arbitrarymadness

BecauseEveryoneSeemsToBeAshamedOfMe

My suicide note will probably be a collage. I’m fond of those. When I can fit the pieces together, just write and it’s beautiful. That’s what I’d like to leave behind. A piece of beauty, something meaningful. My suicide note will probably be a collage. Pieces of poetry by Jeanann Verlee and Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sylvia Plath taped and glued together with my sorrow. It will be tear drops and rose thorns and daisy petals and bat symbols and cake icing and eyeshadow and thread and M&Ms and footprints on a mirror. My suicide note will be the greatest thing I ever wrote and the saddest thing I’ve ever penned. It will be something that someone will remember, since they won’t remember me. It will probably end that I couldn’t stop the wind and I realized too late that I was the chimes.

yep........so this blog still exists, doesn't it...

*looks around* >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<
*shuffles feet*
*looks around again*  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.< 
*clears throat* eh emmmm 
*looks around a third time* >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<  >.>  <.<

soooooooo…..

…..back to the other blog I go. 

*runs quickly away* 0.o

Vow of Chastity {No, Seriously}

I have forgotten what it’s like to be connected
My attachments are all perforated
They tear off with ease

I have forgotten all of my mistakes
All of the maybes I ran away from 
Trying to remain safe
There’s no safety in numbers
But there is pain in relations

I have forgotten what it feels like to feel something
Split me open
Bruise my insides
But know that no matter how I wince and moan
I am numb to this act
Numb to pleasure and pain

I have forgotten what it’s like to want something more
I have spent so long waiting and waiting
For someone to offer me their heart
Instead of jabbing me with their sword
Someone who’d rather rip caverns in their ribs
Than fill my caverns with lies

I have forgotten what it feels like 
To have a good heart
Cuz I gave mine up long ago
In exchange for stardust, pain and smiles
The likes of which I would spend forever
Trying to recreate

Tumblr Crushes:

so many of my favorite people here, and some awesome batspam going on as well. it’s been a picture kind of day. and words, there are always words that get the heart.

<3

ShatteredVisageAndBleedingMemories

I remember when he broke me once. The feeling was reminiscent of a reprimand. A slap on the hand. I was not a good child that day, I suppose. I needed to be taught a lesson. Lessons taste like resentment. They are foul and bitter. Bitterness is ever-consuming. It is unfortunate. Bitter leaves you brittle and unable to bend beneath weight that you cannot explain. It makes you weak. It purports strength. It is a liar. I am a stone. He is a hammer.

I remember when he broke me once. I sat huddled in a puddle of my own feelings, pouring out every last drop I could until I could claim honesty. Because honestly I was broken before he broke me. Because honestly I am a liar. I claim to have dominion over words, but never, in my entire short, miserable life, have I been able to wield them gracefully. Because honestly I love him, with his big hands and beautiful face and awful pride. I was a river roaring incomprehensibly some heart song that was playing in my mind on repeat, hoping he would understand me. Because honestly I couldn’t see a future past him remaining beside me.

I remember when he broke me once. Have you ever been kicked by a horse? Me neither. But I could tell you what it feels like. He said nothing. No words to confirm my declaration or respond in the same vein. He tried to bury it, pretend it never happened and walk past it on a road to wherever he was going. But I mentioned it, softly. Wondering why he would want to talk about trivial things when there was a whole circus full of animals lingering between us, waiting patiently to be fed some attention. And then, he broke me, with blunt words bereft of life. Dead syllables laced with poison that infected my hopes in but a mere second. Never before had I been assaulted by words. Never have words taken the form of a horse and kicked me in my chest. I left a wounded bird trapped in the rain struggling to take breaths. I cried enough to convince my face that it was no longer raining. Then I coughed up the shards and parts of my heart into my hands.

I remember when he broke me once. He called the next day and pretended that nothing happened. He offered no apologies, no reassurance, no band-aids or glue or tape or rubber bands to put my heart back together. He just went back to talking about his day, and dragged me along, broken beside him.

youtube

(Note: I hate doing videos in which I read my work, due to my fervent hate for the way that my voice sounds recorded, however, with this piece it needed to be done. So I did it…at work…with my phone…hence why it sucks. Enjoy. If not, go fuck yourself. I don’t care.)

“A Tribute to My Rain {(Or) An Ode to Reyina}" 

You are the box that holds my keepsakes. The breaths that I draw (like this one, and that one, and that one too). You are both my left and right hand. You are both my left and right foot. You are both my eyes. Both my lungs. My brain. You are every single Batman thing I own. You are my sewing machine. You are my teddy bear, Stuffy Bear the Valiant. You are gone. You are my hair when it’s red. You are my hair when it’s long. You are brand new fabric shears. A seam ripper. A full pack of needles. A bobbin. A spool of purple thread. A pin cushion. And a thimble. You are ink colored nail polish. You are cheesesteak egg rolls. And two half & halfs. And general tso’s wings. And two straws for one drink. And actually getting napkins. You are sleeping all day. You are breakfast at noon. Watching cartoons. You are gone. You are clean laundry. You are comforters. And fluffy pillows. And plush. And fluff. And comfy-ness. You are ball gowns. And costumes. You are masks. And wigs. And makeup. You are new notebooks. Pens. Binders. Paper. White-out. You are gone. You are a brand new black and red book bag. You are a fresh relaxer. You are smooth edges and silky hair. You are the way fresh markers write. You are days off work. You are a new place. You are a vacation. You are gone. You are moss covered trees in a forest. You are a field of daisies. You are a rose bush. You are gone.You are the sun. You are the Rain in a drought. You are the clouds on a too sunny day. You are the Rain in a drought. You are snow on Christmas. You are Rain in a drought. You are the groundhog’s shadow. You are Rain in a drought. You are gone. Gone. Gone. You are the little dipper (I’m the big one). You are Icarus (I am Daedalus). You are a dream. You are a Rain-bow. You are a snowflake. You are gone. You are gone. You are…I still can’t believe it. You are baby socks, and bassinets, and bibs, and blankets, and bottles. You are baby showers. And breaking the news. You are my favorite mistake. You are not a mistake. You are little hands. And little feet. And little eyes. And, oh my gosh, I miss you. You are baby’s cries and spit up and first words and drooly kisses and first steps and parenthood and fulfillment and love. You are my beating heart. Buh-bump bump. Buh-bump bump. Buh-bump. Buh-bump. Buh……(Heart failure). You are gone. You are the tear stains on my pillow. The unbearable cramping. My disinterest with life. The bullet waiting for your son of a bitch dad. The pickles left off of my burger. The smells that make me sick. The heavy bleeding. The shine missing from clean cars. The gashes in my flesh. The lonesome hospital visit. The life gone from my eyes. The doctor’s bad news. You are gone. But I didn’t get to say goodbye. You are gone. But I wasn’t ready yet. You are a queen among the people. A beautiful thing nobody deserved. You are a candle in the water. You are the life in my fingers. You are the words that I speak, that I write, that I read, that I am, that I ever will be. You are gone. You are everything. 

A Tribute to My Rain {(Or) An Ode to Reyina}

You are the box that holds my keepsakes. The breaths that I draw (like this one, and that one, and that one too). You are both my left and right hand. You are both my left and right foot. You are both my eyes. Both my lungs. My brain. You are every single Batman thing I own. You are my sewing machine. You are my teddy bear, Stuffy Bear the Valiant. You are gone. You are my hair when it’s red. You are my hair when it’s long. You are brand new fabric shears. A seam ripper. A full pack of needles. A bobbin. A spool of purple thread. A pin cushion. And a thimble. You are ink colored nail polish. You are cheesesteak egg rolls. And two half & halfs. And general tso’s wings. And two straws for one drink. And actually getting napkins. You are sleeping all day. You are breakfast at noon. Watching cartoons. You are gone. You are clean laundry. You are comforters. And fluffy pillows. And plush. And fluff. And comfy-ness. You are ball gowns. And costumes. You are masks. And wigs. And makeup. You are new notebooks. Pens. Binders. Paper. White-out. You are gone. You are a brand new black and red book bag. You are a fresh relaxer. You are smooth edges and silky hair. You are the way fresh markers write. You are days off work. You are a new place. You are a vacation. You are gone. You are moss covered trees in a forest. You are a field of daisies. You are a rose bush. You are gone.You are the sun. You are the Rain in a drought. You are the clouds on a too sunny day. You are the Rain in a drought. You are snow on Christmas. You are Rain in a drought. You are the groundhog’s shadow. You are Rain in a drought. You are gone. Gone. Gone. You are the little dipper (I’m the big one). You are Icarus (I am Daedalus). You are a dream. You are a Rain-bow. You are a snowflake. You are gone. You are gone. You are…I still can’t believe it. You are baby socks, and bassinets, and bibs, and blankets, and bottles. You are baby showers. And breaking the news. You are my favorite mistake. You are not a mistake. You are little hands. And little feet. And little eyes. And, oh my gosh, I miss you. You are baby’s cries and spit up and first words and drooly kisses and first steps and parenthood and fulfillment and love. You are my beating heart. Buh-bump bump. Buh-bump bump. Buh-bump. Buh-bump. Buh……(Heart failure). You are gone. You are the tear stains on my pillow. The unbearable cramping. My disinterest with life. The bullet waiting for your son of a bitch dad. The pickles left off of my burger. The smells that make me sick. The heavy bleeding. The shine missing from clean cars. The gashes in my flesh. The lonesome hospital visit. The life gone from my eyes. The doctor’s bad news. You are gone. But I didn’t get to say goodbye. You are gone. But I wasn’t ready yet. You are a queen among the people. A beautiful thing nobody deserved. You are a candle in the water. You are the life in my fingers. You are the words that I speak, that I write, that I read, that I am, that I ever will be. You are gone. You are everything. 

Miscarriage of Reality

I sailed the seven seas
Twice and again
I fought and killed
10 thousand men
Defeated monsters
And won a dragon
And I did it all for you

But when I got home
Heart heavy as lead
I knew
I knew
I knew you were dead
Oh how I wish I’d stayed home
Instead
And took the time to love you

But I am ever a fool
It seems
That gets caught up
And lost in dreams 
To awake in terror
And peril
And screams
“Oh my, oh my, I’m bleeding”

You always seemed a dream to me
Like a dream apart from reality
And I didn’t care for you properly
I didn’t protect you efficiently
And now I am washed white in misery
Because you are no longer a part of me
Lost, in turn, like a far off dream 

The Good Die Young For A Reason

He pictured her the way he pictured tigers. Trapped behind bars of malice and bitterness and tears. He wanted to hear her roar just for him. To squirm and fidget and swipe at him with her claws, knowing that she’d never reach him. He wanted her to know that he was more powerful. That her bone crushing jaw and legs strong enough to jump chasms any man would gawk at could not conquer his ability to cage her.

He was a cruel man with white teeth that seemed to glow in the darkest corners of her mind as he chewed at it. He had big, selfish hands that he used to grab and snatch at tiny, defenseless things. His eyes were cold and calculating marked with a smirk that some would be foolhardy enough to mistake for mirth. His lips dripped with old lies. He was beautiful, like shiny swords and rabid dogs and every poisonous flower known to man.

He couldn’t bare the thought of having her unbound. He felt so big by making her feel small. He told her all the time that she was his and his alone; each letter from those words was another brick in a wall and the wall was her prison and he, he was her jailer. He loved keeping her. It made him higher than any drug could, brought him more pleasure than sex could. The smell of her tears was his favorite aphrodisiac. When he heard her whimper in pain, his heart would beat out of his chest in a frenzy of arousal and excitement. Blood was his favorite lubricant, but only from open wounds. He was a sick man, a very sick man.

He’d say to her, “I love you, baby, you’re everything.”
She’d smile as bright as fifty thousand suns.
She’d say to him, in earnest, “My heart, it beats for you. Without you I am less. With you we are one.”
She spoke in parables and riddles like a lunatic or a wise man, for who can really differentiate between the two. He thought her to be a fool in all of her wistful ways.
He’d answer her, “You fool. Who could love you?”

She pictured him the way she pictured angels. Like gifts that we are not worthy of receiving. She saw him float above her like a bird, and figured that’s the way that things should be. She only wanted to make him smile. To bring him joy, to make his heart feel light. She clung to him like the sunlight to the earth and would not let go for anything in the world.

She was a saint. Her hair shined as if it were a halo. Her eyes were bright and beautiful, filled with hope and love. Her smile held pieces of sunlight she was to share with the world. She radiated with benevolent power and unconditional love. She was gifted with a curse that burned her always. She could see nothing, be nothing and do nothing but good. Her heart was so attuned to love and kindness that she would walk into hell to save the cruelest man.

She was such an unfortunate soul. She had yearned for love, had found a man she thought was true. And though he broke her daily with harsh words and disloyal actions, she could do nothing but see him as good. She wore her sorrows on her chest like clothing. She collected her tears and sent them to him each day. She sat quietly in the cage he had constructed, and said nothing as he ripped her power away.

She’d tell him, “I have faith in you, I love you.”
He’d answer, “Faith is the blindfold of fools.”
She’d shake her head as her tears hit her skin and burned like acid.
He’d collect the blood that fell in water skins.

He pictured her the way he pictured tigers. The way the evil perceive things inferior things. The only joy his evil heart could garner was the high he got from hearing her roar-like screams.

She pictured him the way we picture angels. Like gifts that we should cherish steadfastly. She never imagined that he had come to break her. To steal destroy and lie and murder and cheat. She chased him as he ran away from her. And when she would stop chasing he’d come back. The poor saint could never see that she’d been trick. The tigress would remain within her cage. The sick man would get sicker and sicker still. The saint would die quicker and quicker still. Until one day she would be gone forever. And neither would have ever seen it coming.

She’d fade like all good things do in this evil world. He would cry and curse his retched fate.
He whisper to the grave, “I loved her truly.”
She’d thank her maker for sparing her soul such pain and taking her away.

ThisPieceHasNoTitle

i am nothing. i promise you. i believe it. my skin reads it. my body breathes it. i am sickening. a vile creature with tear tracks carting lies and deception down a face scarred by her own hands. i am nothing. i am trash. tossed around like pizza dough and soccer balls and every other female that isn’t anything. my body is  a grave site. so many dead dreams buried in the folds of my nothingness. i am bereft of anything meaningful. even beggars could find no use of me. i am so used up every part of me sends vibrations and echoes and screams that all ring empty. i used to try. i used to fight. i used to think that one day i would be something to someone somewhere. but i’m not and i won’t and i can’t and breathing is hard to keep doing when you know that you are less than less. i am nothing. i promise you. i promise you this. if my skin had a written history it would tell stories that would sicken the world. if my tears could talk they would say that i am nothing. i am unimportant. i am small. i am useless. i am a dead thing that still thinks it breaths. dirt has more worth than i do. i am nothing. i am less reputable than a whore. i am more shifty than a crook. i am less meaningful than a pointless lie. i waste space with my existence. environmentalists are angry with me for breathing and wasting precious resources. my mother can barely look at me. my dad wishes i didn’t share his likeness. i am nothing. i’m not even worthy of lies. i am not worthy of a cold shoulder. i am not worthy of the effort it takes to ignore me. i am nothing. i promise, it isn’t a lie. i am nothing. my skin reads it, i did it. i am nothing. i smell like it, i smell like nothingness. i look like a wasteland. i am nothing. my entire being breathes it, wheezes, pulls out an inhaler, throws it away. i am not worth saving. i am nothing. nothing at all. nothing at all.

NumbnessNauseaNostalgiaandNoNoNoNoNo

I don’t fight anymore. I cry. I mourn my fate. I scream at the sky and make myself bleed, but I do not fight anymore. There are things that make me ill. I refer to them as trash memories. They taste like black ashes in my mouth and suck the soul out of me. If ever there is anyone in life that isn’t a leech, please give them my number. I hate waking. Waking breaks me so. Each time my eyes open I am faced with the reality of reality. Realism frightens me worse than chase dreams and monsters and death and whales and spiders and knowing I cannot say no. I don’t fight anymore. Life is too long for my tastes. I’ve heard arsenic can fix that. I’ve heard that there are people that have sex because they want to. It all sounds like poppycock to me. I am broken. Do you see the cracks spreading through me like a disease? They make up more of me than I do. I am remiss in finding myself these days. I am the picture of failure. Legs spread, lying on my back, blank stare, tears in my heart, pain in my soul, incapable of declining. I hate myself. I wish I could go back and kill myself before I was born. Before I could become what I am now. I think maybe the hole in the ozone layer is really a fallacy. A metaphor to represent our unforgettable flaws. I feel that I am hollower than most. I have no organs,  no meat, nor muscle nor bones. I am a sack of skin filled with toxic thoughts. I do not fight anymore. I know that there are demons after me. They rip at my hair and pull at my mind’s endings. They take the form of men that might be something. Then show me all they want is fucking. And I feel so small in the grand scheme. A tiny golf ball in comparison to the Earth. They have robbed me of everything I have ever loved. I think that death would be a nice adventure. I think that I have shackles on my ankles. I think that I have shackles on my wrists. I think that my soul dies with each fucking. I think that my soul dies as I wake each morning. I think that I am trapped inside a prison. Made of words and sounds and images and lies. I think that  everyone knew I could be something. So they stole my mind to keep me from it. I think that I have grown tired of thinking. My eyes grow heavy. The grave whispers my name. I’ll only miss two things from this life when I go. I’ll miss the smell of Apples and the Rain. I always find myself bleeding or crying. Screaming on the inside, ready to explode. The world’s been raping me since I was a child. I think I should, but I don’t fight anymore.

BottlesBluntsBreathBreakingandBabies

Languid looks never lead to love. They stick like alliteration. That makes no sense. I suppose I’ll try again. Languid looks never lead to love. They stick like fly paper to innocent skin and rip away virtue as they depart. And I suppose this sounds better, but I like it not. I don’t like the way the words stick together. They remind me that all is lost but death. They remind me of the hunt, but there are no fairy godparents to save me. Gosh I must be old, children won’t get that reference. I think I fell out of love with poetry, when my love fell out of like with me, when he said goodnight to that dream that I’d been carrying of us being together. So I write prose, and it’s ugly. It smells like dead babies and Rain. And this is the part where I stop, and cry, and forget where my mind was going. I’ll look around and wonder why it’s May and it’s not snowing. I’ll look around and wonder why this child ever started growing. But I wasn’t talking about all of that. I was talking about the dirty looks he was throwing back. Men will rape you with their eyes, they’ll tear through your spine, and have nothing to say afterwards but it isn’t mine. I think I…I think I deserve to die. I deserve to suffer on through life. I stick like alliteration. That still doesn’t make sense. I suppose I’ll try again. I stick like a horrible friend to the idea that they aren’t a horrible friend. I stick like glue until the very end to nothing at all. My mind is cohesive and attached to nothing. My heart is adhesive and attached to nothing. My eyes are closed. My head is bowed. My hands are folded over my chest. But still a heart is beating in me, outside of my breast. I feel that there is nothing left, but word-like vases that hold no liquids. They are useless. They are disappointing. They stick like alliteration to the top of the mouth when you need the most to get words out. They remind me of the one that frequented me like a convenience store. A quiet visitor knocking at my door, never to be heard from again. Until, of course, I’m walking, of course, and don’t want to see him anymore, of course, because he did this to me, of course, and I feel like my life can’t breathe, of course, and he smiles like a crocodile when he sees me, of course, and then I begin to feel sick again, and my mind realizes the unfortunate truth again and my life becomes a fucking tragedy again, of course, of course, of course. And he smells like despair to me. He smells like sick, and death to me. He smells like Rain’s last breath to me. He smells like a fucking mistake to me. He smells like alliteration to me. Languid looks never lead to love, you know. You never look for love when a man gives languid looks. You just regret it all afterwards, and go back to reading books.    

How To Deal With Heartache When You Have More Scars Than Eyelashes. {Inspired by Jeanann Verlee}

When you suspect something is wrong, text him. If he doesn’t text back, wait 24 hours, text him again. If he still does not respond, call him. If he ignores your call, walk to 7-Eleven, buy four different kinds of juices and a black & mild, forget to buy a lighter in the first transaction, remember the lighter, buy the lighter, walk back home smoking the black, cry, call him again. If he doesn’t answer then, call him again. If he doesn’t answer then, call him again. Keep calling until he answers. It’s been a year, he owes you that much. Do not slander him on Facebook until he answers because if you do you could ruin everything. Get your tongue pierced because you said you would a while ago and it feels good to know everything you want isn’t out of reach. When he makes you cry, don’t cut yourself, get something else pierced. In case of suicidal tendencies, get a tattoo, learn Latin, scratch at parts of you that don’t itch until you bleed, become more obsessed with  Batman, hide the knives, hide the pills, avoid bridges. When he considers another female, don’t get angry, wish him well, investigate, shoot her if she isn’t worthy, hide the gun, destroy the body. If he comes crawling back, let him crawl for a while, a lesson in how bruised knees feels will do him good. When he pleads, make him wait a year, then tell him yes, because he earned it and you want it and you’ve earned it. If he never comes crawling back, become an alcoholic, fuck anything with a dick, write about it, burn what you wrote, write about it again, date that one guy you never wanted to be with in the first place, forget what smiling is. If you see him again, be calm, wait for him to react, mirror his reaction, expect nothing, agree to the sex, use a condom. If you never see him again, don’t cry, shave your head, dye the stubble orange, get several tattoos, pierce both nipples, take up smoking cigarettes, play in traffic, move to Brazil, pray. If you find out that he loves you, hold back nothing, love him back, get married, start a family, live happily ever after. If you begin to suspect that no one loves you, remember that that’s a lie and those that don’t love you suck anyway. If he makes you wait a year, don’t cry, pass the year in mostly silent acceptance, but once the year is over say goodbye. Do not cry. Do not kill yourself. You should be okay in a year.

I had no idea...

…that this blog was really as “famous” as it is.

I can literally post something on here and guarantee at least one note within 15 minutes of me posting it. And this is with me never posting anything ever on this blog in months.
When, the whole time, whatever it is I posted was originally posted on my other blog like last week or something and in all that time got no notes. And I use that blog on a daily basis.

The words are the same…the post is the same…the only difference is the url behind it.

I never knew profoundfuckery had that much pull.
Still don’t give two fucks, but damn…who knew. 

NiggasandNonsenseandNeedingToPunchPeopleInTheFace

You are a dead dream to me, like football. You are a thing I wanted for a brief moment, just long enough to realize how much of an idiot I was in that moment. You are a song that I hated, that I didn’t finish, that I’ll never repeat. You are a horrible, horrible, terrible thing. An idea I wish I never had. Like laryngitis but twice as bad cuz you just won’t go away. And I am far too polite to say the things floating through my mind. I was built always to be kind. So I left revenge behind. But I remember to be wise and not get run over by ain’t shit guys that will hit and quit and dip before my disbelieving eyes. You can want to chill all you like. You aren’t welcome in my life. You can keep calling all your life. Say it with me class, “I will not answer the phone”. Leave the memory of our mistakes where they lie. Without a single tear from you nor a hug or a goodbye. Like the child you gave me that you paid no heed to, let this idea die. I see you as less than half a man could be. If I had your life resting in my hands you’d be dead to more people than just me. How dare you spit in the face of Rain as if you have no concept of pain. Cuz while I hurled over the edge of my bed you were concerned with getting head. When I felt like I might just die, you were out somewhere getting high. When I found Rain was dead and gone, you were out chilling and singing some song. You are slime. You aren’t worth a second of my time. And I hate myself for every second you even cross my mind. And I would love to be cruel to you, but I was built far too kind. So instead, I just tucked your memory into bed. Kissed it and told it goodnight. Closed the door after turning out the light and planned to keep it buried for the rest of my life. Cuz it’s dead to me like some long lost dream. That went away without so much as a blip or kick or scream.

HodgePodgeandThinkAboutIt

I was jealous of a bird today. It sat where it wanted to sit. Flew when it wanted to fly. And in my wrung heart I wanted to cry because I know that it is free and I, well I am something less than that. I am something like a prisoner chained outside of prison. I will never jump as high or run as fast or be as free as I’d like. We all play servant. We all play master. We all play with guns and matches and knives. We all pay for stardust with our one and only lives. We all sit down quietly, hoping that misfortune will pass us by. We laugh at those that receive the fate we escaped. We put ourselves intentionally in waiting rooms and claim we hate to wait. We are poison. We are fools. I am poison. Poison and a fool. I  look at birds with envy. I kiss the sun. I speak with a broken, useless tongue. I have calculators for eyes and bricks for feet. I offend and scare off every normal person I seem to meet. I make excuses for those that won’t even excuse themselves. I give birth to dreams daily, then push them into cells. I am nothing if not broken. You will find nothing in me but bits and pieces of fabric and ribbon creating a calamity. I lie. I lie to myself all of the time. I tell myself the path that I’ve been strolling down for years is mine. That I’m happy in this state. That all of this is for me. That I always cry for no reason, that’s why there’s a sea of tears and pain where my hopes, dreams, and smiles previously used to be. I don’t even speak, lest I find my words sub-par and bite off my tongue in rage at my own inadequacy. This is what the depraved world has done to me. It has sucked the life, the happiness, the soul straight out of me and replaced it with rain clouds and little moles that dig around in my mind creating holes. Then the world comes and sends horrible men after me, and “try” to fill those holes making more of a mess of me. I was not born broken, I became brain washed and convinced that this is how things are meant to be. I am a basket case, true, but this is not reality. We are living lies and harboring demons in disguise, not knowing that if we took a minute to open our eyes and accept that nothing in life is cut and dry we would see that we are building a society resting upon evils and depravity. Our corruption knows only the bounds we bind them to when we are face with inconsistency and believe the propaganda is true. The way we live our lives is nothing if not absurd. I just spit hodge-podge on a whim because I was jealous of a bird.