accidental-poetry

Some people drink themselves sick night after night.
Others get high almost as often as they take in oxygen.
And some find a new lover every other month.
And the sad part of that isn’t the fact that they’re destroying themselves, though it may be true.
The saddest part of all of it is that each of those people are just looking for a remedy for whatever bullshit they’re forced to feel.
Lets be honest, we’re all just looking for a pain-killer. And mine just so happened to be you.
—  You were the only remedy.
The Cycle

I worry
I can’t help it
It’s a sinking feeling,
A bite.
The pit opens, wide,
And then you’re there
Looking into it
Light disappears
And the shadows have you-
Pulling you
Then
The water shimmers
Underneath you-
Taunting.
Silence deafens you
And you’re getting smaller
And smaller.
Then there’s screaming-
It’s yours.
And you can’t stop.
The spirit of the void exhales
And you’re held in the dark water-
Suspended, suffocating-
With no breath.
And hope is the smallest
Sliver if light far above-
Dangling.
And sometimes there’s laughter-
Surrounding you
With cruel words,
Evil smiles.
But you’re happy
Just to see smiles.
And glad not to be
Utterly alone in the darkness.
Company in the nothingness.
Something to cling to in despair.
A ray of web string width-
Hope dangling.
If only you can catch it,
And wind it tight around you,
You can be free.
To be free…
But the web is thin
And breaks after a time.
Wearing to nothing and
Dropping you back down…
And then you sleep.
Dream.
Or something like it.
Night walking,
Soul drifting,
Going between the worlds.
And where’s the end?
For this life the end is the end.
We die a little each day.
The soul lives in.
The energy continues on.
Cycles, circles, Old Magic-
The names of gods forgotten
And those that served then,
Hands bloodied.
The god’s voices call-
Taunting.
You wake, confused,
Wipe away the sleep.
The world is there again.

Coming out as someone between genders was hard. It makes it feel like people hide what hey think. I can see people when complimenting holding back on their words. Its almost like I can read their thoughts. “Do I say pretty or handsome when they wear that shirt?“ or “Defined or curvy?”. I understand people are not use to this ‘new gender’. But that doesn’t stop you from calling me what is seen as a gendered word. Because hey, I am handsome. And pretty. And cute. But most of all I am beautiful. I may not say out loud. Heck, I have a ton of insecurities. But slowly, after taking a jump out of the closet, I am getting better. So please, if you are complimenting say what you think. Say I am handsome. Say I am good. If you want to tell me something you don’t like about me, fuck you. Bringing me down is easy but don’t think for a second I will go down quietly. I will scream and shout about who I am. I will write poems and replace your name with asrehole.
So tell me I’m pretty or ugly or alright or beautiful. Because at the end the end of the day, you just make me stronger.

Love
Sam


P.S I love being called cute.

In the flawed there lies great beauty: Torn pages. Crackles on vinyl. Scratches over celluloid frames. The limitations of physical media become an inescapable component of the art we consume. They place the fiction within a reality, and reveal them both to be susceptible to the ravages of time. More precisely, they expose the beauty within art’s tales and emotion as being mortal - just like us.

Screenshot from Detour (1945, Edgar G. Ulmer)

There are four people I sit with at lunch. They never tell me to leave but their world is impenetrable. They make plans involving everyone there but me, talk only about people I don’t know, and whisper stories to each other they never planned on telling me.

The past week I have sat alone at an empty table, but today I sat with them again. They did not ask me where I had been.

One of them shouted out, “let’s all open our fortune cookies.” They each read theirs but didn’t ask about mine.

Mine read: “stop comparing yourself to others and you will be happy.”

I left.

I think deep down we all have a passion to learn about ourselves because it’s human nature to be curious. 
Plus, we’re not just exploring ourselves, we’re exploring a self contained galaxy of hopes and dreams, of building blocks of life and cycles of decay, balanced endlessly until the scale tips.
We are the birth and death of a star system in it’s most compact form and that is a thing of beauty.