name.
It's why no storm hits the same ground. Every storm differs, but there are only so many.
So when I say you're a tornado, this is what I imply-
You're scary to some people you're powerful and provoking and interesting.
You will sweep someone away someday.
Someone will look at you like you're the best thing to have hit his life, literally.
Someday, a man will be able to see the beauty in your storm and spin with you, always by your side.
You're a tornado-
You're one hell of a sight,
Unmistakably one of a kind,
Wild, crazy, enticing and beautiful all in your own,
With a storm inside of you that someone is going to find someday, and that person will be dizzy with how different you are, and will ultimately get swept away by you.
I promise.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
So young, so wasted
Exhilerated by laughter
And the light in others’ eyes
Her fuel, her joy, her reason
Their actions, her life’s muse
So enthralled by the atmosphere, no time for petty tasks
Never ventures, for her mind fills the gaps
Just a whim, a fun game to pass the days
Life
Continues, doesn’t wait for her to catch it
So she plays away the phases
Until she’s in a daze of craziness
So she runs
To a different side of the same state
Can’t escape the destiny she didn’t conjure
Can’t catch the one she dreamt
Just a dream, nothing left but the memory of what was never known
Trapped in solitude, confinement
Never able to find. Ever searching
Until that day she is sure to come
Every space, emptiness, jumble crashes together
It’s just perfect
The pattern, fit as plug
Closed indefinitely
Continues the game she played
Except
At last without anticipation
Warmth.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
Do you know how ******* hard it is to have a disorder with no cure?
“It’s all in your head.”, because it’s so complex that doctors can prescribe anything for you, of course shock therapy isn’t a thing anymore.
I look down at my hands and think, “Is this real?” Of course it’s ******* real, stop being irrational.
But, why doesn’t it feel real?
I’ve been eating fine, sleeping ok, taking my medicine. Why do I feel as if my brain is not connected with my body?
Well, maybe it is. Maybe a part of me just isn’t here anymore.
I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel, off. I’m not me. I’m not anything. I can feel the oblivion in my veins. My sense of reality is gone, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
I can see what’s going on, and I do have control over my actions, but my thoughts are a jumble and some tastes, smells, etc don’t feel the same.
I miss myself.
I miss myself so badly.
Don’t get me wrong, clinical depression and such has kind of guided me towards self hatred, but I’d rather feel self hatred, than feel, this.
Feel everything at once, yet feeling nothing at all.
I’m reckless. I say what I want, do what I want, because nothing feels real.
I even dropped out of school, quit my job, all at 16 and I stay home trying to play video games to distract myself.
Distracting myself always seems to be the best solution. It holds me back from the temptation of just laying on my floor, crying and screaming, just wanting to feel normal. Feel whole.
I can sometimes have normal conversations. Sometimes. Very rarely unless it’s someone very close. Even family members I avoid speaking to in general.
Calen has been helping me, alot. Mostly distracting me. He understands my needs in general, and doesn’t insist on my spilling my emotions to him. He just supports me through it all. If I need to cry, if I need to laugh, he’ll be there.
He’s honestly the only person, well the only thing that has made me think twice.
Now, I’ve laid on the floor, screaming to the moon and to any higher power that might be out there to make me feel sane.
But Calen has seemed to be the only thing that makes me feel, real.
Like, continuing life is actually purposeful.
You could give me a list of things I could do with my life, and amazing things I could accomplish, but all I have to do is talk to him for 5 minutes, even if we talk about nothing of the sort, and I’ll feel the need to live another 24 hours.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
My hands whisper double dealings
As I prance through a sea of coated chairs,
my mind's a jumble with tumbling
lyrics of songs-scraps of music
sung to me in pitched whispers as
I pass through
parting the aisle like Moses.
and like Moses I call to the people
reading to them all commandments,
fully understanding that it is they who dictate to me.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 7:38 PM UTC
Kaleidoscope eyes
Telescoping with time
A tumbling jumble of colors and feelings
The quivers, the shakes, the shudders and reelings
Understood by the one with a blank expression on his face
Wide and bewildered eyes caught in her's embrace
Patterns colliding with no rhyme or reason
Deceiving her reflection
Just one more act of treason
Selfishly looking on over the bridge from her perch
Not comprehending the magnitude of her worth
A girl, a child, left out in the snow
A story never left behind
Now we'll never know.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC