Stupid Fucking Thoughts 14.6.2016

I feel like shit.

And I'm tired of feeling like shit about everything. About everyone. I float as a ghost through the day, attached to nothing and to no one. I have no space of my own, and time flies by beneath my fingertips in a way that seems unreal. I think about you constantly, and for some reason it feels as though everyone believes that the way I react and feel is incorrect. But how can it be incorrect if this is the way I fucking feel? 

There's all this feeling, all this emotion, that seems to well just beneath the surface. Leaving a headache to rot my skull. But it's beneath a layer of complete detachment, I can't feel anything, only can hear the whimpers of emotion as they pass me unnervingly by. I stare, unable to register.

I realize my creativity is locked in a place where I cannot reach, I wonder if it's worth reaching at all. Or if anything really is. The day by day is dragging me down, and I have nothing to do. Stressed when I'm working, stressed when I'm not. There is a gaping empty hole inside of me that I want so badly to fill, but I can't help but looking in all the wrong places.

My mom used to say that the hollow hole was meant for God and our relationship with Jesus, but that didn't work for me either. I used to think that writing filled the same hole, but if there's no audience and no inspiration, what the fuck's the point? Then, I thought maybe romance could fill the hole, and if no one wanted to date me then maybe sex would do the trick. Yet it's as gaping as ever, howling with all the emotions I can't seem to face. I don't understand just how one faces..anything. And I need time alone, but I cannot be alone. There has been no time to be alone, to be my self.

I don't know what will bring me back to a state of purpose. I don't know what will bring me back to a place of self-love. Everything seems gray in the moment. Everything seems temporary and not at all how I had expected. I don't know what I want, I don't know what I want.

But I want more than this. I want more than all of it. I'm so fucking sick of being complacent.
The only thing I know how to do is write, and even that doesn't seem like a skill that I can utilize at the moment.

Hunter

I was born a wolf into a family of sheep.

And thus I was taught that the sheep
Are not to be eaten

But you have blood in your fangs
And your grinning from a place
That looks greener from where
I'm standing


S.W.

Morning

It’s easy to forget the way the morning can have a beauty. Creeping under eyelids as I wake from dreams that are warm and vivid and too much to ever live in for more than a few seconds that can drift into setting that seem as though they last for years. There was never much of a chance for me in the morning, when my dreams were always so fond and caressing to the things I wanted. But this morning, the rays of early sunlight drown out the surrealist within me, sparking inspiration from the reality of sobriety. There is beauty in everything. And I remember that I don’t have to write a novel every day, and there’s no pressure to move on. I can capture a moment, a person, a scene. These things exist in ever present motion, waiting to be captured by someone willing to listen. But I have refused to listen for the longest time, believing that what I really needed to move forward was hidden in a pipe somewhere or a particular strain of clouding weather. I am ever-changing, growing, and understanding that the world and its beauty has more to offer than I give it credit for. I will open my eyes for the day, let responsibility take a back burner to creativity and the things that I feel, deep into my core.  There is time, there is always time.

I have been waking in a bed that is warm with my own heat, glad for the extra space to stretch, where stuffed animals and extra pillows can pile. They make better company than any human companion I have ever had to embrace. Loneliness seeps into the night like a symptom of the cold, but in the morning everything is perfect and serene. I miss no one and I am very aware of the fact that no one misses me. In the morning the rest of life seems possible, folding out in front of me with the expression that no one else is needed that being content is a state of mind that I have been feigning though it had been available all the time. I will move forward with what’s ahead, I will take things day by day and accept my path as it is. But most importantly, I will feel where feeling is to be felt. No more cowering behind the masks of what I think people want to hear, or straining to cover the truth. No lying to oneself, either. I have always known that life is too short to worry about such little mundanities, but life seems to rub ruts into our skin, into our mind. Unable to claw our way out until we realize just how far we’ve dug ourselves into the ditch.

This morning I will move forward with myself in mind, understanding of the fact that nothing is black and white but everything is a different shade of gray and that in different lights the tones change regardless of how good or bad my eyesight really is. Some people are colorblind and some are ignorant to the fact that there is color at all. I will take the morning as it comes, take the people as they come. With accepting and open arms. I will take myself as I come, and realize that my mistakes are only the stepping stones to the person I am working toward, the one I can be proud of and that causes me to move forward even when I am problematic. Move on for yourself. Move on for myself. Take the desert mornings with acceptance and stop longing for a place that is still several places ahead. It’s impossible to tell where one’s going, only where you are. 

Lambs for Sacrifice

Life sucker.
Blood sucker.
Your pretty little words
Got stuck in my pretty little head

I thought for a moment
That you cared
When you looked at me
With wide eyes and an open mouth

You're still under my skin
In a way that leaves me
Clawing at the flesh
But I can't tear you out
You've leaked into my veins
Bled into my heart.

I didn't know
When you told me
Not to write about snakes
That you would be the replacement

I didn't know
When you told me you loved me
That I would be the one
Screaming in the street

I didn't know
The our spark you spoke of
Was nothing compared
To the fire you started yourself

So this is my poetic "Fuck you"
Because even though
You stopped thinking about me
The moment I flew home
You haven't left my dreams

And this is my poetic "Fuck you"
For being another torn page
In this book of broken lovers
That I cannot stop from writing

And this is a poetic "Fuck me"
For falling for it all again.

I don't want to sound poetic when I say that I think I'm drowning.
I don't want to sound arrogant when I say that I would be better off dead.
There's only working and moving forward,
when the same fate awaits in different shades of red.
Nothing is worth striving for,
When it all fades away in the end.

Kill me, Kill me.

Untitled 5/7/2015

And I don't know if this is a poem, or a blurb a little too long in my head, but you're on my mind.
And I want to be able to reach out, call you over to me, pretend as though there aren't lines I have to dance around or enemies in your own mind I have to dodge.
I wish I didn't care what you think of me.
I wish I didn't need your touch to feel good, or your breath to feel worthy.
But I wish you needed me.
There are a thousand things I wish, and I guess that's what it all comes down to.
Wishing.
That things were different, better, useful, passionate, and inspiring.
I guess the bottom line is that I feel those things when I'm with you.
I guess the bottom line is that I want my life to be encompassed with those feelings, submerged down into the depths, unable to breath without the humming nature of feeling right.
You feel right.
And the rest of the time it's just like floating.
Waiting for the next wave or change in temperature just to confirm that these nerve endings still fire in your absence.
But your absences are long.
And I ache, ache, ache for you.
In a way that's like poison, because you're all I can think about and not mine to take.

One day you'll read this and think of me

You've crawled under my skin, made a home in my blood cells and crammed your way in between the beats of my heart. I'll try and sound poetic when I say that I hate you, that you've ruined me in such a casually cruel way that it makes me nearly insane. There's a million things that come to my lips when I see your name and open my notebook to see your half done drawings covering the surface. You are a slow bleeder and a tangle in my thoughts, worming your way into a crevice of my mind that is not open for the public.