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Nadai Dec 2018
I am a Jumper Girl.

I take what I want
And say what I love

I destroy my lovers
and follow my destroyers.

I take everything,
and refuse everyone.

I eat when I am hungry
and drink when I am happy.

And if I were to go tomorrow
know that
I am a Jumper Girl.
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.
Underoccupied tandem tyre's flat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

From old skool dogshit adobes, druids
built White Cliffs of Dover - few glues match that!
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.

Unicycles Sumerians sorted,
but bike made for 2 1 me rides to Splat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

No Wile E. Chimera off Beachy Head,
I'm going underground like samizdat.
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.

Brakeless brodie into marble orchard,
a sackseeking, unrequited lovecat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

Field day in iron clover is seasalted
Tour De Manche, victory requiescat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.
sara Jun 2014
i will watch as you walk away with pieces of my brittle heart lodged into your palms
and i hope they sting every time her hand slips into yours

i will watch empty promises tumble from your mouth as you exhale  
and i hope you choke on them

and as you breathe in every molecule of her perfume
i hope the scent stings your nose

i will watch you kiss her and kiss her and kiss her
and i hope it's the best experience of your life

so i watch you fall from grace as she discards you like a jumper she has outgrown
and i taste the same sweet satisfaction you did when she kissed you

i watch as a drunken mess
because the hangovers hurt much less than even a fleeting thought of you
once again:
whoever you think this is about, think again
grace Mar 9
when i left you
i left you with words.
words
i regret.
they taint my dreams
with delicate pain
and even music
cannot block them out
because the music
is you
you are everything!
everywhere.
you are
the green waves
on a summers morning
you are
the sushi shop
down the road
you are
the basketball courts
i walk past every day
you are
the boy i’ll never have.
you are hers now
and i,
am a mere
memory of yours.
an old scent on a
jumper
you don’t wear anymore
i’m pretty new to poetry so this poem is kind of a mess, would appreciate some feedback!
Piper Diggory Apr 2018
In my garden, there are cigarette corpses
None of which were ever yours.
Were they yours, I’d have grieved as
Their fires collapsed and their breath grew meagre,
Until the last of you upon them dwindled in winks of ash.

In my wardrobe, there is a shirt
Which I’m not sure is mine or yours.
Were it yours, you’d want it on your back
And not draping you across my mornings as I dress,
Yet I fear I’d miss the smudges you put in my dawns.

In my pocket, there is a note
Unaddressed but undoubtedly mine.
Were it yours, it wouldn’t be written
In such naked ink,
It'd be dormant in that head of yours.

In my mind, there are the ghosts
Of kisses unaware and helpless smiles.
Were they yours too, your jumper would still
Be woven with absinthe, and your arms with mine.
No more than ghosts; they breathe down my neck.

Do they breathe down yours?
One I wrote out of a painful love
Rebekah Jan 14
An awkward stance, a lopsided walk
leaning to the left-hand side,
most likely a result of supporting a tall and lanky silhouette.
The heftiness of your clumsy steps become louder and louder as you come closer,
and as your head tilts, and your shoulders relax,
I see the reflection of my smitten face in your glasses.

Your hair, ***** blond,
and often resembling a birds nest,
has been ruffled just the way I like it.

Your tired wee eyes,
a bi-product of your constant desire (?) to read,
is my favourite sight to see.

Your baggy jumper
hangs off your skinny frame,
and carries the smell of you.
A hint of  Calvin Klein, some musk,
and just the smallest bit of damp (a small chuckle)
but I'd have it no other way.

That smell, jumper, hair, and lopsided walk,
they're safety.
Especially those eyes,
those huge, soft eyes.
They're home for me now.

So make a cup of tea,
and pull up a chair,
because if home be where I lay my hat,
I have laid mine quite certainly.
Mary Gay Kearns Sep 2018
My friend dressed in grey
A round neck jumper rests
His head on the armchair
Of years and sleeps briefly.

He is my reaper of hours
Gathering in the last joys
Folded head behind that
Soft embrace of his hand.

Love Mary ***
You held me on my feet as I cried into your chest,
As I buried my pale, distraught face into your soft jumper,
You saw me at my most vulnerable,
With my broken heart crumbling right in front of your eyes
You interlocked your fingers with mine,
Tenderly squeezing my shaking hand as we parted,
A stream of tears still falling down my cheeks,
And yet I haven’t heard a word from you in over a week.
Do you not care? Or do you simply just not think of me?
I know your heart was hurt as well,
I could see the struggle in your eyes and hear it in your voice.
So please,
Don’t leave me to cope with this all alone.
mira Nov 2018
winter
the wreath’s rustle interrupts my sleep. in my dreamy shiver there is lucidity. between my toes there is carpet; I can feel its green, sense its virginal cool as I shuffle across the hall. I have the urge to scream, to tear the milk-matted blanket muffling my fervid anticipation. I hear you, then: the creak of the door, the friction of skin and silk, the sapped wail of youth’s wasted power. starlight pierces the linen curtains and casts my shadow ten feet tall, two feet tall, not at all. I crawl into bed and feel your breathing but it is not you. you are the unbroken hum of the furnace.

spring
the sugared smell of candy fruit depresses my throat and ***** threatens. my eyes search the window for a stranger but only rain knocks; my clothes are still wet, dripping one, two, three on each step. they dry more quickly than the boards creak; more quickly than I can find the storm drain, my translucent skin sloughing off at your touch. you are the static of broken vhs, the rattle of the closet mirror door as it slams, the easing cries through a premature mouth. I scream again, only to feel you in my ears as cotton, in my limbs as rigor. you whisper my name and I turn like a dog.

summer
dandelion seeds litter the dew-fresh yard. sing louder, you say, and I run faster. the wet heat is psychoactive. I trip and fall and you are the grass; you are the mud, the leaves, the water, the worms. you are the earth who protects my knees, careful to keep pristine my blue-jean jumper, careful to capture every moment of fleeting touch. oak leaves sway above. as intently as I gaze at it, the sun gazes at me and my doe eyes well. maybe there is something in them. maybe there is something in them with your crystal reflection, an eskimo kiss to speak what I cannot.

fall
afternoon sun rules my body and becomes blistering, unbearable; I stir, pressing against the heat, pressing your fingers into my skin, seeking to relieve the thrill. steam curls from my eyelashes as they squint to see you through the illuminated dust. it accumulates. you are the sudden cognizance of the windburn on my cheeks, lingering october air sharp behind my eyes, forcing tears I cannot help but to explain incorrectly. you are their singed, sweet-hot puddles in my hair. you are the residue they leave long after your sublime touch made them invisible.
four different people
Chris Neilson Jun 13
Dog's head out of a car window
Jesus will save you on the bumper
what's coming around the next corner?
an oversized poodle in a massive jumper

Mrs Murphy's washing line's damp
cotton hanging saturated and forlorn
"******* to brexit" adorns a wheelie bin
the brown one containing stale popcorn

Straight road narrowing to angry bottleneck
a static metallic jam, day in day out
oldies remember when this was a field
when they lived for Saturday's twist and shout

Everyone's sinking in shrinking time
dashing and clashing, texting and vexed
endless queues to be a reality star
with limited talent you could be next

A rolling **** Jagger gathers no moss
a mother's pram always finds dogshit
ignorance is bliss for car horn offenders
caring not for others, not one little bit

I scratch my head when I understand not
confused, bemused when I walk the streets
people are strange, some are even stupid
they wipe ***** shoes on bus and train seats

What's it all about, this bizarre life?
ever stopped to think once in a while?
probably not, too few hours in a day
even without the ousted Jeremy Kyle

Sometimes I sip from a white tea cup
sometimes I gulp from a black coffee mug
rareIy I have sweet moments of clarity
mostly I live in a befuddled fug
Written after walking in my locality today
Chris Neilson Oct 2018
I gaze at a photo
of the 3 years old me
blond hair with an uneven fringe
blue eyes twinkling
at the freshness of this nascent life
a slight gap at the top of my baby teeth
showing through a natural gentle smile
a knitted jumper of a maroon shade
over a buttoned up white shirt

This could be an airbrushed cover boy
such is the perfection of this angelic child
but the year is 1970 with limited technology
the photographer an uncle or an aunt
just another kid in a growing family

I've seen photos of Kurt Cobain at the same age
we were born only 3 days apart
the resemblance to me is striking
he born in the rainy north west of the USA
my birth in the rainy north west of England
both with Irish heritage
both part of generation X
both from humble backgrounds
both journeys poles apart

Only death parted my parents
I had a settled loving upbringing
I never learned to play a musical instrument
I never joined a band
I never sold millions of albums
I never had a stomach complaint
I never fell to the temptations of narcotics
I never married Courtney Love
I was never the voice of our generation
I never made the ultimate catastrophic decision

But I did listen to that voice
I did listen to the angry, confessional lyrics
I bought those albums
they still spoke to me
I still listen to them now
I'm alive and still here in my 50s

I don't have much money
I've never had fame
that ship sailed without me
that ship sails stormy waters
that ship hits icebergs
that ship can sink

I give thanks every day for what I have
cash poor
love rich
Anyone Nov 2018
She found my scars in the back room
Of some party at some house.
Her tears wet the scabs.
Her fear locked her arms around me.
She opened my ribs
And held my heart in her hands.
She nursed it to health, cursed the disease,
Thawed the freeze of love.

Relapse; My knees snapped,
Staggered and fell back.
But she listened whilst my arms glistened.
My Nightingale helped the scars go pale.
Her deep blue eyes held my flaws,
Until they went a duller hue.
Her firm embrace didn't withdraw
Until my jumper was her only view.
Our hands touched, not enough,
Lips lust, needed more. We ******.

The truth was, sympathy wasn't love.
A job done didn't mean 'the One'.
The fantasy we lived hit her like a ton
Of bedsheets and lies. She tried.
So she told me the facts,
She'd held me in tact. And now that I could
Walk, she thought it best we shouldn't talk.
It was abrupt, all the pain would erupt.
The knife leered, my mind jeered
But her lamp, she said,
Would never leave my bed.
So it shone instead, a flame of gold.

It was upsetting, our sun setting,
Yet now I don't cut.
I can make steps on my own.
I see colour in the sky.
To her I owe my wasted time.
Still, every night, I sit by the light,
And pray. Pray for just one more
Sunrise.
In sweet water
we fish and swim
When we are finished
We give it back
To Pachamama
This music is good
And hunger is our attitude
Diagonal winds
Further our stories
Hundreds of copies
Are made each day
Before we've awakened
Cities taste like fried rice
And we wait on lines
For cokes and coffees
Relativity tries to explain
What it can't deny
That we are unstable and often high
You are gullible like the night sky
As single women
Drift along your incision
It's a mission to not hunt them all at once
Juggle the waterfall and pay for her dinner
Gifts are abundant
And some are seeking you too
Kindred spirits kindle our fire
As tired hands hug their mother
Love is burning with desire
Cool down and we can begin to dig
Listen to the sounds that are far away
Beyond your mansions
Into the woods
We drove for days
And still no one
Understood our need for silence
And sometimes our dramas
We were in need of laughter
So i attached a pair
Of jumper cables
To the inside of your pajamas
Columbusphere Nov 2018
There's this light, really hollow expanse in my chest
and it fills with electric stars, each blinking rapidly.
I'll wear my jumper, loose bottoms and socks
and I am engulfed by a sharp breeze, fleeing in
through our open back door.
I know that smell. It's cold and fluttering and full
of purpose. And it pats my face as I breath it in.
I think how easy it could be, and would have been,
way in the past to believe in Gods and who prove their
power by rylling up the weather.
Blowing in a storm.
All thunderstorms smell the same, wherever you
are. And they each speak in heavy voices, rattling low.
I suppose it's on you to look inside at your grievances
unpaid to them. But I simply love the change.
The power in the sky that strikes and rumbles,
and the waiting, oh the waiting...
As the clouds openly fuse and grind darker, the smell
of the thunder growing thicker and bounding about.
It's like a miracle how fast it happens, how much
energy it feeds to everything.
Time that was the insect looking at us, we are obnoxiously
slow. Is now us looking at the insect, who is amazingly
fast. Until...
There's a moment when that energy reaches its
capacity, the sky squeezing. And you wait
Dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
The rain is unleashed. And sound everywhere explodes!
Cause it's heavy and it's coming fast.
Hopping back to the door, I sit just inside its frame
my face stretching with glee, because everything
around me and inside me feels unimportant,
forgotten, under this display.
Small, sitting in the door way, the wind flicking
sprays of water your way. I count in between
the lashes of lightening
One Mississippi
Two Mississippi
Three Mississippi
Four, imagining the maker of these grizzling
static sparks. The ground, the sky, my heart,
pulsing.
I really love a thunderstorm

© 2018 Columbusphere All rights reserved
thea mae Nov 2018
i woke up this morning and found that jumper you left,
i thought i would call you to see if you wanted it back,
But i remember now that you told me not to.
I don’t know if calling would have been the best idea anyway,
you could always hear in my voice when i was breaking,
and every time i think of you i can’t seem to hold the pieces together.

two weeks later it happened again,
i thought of something i wanted to say,
i dialled your number from the top of my head,
and i was about to press the green button next to the red,
But then i remembered.

i kept that jumper i found, i thought i should let you know,
i hope you don’t mind - it still smells like you.

its been six weeks now,
things are different,
a week ago i swore i knew exactly the taste of your voice,
but i can’t seem to hear it anymore,
i thought i could remember how the palm of your hand had felt against mine,
but i can’t feel it anymore.

i woke up this morning, thinking you’d be here,
the smell of your perfume was still stuck in the air,
i reached out my arm,
i just wanted to feel the heat of your skin,
But, like always,
you weren’t there.

please don’t hate me when you see me on the street,
i know ill probably look away from your face and ignore your eyes,
act all cold and distant like that ex you always said you despised,
              It’s just that my heart seems to break a little more,
              every time i accidentally think of the colour of your eyes.
this evening I drink the stars with you
never has the night tasted so delectable
as when our heartbeats sit side to side
when the music slumps
into an indistinct muffle
until we hear our own breaths

flicker of a twinkle in the distance
city populated with insecurities
lungs of smoke and veins of coffee
but you in your striped socks
me with my tea-stained jumper
just enough just enough
Written: February 2019.
Explanation: A so-so poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
“Oh bother moaned,” Mr Ketchup. Its been raining all night. I’d forgotten all about my washing it’s drenched.
“Oh fiddle sticks, now what am I going to wear he thought.”
Poor old Mr Ketchup he was always in trouble. But  this time he’d had only got himself to blame.
Mr ketchup felt rather annoyed   with himself .  For being rather silly.
If only he hadn’t fallen asleep in front of the television .
If only--- he sighed.

After a while Mr Ketchup rememberd doing a spring clean. He storted out some clothes for the charity shop.
Well well he thought to himself off he went outside huffing and puffing dragging the plastic bags of clothes.
He tore open the bag out fell a jumper peculiar looking pair of trousers.
When Mr Ketchup tried them on the trousers on they looked like the mice had made a right meal of the legs. He gashed in horror. Oh bother I'll look like a ragamuffin. The shirt looked like a pink flamingo, as for the socks one short and long.
'Oh fiddle sticks what ever shall I do now he thought',

Mr Ketchup gazed up at the clear blue sky it seemed to be quite warm.
Moments later Ruby the Rude Raspberry appeared with her nose squashed on the ***** window pane. Mr Ketchup pulled the door open looking annoyed.
"What do you want," Ruby the Rude Raspberry.

"Oh", I just came along to see if
you were still alive"
"Oh," how very kind of you he replied sacasticly."
"Dont mention it. she  grinned. I have a rather smart looking pair of trousers. And a shirt to match.
Mr Ketchup glanced back at Ruby the Rude Raspberry. Shook his head.
Mr Ketchup couldt believe his luck. But as he thought. mmmm I wonder if she's after something.
"Oh very well," let me try them on.
Ruby the Rude Raspberry, giggled  a bit.
"What's," so funny now he asked.
"The trousers are a bit on the long side."
"You can say that again. Ruby replied.
Mr Ketchup wasn't amused  in the slightest.
He felt I embarrassed  hurt.
  "Mr Ketchup frowned, I am not wearing those trousers."
"I am," so sorry said Ruby the Rude Raspberry ."
"You could, have fooled me. snapped Mr Ketchup."

Knock knock  as Mr Ketchup answered  the door.
"Oh," Haggis I am so glad that you are here."
Haggis gave him a bag of clothes that he was drying for Mr Ketchup.
"Phew," sighed Mr Ketchup with relief.
"I think they all deserve  a nice cup of tea." Mr Ketchup thought.






.
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
I went with a numbness, and sense of doubt
Dropped at the doors of strangers
But pleased to have been asked.
We all gave our presents to the birthday child
Watching the discarded paper fall and the pile
Fill out the large cushioned arm chair.

Not coming from wealth my present simple style
But always liked, it appeared, much as any other;
Coats taken and placed upstairs.
A quick glance at the other children’s party attire
Mine often a cream jumper and tartan pleated skirt,
Brown leather Clark’s sandels, sensible.

The chocolate game was my favourite
Eating with knife and fork,
As many pieces as able, real fooling about.
Then there was musical chairs that
Put me in despair, as some one always out
And lots of standing about along the wall.

Not very good at general knowledge so forfeits
Left me in tears.
But Oh! for pass the parcel
Always fun had here.
Then to the tea table we went
With eyes bigger than tummies.

All that blamange and strawberry jelly
Sparkly fairy cakes with silver *****
Discarded plates of uneaten sandwiches
Crusts scattering the floor, dropped,
Lastly, milk chocolate fingers galore
And a tiny decorated craker to take home.

The End

Love Mary
I did not like parties much.
Hungry for your legs
Lips and teeth tethered to my heart
Jumper cables may be required to get it started
Once we begin there is no telling where it will end
If we start we may never stop
For Lust is hungry
And Trust is grumpy
So let’s just move along
Before dawn returns with our check
Correct me if i'm wrong  
You are the owner of this cigarette
And a handful of tunes
Remorse is the course you've taken
Sitting beside a lake of fire
Or is it a side of fries that you're after
Lines on the table and cold soup in your eyes
What a waste of space and time
Lying is grotesque
Either we are complex characters
Or I was dreaming of someone else
My heart is broken apart at the seams
My insides spill onto everything
I see myself in nothingness
No more identity, no more intensity
Only time left for rest stops and hi-fidelity
Lead graphs require #2 pencils
These fingers were made for tracing your soul
Give up control and collapse on your way home
As red-headed stepchildren unfold their own
Grief grows strong
Long ago we mourned for this moment
Destiny is a song returning
Remembering our strength
We engage with ferocious obscurity
A lot of living is at the cost of curiosity
We know that the world is full of atrocity
But if you buyout your own grave
And franchise some slaves
Then perhaps you will get the chance
To deepen your stakes in this life
Nothing left in this old town
I felt I didn't have much choice
I jumped on board a west bound freight
It was there I heard the voice.....

"Boy, this here is my car"
"You keep the rules, and you'll be fine"
"I don't know you, you don't know me"
"Boy, this car is mine"

I squinted in the darkness
I tried to focus on the sound
That voice there in the boxcar
As rough as any I had found

I asked him where he came from
He spoke but wasn't clear
Everywhere and Nowhere
And right now from right here

Now boy, Keep your distance
Keep quiet, leave me be
I don't like conversation
You keep to you, and I to me

Just then, the train car shifted
That there's the final shunt
You're safe now boy inside this car
The rail men stopped their hunt

He said that there shunting noise
Is the starting of a song
The train soon will start moving
Everyone is moving on

While the cars are stagnant
You know, not moving, sitting still
The rail men all go hunting
For us hobo's , if you will

That shunting sound is heaven
It means we are onto who knows where
And frankly boy, you know deep down
It really isn't fair

I asked him what he meant by that
He said, I've said enough
As time goes by, you sound some smart
You'll pick up on this stuff

The silence then took over
He was sleeping, so did I
He was snoring quite contently
I couldn't find sleep, I wonder why?

About an hour later
He sparked a match and smoke
And again from in the darkness
The hobo, well, he spoke

Boy, you are a new one
You could have killed me where I lay
But, boy, I trust your scared some
So, I guess I'm safe today

T'was a time a decade back
Got knifed, real hard and deep
Taken by another jumper
While I tried to have a sleep

Hadn't make that choice before
Most times I'm here alone
But, it was cold and wintry like
And I threw this boy a bone

See, it's dangerous riding rail cars
We are all on here to hide
And sometimes, well then, most times
This is not a pleasant ride

You know you asked my name back there
I ain't heard it for so long
They call me "The Conductor"
I'd give my name but, I'd be wrong

Life out here ain't easy
Your head is on a swivel
Listen boy, this is the truth
Not just some hobo drivel

Even though we're many
You are still alone out here
Some you think are friends one day
Would **** you for a pint of beer

So, keep your distance, bide your time
The choice is up to you
Stay out here and roll the dice
And do what you must do

I listened as he rambled
Sorted words that I could keep
Then as sudden as he started
He stopped, and went to sleep

Do I ride the rails a no one?
Lose my name inside my mind?
Or do I travel 'cross the country?
To see just what it is I'd find

I'm lost with no direction
Staying stagnant, that I know
But, the life of The Conductor
Is that where I want to go

I heard the old man snoring
I huddled up and grabbed my stuff
Between the lines from The Conductor
I guess I wasn't all that tough

Back home there is a fellow
The blues man is his name
He reminds me of this fellow
They could be one and the same

Next time I hear the blues man
Or hear the whistle of a train
I'll think of The Conductor
The man who has no name
Oh what an elegant tragedy we aspire to be.
So satisfy me with your mystery.
We speak different languages. A dialogue of impulse and similes.
Similar to the way you moved with purpose and attitude.
I was bound to attract your attention.
I recall the falling feathers of our fathers.
Like sand washed out to sea.
Bleak eternities spent in separate parts of reality.
Reality’s basements are being washed clean.
Flooded with water and covered with the dampness of feathers.
Feet rustling on the pavement. We beg for entertainment.
Company is coming over. To discuss plumbing and retirement.
Jumper cables upon your refrigerators.
I look into your eyes to deduce the algorithms for remembering.
Your blemishes are no longer rubbing me.
Your lungs were made for pumping oxygen and steam.
Yet we keep it airtight and dry. While aliens were coming for my eyes.
Your irises were dreaming of me. Meaning is always fleeting.
So I borrowed your compassion.
And danced on the Sun. You turned into a living goddess.
But you became just a memory to me. For freedom is never free.
It’s always drifting between sarcasm and sandwiches.
And it can never EVER be found on Reality TV.
kade Jan 2
if
if we live we live together
if we jump we jump whenever
if we stay we stay forever
if we stand we stand wherever
you look at my eyes and tell me to stay
you hold me back and tie my chains
so i stay in my chair molded like clay

i stay in the house and notice your hair turning gray
and my respect for you wanes
you look at my eyes and tell me to stay

you faked a disease, the world was your pray
and the iv cords entered my veins
so i stay in my chair molded like clay

i open my world, it's a new place they say
and meet a man who sees me without my pains
you look at my eyes and tell me to stay

we made a plan to free me one day
and now i look around me at the carpet with stains
so i stay in my chair molded like clay

as the threads on my jail jumper begin to fray
and the color on my face drains
you look at my eyes and tell me to stay
so i stay in my chair molded like clay
this story is centered around dede and gypsy blanchard's story
Dogslinwriter Aug 2018
I can’t get out of bed.
I wish one of these days my heart stops working.
You look just fine to me. That’s something I’ve heard a lot of time.
On days like these,
I don’t want to walk, I don’t want to work.
I don’t want to move.

On days like these
The darkness, as I call it, pulls me in, grabs me by the throat, puts my head under water and I am gasping for breath, anything, a silver lining, the little light at the end of the tunnel can save me.
The darkness bounds me.
The darkness hurls me in a snowstorm, it’s cold, it’s ******* freezing here. I want a cup of coffee but I can’t move. I need a blanket. Bring me a blanket, please. People around you either don’t see you or they feel you’re lazy. I am shouting in my head, “Please listen to me! Please, can you help? The darkness came to **** me. Help!” … “Help.” I feel guilty asking for help. I feel guilty when I say I can’t go to work today because I feel depressed. Darkness comes prepared, it brings anxiety and paranoia so you can’t ask for help.

And these people around me. They’re genuine, obviously. “Like why would you not want to go out unless you’re lazy?”

So when on days like these,
I say I can’t go out. I mean “I can’t move. I want to cry but I can’t. I want to quit the job because it’s getting too much. And that humans working like programmed robots are something I don’t feel necessary. Like I wish I were something more genuine like a bungee jumper!” But people around me are more genuine obviously.

On days like these,
Overwhelming is a freaking understatement. Don’t tell me that I am sad. This is not sad. I’d be happy if this was sad.
Sad is eerie and still like a graveyard.
But this is like Frankenstein of my origin as I created it. And it’s going to swallow me whole.
This is far away from sadness. This is a devil.
This is a monster.
A graveyard would scare you but wouldn’t **** you!
But a monster… it will.

But you know what? On days like these,
I’ve seen people carrying their monsters on their back. I’ve seen people who have kept the darkness in their eyes. I’ve seen people who loved someone but can’t anymore because it’s ice-cold inside and outside.
So I know,
The darkness is around me, the darkness surrounds me.
But there are thousands like me.
The thousand who dance the same dance every day.
The thousands who feel the things I feel every day.
The thousands who need to cope the way I do.
The thousands who sometimes find solace in things they love to do.
The thousands are like me. The thousands have forgotten how to love.
But the thousands still hold out their hand for each other.
The thousands feel cold but they keep each other warm.
These thousands give me hope.
Like the light at the end of the tunnel is real.
Like the door of light can wait for a few more years.
Like I am going to survive on days like these after all.

After all, I can live on days like these.

©dogslinwriter

— The End —