and i'll have you know i'm scared to death
Who's alive and who's dead on the inside? To the vast majority you're invisible. Ivy growing on the brick walls, growing up, growing old. Looking tired and alone. Who really knows you, yourself? Put the old pictures away and lock the memory box. They are no more you than the blank expression you find on your face in the crooked mirror you pass everyday.
You are the name printed on the medicine bottle you keep in the bedside drawer. You're the wrinkles, smile lines, and blemishes you cover up on your face. You're the tears in your socks and shoes that let the cold weather and rain in. you're the words you change and scribble away in the dear john letter you'll never send.
She said she'd buy the flowers herself.
She slipped into inadequacy, sunk below the surface line far beneath all the others. And no one noticed. Cold surrounded her and the echo of silence was painful. Her eyes moved back and forth, wandering, searching, hoping for a matching pair to lock with hers and take her hand. She watched the life above her pass in slow motion. Seeing mouths open wide, smiling, laughing and kisses between happy lovers.
We all have our moments of depression.
I've been processed, lumped into an easy-to-diagnose category. I'm getting closer to the edge. The tiny loose rocks have begun to fall to their death, foreshadowing what lies ahead for me. As if to mock me. As if to entice me.
I have become many different persons. Alice, Anne, Clarrisa, Jennifer, Neely, Lux, even the narrator and Charlie. But never have I, in the mix of all the characters I have become, find my own name, my own self. Not anymore. I have only lost myself more, forgot myself more, killed myself more. Repeating phrases and words that are not my own, taking on emotions and neurosis that magnify my state of mind.
I've already died. I'm on my last life and I refuse to let anyone else kill me again. If I finally go it will be on my time. I'll stand strong. I'll huff and I'll puff so you cant blow my house down. And something tells me I've been here before. Something tells me I'm turning into the flame that will burn the world down. And I'm scared. I'm on the verge of disintegrating. It's as if I'm standing in a crowded room shouting "STOP THE WORLD I WANT TO GET OFF!" and no one is listening.
The tension tangles and tightens around me like a lose shoe lace in a bicycle pedal, and soon enough I'm going to be thrown over the handle bars and into the lamp post.
I feed off other's souls and live for pain. I need to feel the hurt burn from another's eyes before I can love. Insulting and inviting I beg you, throw me to the ground and if I come to my knees, knock me down again. Keep me close to your feet and I'll keep you close to my heart. I'll water the earth with my tears and wait for a rose to grow through a crack in the pavement.
How did evil come into this world? How did I become a distant memory to my own mind? Who allowed me to slip away? Who's to say I'm not worth saving?
I-- the answer to all questions.
I am the evil that snuck through the cracks of hell and tried making my way to heaven, corruption and defeat trailing behind me. And I allowed the distant memory of good and love to slip through my fingers like water dripping into the bathtub I drown myself in. I take pride in my ability to lie, in my competence to run, in my skill to shut down. And I do just that; because I can. This is when the true evil emerges, seeping through all my pours, saturating myself in ill-intentions and self repulsion. The water runs red with blood and wine and I admire the crimson glow in candlelight projection on the walls. I leave the door unlocked but hear no footsteps, and begin to fear I never will. I'm always too early, or they're always too late.
I play victim so the guilt is lighter when I attack .
I am what I feel and see and hear--which is not where I should be. I must be numb blind and deaf. I must be missing out on all the beauty in the world. I find comfort in death and assure myself its okay, but there must be something else. Twenty seven years is too much for me, some one give me a sweet relief in standard school room text.
The American dream has poisoned our minds, destroyed our lives and ripped us limb for limb. There is no such thing as love, comfort, security or compassion. Jealousy, greed, anger and disappointment pollutes the very air we breathe and to tell you the truth, I'm tired of choking.
Go somewhere in your mind. Anywhere. An open field, a river or lake, be in a tree or lay in a bed. Are you relaxed? Do you feel safe? Are you thinking, or letting your mind unwind and do nothing? Do you care? Now think again-- does this place even exist? Have you ever seen it? Do you go there as often as you would like?
My writing style has changed and apparently so am I. The bad things always stay the same though. Irony is a phenomenal thing.
Standing up seems wrong but kneeling doesn't feel right. And so existence seems the only option. Utter lifeless existence.
Self delusion-- it would be a beautiful truth if it was the truth, and you would be a beautiful person if you were in fact human and not this mechanism trained to do nothing but work, drink and sleep. LIVE for Christ's sake! Do something crazy and spontaneous. Think outside the box. Be something beautiful and rare. Be that place you go when you close your eyes. Be that feeling you get when your heart drops, when your soul almost falls out of your body and your stomach jumps into your throat. Be intense. Life is nothing without passion.
But this is coming from the girl who's ruined. Who has nothing to live for. But there is you. And you still have a chance. A chance to love who you are and be not what you think it is you should be, but what you want to be.
cynisism and nostgalgia, and I take the road most traveled, over gorwn and beaten down. still i stop to pick the dandelions and spread their spores. but more so to take on the passer-bys, allowing them to strangly pass through me and so they do, and so i travel on. watching them fall ahead or behind me, and i forgive them.
You are the name printed on the medicine bottle you keep in the bedside drawer. You're the wrinkles, smile lines, and blemishes you cover up on your face. You're the tears in your socks and shoes that let the cold weather and rain in. you're the words you change and scribble away in the dear john letter you'll never send.
She said she'd buy the flowers herself.
She slipped into inadequacy, sunk below the surface line far beneath all the others. And no one noticed. Cold surrounded her and the echo of silence was painful. Her eyes moved back and forth, wandering, searching, hoping for a matching pair to lock with hers and take her hand. She watched the life above her pass in slow motion. Seeing mouths open wide, smiling, laughing and kisses between happy lovers.
We all have our moments of depression.
I've been processed, lumped into an easy-to-diagnose category. I'm getting closer to the edge. The tiny loose rocks have begun to fall to their death, foreshadowing what lies ahead for me. As if to mock me. As if to entice me.
I have become many different persons. Alice, Anne, Clarrisa, Jennifer, Neely, Lux, even the narrator and Charlie. But never have I, in the mix of all the characters I have become, find my own name, my own self. Not anymore. I have only lost myself more, forgot myself more, killed myself more. Repeating phrases and words that are not my own, taking on emotions and neurosis that magnify my state of mind.
I've already died. I'm on my last life and I refuse to let anyone else kill me again. If I finally go it will be on my time. I'll stand strong. I'll huff and I'll puff so you cant blow my house down. And something tells me I've been here before. Something tells me I'm turning into the flame that will burn the world down. And I'm scared. I'm on the verge of disintegrating. It's as if I'm standing in a crowded room shouting "STOP THE WORLD I WANT TO GET OFF!" and no one is listening.
The tension tangles and tightens around me like a lose shoe lace in a bicycle pedal, and soon enough I'm going to be thrown over the handle bars and into the lamp post.
I feed off other's souls and live for pain. I need to feel the hurt burn from another's eyes before I can love. Insulting and inviting I beg you, throw me to the ground and if I come to my knees, knock me down again. Keep me close to your feet and I'll keep you close to my heart. I'll water the earth with my tears and wait for a rose to grow through a crack in the pavement.
How did evil come into this world? How did I become a distant memory to my own mind? Who allowed me to slip away? Who's to say I'm not worth saving?
I-- the answer to all questions.
I am the evil that snuck through the cracks of hell and tried making my way to heaven, corruption and defeat trailing behind me. And I allowed the distant memory of good and love to slip through my fingers like water dripping into the bathtub I drown myself in. I take pride in my ability to lie, in my competence to run, in my skill to shut down. And I do just that; because I can. This is when the true evil emerges, seeping through all my pours, saturating myself in ill-intentions and self repulsion. The water runs red with blood and wine and I admire the crimson glow in candlelight projection on the walls. I leave the door unlocked but hear no footsteps, and begin to fear I never will. I'm always too early, or they're always too late.
I play victim so the guilt is lighter when I attack .
I am what I feel and see and hear--which is not where I should be. I must be numb blind and deaf. I must be missing out on all the beauty in the world. I find comfort in death and assure myself its okay, but there must be something else. Twenty seven years is too much for me, some one give me a sweet relief in standard school room text.
The American dream has poisoned our minds, destroyed our lives and ripped us limb for limb. There is no such thing as love, comfort, security or compassion. Jealousy, greed, anger and disappointment pollutes the very air we breathe and to tell you the truth, I'm tired of choking.
Go somewhere in your mind. Anywhere. An open field, a river or lake, be in a tree or lay in a bed. Are you relaxed? Do you feel safe? Are you thinking, or letting your mind unwind and do nothing? Do you care? Now think again-- does this place even exist? Have you ever seen it? Do you go there as often as you would like?
My writing style has changed and apparently so am I. The bad things always stay the same though. Irony is a phenomenal thing.
Standing up seems wrong but kneeling doesn't feel right. And so existence seems the only option. Utter lifeless existence.
Self delusion-- it would be a beautiful truth if it was the truth, and you would be a beautiful person if you were in fact human and not this mechanism trained to do nothing but work, drink and sleep. LIVE for Christ's sake! Do something crazy and spontaneous. Think outside the box. Be something beautiful and rare. Be that place you go when you close your eyes. Be that feeling you get when your heart drops, when your soul almost falls out of your body and your stomach jumps into your throat. Be intense. Life is nothing without passion.
But this is coming from the girl who's ruined. Who has nothing to live for. But there is you. And you still have a chance. A chance to love who you are and be not what you think it is you should be, but what you want to be.
cynisism and nostgalgia, and I take the road most traveled, over gorwn and beaten down. still i stop to pick the dandelions and spread their spores. but more so to take on the passer-bys, allowing them to strangly pass through me and so they do, and so i travel on. watching them fall ahead or behind me, and i forgive them.