Log in

No account? Create an account
entries friends calendar profile Previous Previous
a mistreated machine
can start acting mean
I hate feeling like this. It comes on like a cold. At first, you just feel a little uneasy and needy; wanting cuddles and reassurance. Then it's an almost physical sickness. You might talk normally, but everything you say feels hollow, however important or unimportant. Then the feeling in the chest; heavy and painful. And far from being due to heartburn or eating too much. This stays present as a sensation attacks the wrists and arms, drawing attention to them and making you want to slice them straight through.

I never know whether writing things down helps or makes it work. Catharsis versus paying attention to that which ought to be ignored. Also, I never know whether I can relate it to happenings or whether it slithers in without any reason. Or whether it comes from doing nothing and allowing the brain to go fallow.
Leave a comment
after all this time,
the table's turned; reversed.
my words in your mouth.

a dagger, a blade,
sharp-edged and brutal, good night.

ignore the above. they're random poetry bits.

message to the 'zeitgeist'

Dear zeitgeist,

I am doing my best. Please don't eff me over.


Current Music: afp - do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth..

Leave a comment
Pretty goodies for sale. Brand and non-brand.Collapse )

Current Location: London, UK
Current Mood: tired tired
Current Music: amanda palmer

Leave a comment
I wouldn't mind the lies you tell,
Feeling happy, doing well.
As I am among the choir of angels,
seeing from above the way
you refuse to cry, alone.

I wouldn't mind the drinks
you've drowned, lost sailors
and sorrows, forgotten
in lace layers of cocaine;
the dress, the hair, the jewels
that mask.

I wouldn't mind the kisses
you seek in dark places
from lips you will despise.
Lips that seem to tear and rip
your gently swaying corpse.

I truly wouldn't mind,
If I could believe
that it didn't hurt you so.
Leave a comment
Despite the old rhyme

Words are sticks and thoughts are stones
To beat ourselves, to break our bones
To make us think we are someone
-someone and no one, all at once-
To build our bridges,
To construct our precipices
From which we will, at length,
be thrown.
Leave a comment
WhyCollapse )
1 comment or Leave a comment
to scratch an itch
an itch that's omnipresent
and has been since
the birth of time

methuselah would laugh
to see the way you complain
about feeling old
and having seen
it all. To watch the circle

which continues, spiraling
where everything feels different
but nothing's changed;
the old refrain

It's all been done before.
Leave a comment
I was going through my drawer and found an old notebook. i found some stuff that i think is okay ish and def has some decent ideas in.

We are

We are cloulds, comprised of memories
and water.
To block the light of joy from others
merely due to their opposing coordinates.
We may appear beautiful and remote but,
without perception, are formless
-a collection of matter[s].

We are cigarettes: a momentary release followed by the ability to addict, corrode and destory.
Once lit, we burn away whether tendered of forotten.
We breed disease and use money like water. As though it wre part of us.

We are gloss window planes, splattered and easily broken.
We tear and cut and break.
We can reveal everything or emptiness.
We are humans: we are not humane.
Leave a comment
I haven't felt like this for a while.

How is anybody going catch you when they don't know you're falling?
Leave a comment
Sometimes, when the light shines
and all seems well,
in the summer sun.
I remember.
Leave a comment