If you want feel free,
make this one mistake.
Feel the dirt with me.
Fill up with poison
to be free.
Make this mistake with me.
Feel what the dirt is like.
You’ll like it more
than you think.
It takes a second.
Don’t think about it.
Slip into the ground
and fall through the other side
into a pool of water.
Soak up the water and drain the ocean.
Feel the world in your skin.
Feel bigger than you already are.
Feel full and heavy.
The current will transport you.
Transfer you to a whiter place.
Take this one mistake from me.
Slip it through your veins
Lay down with me
and sink into the carpet.
Forget what clean can be and
make this mistake with me
It’s easier to forget what it’s like
to be clean.
Darkness is the light. #vsco #vscocam #ig_newjersey
just enough amber light let in to acknowledge the room.
muddy wash of yellow sprayed on walls, furniture.
an ugly feeling.
rain tapers out, taps on loose windows.
I have not eaten yet because I am not inspired to.
nauseous from not eating
but I choose not to fix it.
uninspired to feel better.
I hate the color of the wall and the shape of the floor.
I feel smaller than I am.
all of my skin turned inside out
and it’s hard to open my mouth
and push words out.
there is a place out there where I’ll feel better but not here.
it could take forever until I go there.
I’ll spend my time scraping the ground if it means eventually I’ll get there.
my face is a plastic mold.
it won’t change itself
it sits, static, molded.
I’m trying to lay as still as possible
with the lights out.
I want it completely silent.
I want to feel static, molded.
I stare at the table by the wall and expect it to do nothing to me
and stay motionless.
I enjoy feeling static even if it means I’m not myself
because it feels authentic.
A state of being that is seen unfavorable becomes a friend.
I press my fingers hard into my temples
and listen for the rain to stop.
the muddy, yellow floor is making me sick.
I need to move.
It’s curious to note how different environments affect my writing.
I thought that I had to be in a certain place and carry an appropriate mindframe to write something I feel is successful.
but I don’t think that’s it.
I prefer to write outside when it’s temperate and there’s a subtle breeze that creates a lulling static in the background,
as if to filter my thoughts so that I don’t hear everything I think.
I like the visual of the moon and its glow.
I like to have a few cigarettes to smoke.
I don’t mind the company of animals but i do mind other people.
I’d rather feel alone.
But who am I, as a self-proclaimed writer, to think that in order to create something new I have to sit myself in the same sort of routine?
I should not be restraining myself because I’ve written successfully a number of times in this setting I created.
I must mention that a few pieces I have made were in different environments and I have come to notice that those environments affected the mood of the writing.
In a cozier atmosphere, I write cozily.
At a desk, I write in a constrained mood.
I will make it my objective to play around with the relationship between the mood of my writing and the setting I place myself in.
See where that takes me.
I must engage more in the world around me and let it write with me.
she sends herself
crashing into me
full force waves
full of her passion
descend on me
and every time
the tide pulls her back
i feel myself
get a little more
lost at sea
Thanks, baby girl. I pay no mind. Unfortunately, I had this kind of backlash about a month ago. I thought it was over but I guess not.
Thanks, man! This gave me a good laugh this morning. I’m fine with being called stupid and indecisive if I get to keep all the close friends and family I have with me now. Maybe I’m not so much indecisive but growing into my own skin because at 21, things start changing real fast. And maybe I realized I was hurting someone by holding onto a bare-bones relationship and let go but was ready to start something new. And that happened fast because I was ready. Do you honestly believe we live in a world of conformist ritualization? It’s 2014. Get over it. It’s as if other people know how I grieve, deal with pain, or live. How dare someone ask for explanations to my own personal decisions. But, this has been lain to rest. I have a lot of hate geared towards me but that is natural in the process of finding one’s self. I’m doing great for myself. All that matters.
— Aristotle (via liberatingreality)
I could say it a thousand times over but I will show how I love you
by making you coffee and walking next to you
I will share my company with you.
You give me so much by that look
lit by streetlights in the parking lot
I would fold myself over the length of the world just to see you look.
Where were you in the years that I spent falling over myself,
barely keeping up with my head, constantly dizzy
hoping I would fall just to make everything stop
so I could catch my breath again.
I cannot hear the cacophonous static.
There is so much to listen to in this silence.
And when we sit without speaking
I draw the picture in my head
of how colorful the dark night is with you.