Carnival Trick Fornication and the Beautiful Obscure
Hello.
I'm in a strange mood right now. I've been in such for a few days now. I blame the make up, I've been wearing it again recently.
Today has been a down day. Depression is no longer a permanent state of mind, it's more just on a daily basis. I was feeling kind of ick, but in last period it just kind of slipped, you know? I was listening to everyone talk, and I realized something. I'm not like any of them, you know how that's like? It's like I'm infinitly older and younger than any of them.
Maybe it's just my mental state? Being diagnosed with depression at 9 can't be good for that. But they don't see the same things I see. I close my eyes, and I see things that no one should. I mean, it's just my imagination and yet it's so real. It's been like that for as long as I remember. Well, since I was about 5. I'm horribly morbid and I don't know why.
Sometimes I think myself wise. And then I realize that I can't be wise, or I wouldn't think myself so. Then I ask myself, does that make me wise? It's really a paradox.
I think too much. Even my mom's co-workers think so. Is it my fault? Probably. Even the doctor told me so. I don't like the doctor any more. Nor the teachers. They're trying to send us to hell. They always tell us to take pride in out work, but pride is a deadly sin. I'm not Catholic, and I don't believe in hell, or Satan, but you don't want to take those risks. Negative energy can be summoned just as easily as positive energy.
The obscure are beautiful. The strange, it's just so easy to stare and wonder at their beauty. The Goths for example. Their clothes and their makeup and just the way they seem to walk is kind of poetic. There is beauty. And the ones that cry. Tears running down their face. Those who cry, but not those who sob. Those who sit with the tears running down their faces and stare ahead. It's something just so pure.
I want to put one of my poems up here. So I will.
Alone in the corner sits the doll,
Discarded for a better toy.
Older- but fatter and fluffier-
All that matters to little boys.
Unnoticed cries the doll,
Waiting for the boy to come back.
And he does, but the better toy stays.
Finally the toy is put away,
And the errant boy returns
To the patchwork family left in the corner.
But too late.
It is too torn to mend perfectly.
And the patchwork doll in the corner
Still cries, unnoticed under pretence,
The pretence of a smile.
Because her heart is ruined.
Ripped to pieces by life in the toy box.
But the toy box is life,
And the doll is all too real.
I wrote that at midnight. True experience. I won't show it to my parents, they'd be offended.
Dolls are pretty too. The porcelain ones, and the rag dolls. But not the plastic dolls. Porcelain and rag dolls are people. I'm a rag doll.
I'm in a strange mood right now. I've been in such for a few days now. I blame the make up, I've been wearing it again recently.
Today has been a down day. Depression is no longer a permanent state of mind, it's more just on a daily basis. I was feeling kind of ick, but in last period it just kind of slipped, you know? I was listening to everyone talk, and I realized something. I'm not like any of them, you know how that's like? It's like I'm infinitly older and younger than any of them.
Maybe it's just my mental state? Being diagnosed with depression at 9 can't be good for that. But they don't see the same things I see. I close my eyes, and I see things that no one should. I mean, it's just my imagination and yet it's so real. It's been like that for as long as I remember. Well, since I was about 5. I'm horribly morbid and I don't know why.
Sometimes I think myself wise. And then I realize that I can't be wise, or I wouldn't think myself so. Then I ask myself, does that make me wise? It's really a paradox.
I think too much. Even my mom's co-workers think so. Is it my fault? Probably. Even the doctor told me so. I don't like the doctor any more. Nor the teachers. They're trying to send us to hell. They always tell us to take pride in out work, but pride is a deadly sin. I'm not Catholic, and I don't believe in hell, or Satan, but you don't want to take those risks. Negative energy can be summoned just as easily as positive energy.
The obscure are beautiful. The strange, it's just so easy to stare and wonder at their beauty. The Goths for example. Their clothes and their makeup and just the way they seem to walk is kind of poetic. There is beauty. And the ones that cry. Tears running down their face. Those who cry, but not those who sob. Those who sit with the tears running down their faces and stare ahead. It's something just so pure.
I want to put one of my poems up here. So I will.
Alone in the corner sits the doll,
Discarded for a better toy.
Older- but fatter and fluffier-
All that matters to little boys.
Unnoticed cries the doll,
Waiting for the boy to come back.
And he does, but the better toy stays.
Finally the toy is put away,
And the errant boy returns
To the patchwork family left in the corner.
But too late.
It is too torn to mend perfectly.
And the patchwork doll in the corner
Still cries, unnoticed under pretence,
The pretence of a smile.
Because her heart is ruined.
Ripped to pieces by life in the toy box.
But the toy box is life,
And the doll is all too real.
I wrote that at midnight. True experience. I won't show it to my parents, they'd be offended.
Dolls are pretty too. The porcelain ones, and the rag dolls. But not the plastic dolls. Porcelain and rag dolls are people. I'm a rag doll.