Splotches of Sepia

The word vomit of a self-proclaimed cynic.

Like the Nomads.

I suppose I’ve written- As in the action of “writing”; Placing pen/pencil to paper swirling letters like mixing paint to form words that eventually construct a sentence. Or a few. But I, myself, have done no real writing in a long time. This. Right here. This is the realist thing that I have written in close to six months. Not for it’s content–mainly for it’s energy. The flow. There are pieces of my heart on this page, in these words you are reading or listening to someone else read. And this is what it really is to write. And I don’t know what it means. I really don’t give a fuck–and more importantly, I think that’s the key. You need to break up pieces of your heart and mind and intertwine them with the ink inside of your pen, so they are felt and seen with intense purpose to you and to others. You shouldn’t worry about what it means–Just write the fucking shit down and keep going. Feel it. In every syllable. As if your lover is kissing you on the nape of your neck–Or caressing you with their fingertips on the small of your back. The key is to not know what it means and to not give a fuck anyway because that is knowledge accompanied by acceptance. Acceptance into/of what, you say?

I don’t know. And I don’t give a shit.

It’s been a wh…

It’s been a while since I have felt so right. This right. It is super fucking nice. You are this like, yummy sugary spice. I can not ever be close enough. I can not fathom not being yours. I feel as if it has always been that way. I want you to take my heart; keep it in your pocket. Or wherever. But don’t lose it. Please don’t refuse it, because it’s not like you can reuse it. I could do anything with you, for you, through the intense blue of your eyes, seeing me, see you. In the absence of all lies, you are sugary shiny salty sweetness that pies despise. I am happy you found me. 14,000 things to be happy about and all I need is you.

I Do What You Hate.

I think it is not that you grow out of it–or grow into it–you grow amongst it and it becomes your choice as to whether or not you become it or consume it.

But we divide.
Into peas, carrots, brussels and such,
Naked ladies eating lunch with
Timing like the birds.
Chattering bees
Alone and together
Wrapped in a sheet-love for music.
To dance as they please.
Two naked ladies grow into trees.

Sometime in December or Maybe January…

Sometimes–well most of the time I feel my mind drift to the trees. I can feel the leaves and smell the bark and envelope myself in the pungent scent of the earth. As the breeze swims past me it mingles with the leaves and swirls my hair and I close my eyes, paralyzed by the sunshine on my face. I listen to anything and everything I can hear. I work to distinguish each and every sound in the air. I take enormous pleasure in these moments. I allow my mind to travel amongst the trees and drown itself in the various adaptations of the senses. My senses. I allow this for myself. I wish this for others. It seems the society in which I live has no interest in embracing nature or ones own sense of self; sense of life. The society in which I unfortunately was born into, cares about money. So they train you like good little sheep to follow. Obey. The purpose is absent. This is something which will forever make me sad but I have learned to live with it. I have chosen to live my life. I feel alot–most of the time. I know now to be in constant awareness of these feelings or “emotions”. To be only aware–not to give in to them. This has helped me greatly. I am currently at one of the most decisive moments in my life, constantly. Strange as it is, we all could be if we realize we can take every moment and make it such. Just by making a choice for it to be so. To be as you wish it to be…and it will be that. It will be that. I have worked almost constantly since the age of thirteen only to realize from my blossoming consciousness–that this way of living deemed suitable in this society is not a way of living but merely another way to die. The “normal” way to die. This is the inevitable but I am not dead yet. So I choose. I CHOOSE. I choose to live. I choose to do what I want–and to clear away the falsities that were temporarily engrained into my young mind. Now if more people will wake up–maybe I and others like me would not feel so alone. Although it is the Human Condition, simply put–so maybe the loneliness would still remain but possibly be a bit more tolerable. Despite this feeling, I won’t entertain it–For I am aware and aware that there are humans around me. Even if those around me seem to be ignorant close-minded sheep. I feel like someone is looking for me. As much as I hide from others, I would like it very much if they were to find me…this person whom I feel searching for me. Or maybe I am the one in pursuit of them ?

A Punchable Face

It’s interesting how someone can want that love. Want it, crave it so bad– Then a person comes along and says, “Hey I’ve got it–I’ve got the stuff– You can inject it, snort it, smoke it, eat it, fuck it– But here, I want you to have it, take it.” It’s there in their hands, in their face–Their eyes, lips, mouth, nose, and you can see it–But you don’t want it–You don’t want it because they’re giving it to you. You want to take it but not like this. Because–not because it’s not real–not because it’s fake–Because you want to steal it.

Smoking Cigarettes in Life’s Waiting Room Next to a No-Smoking Sign

Sweet
Free time for a bitter woman,
Indeed bittersweet.
Ethics…fatale.
The dead walk amongst the living–
The living pretending to be alive
Survive barely.
Scarcely
Knowing the doom that shall
Come their way
In fate’s proposal
Every single day.
The unexpected
Indisposable and in hand.
Too many to count–
In abundance as the stars
One for every grain of sand.I
This earth has many hands,
Ladyfingers in the sky,
Toes taking root in the land–
Giving love to those who understand.
Humans travel ’round the bends,
In search of the love the rope suspends.
Once found, they tie the knots again,
Destroying nature’s amends
Just to cut away the odds and ends.
Ethics…fatale.

Strangers.

The strangers I see come to visit me.
Their heads drag along the floor.
Their empty words enter my brain
While the morphine swims through my veins.
This sad expression, stolen from me
Reflected into the eyes I do not want to see;
Pretending to look at me.
Disgusting really, this look of sad.
The audacity.
Having little or no idea on how to just be,
They glare;
Cast a pitiful worry and hurry along.
Long gone as before and in the now.
Pieces of love lost sleeping easy,
Facades fallen down.
Awake, I dream.
Fading all away most precious memories.
Nothing then and now.
Just this assortment of candied sorrows that follows the Sad strangers of yesterday and today’s tomorrow.

Jumping Feels Good Sometimes

It won’t stop.

I cannot know your name,
Strange Distraction.
Peripheral vision.
Fucking attachment.
Sideways view
Of you.
Migraine
Pulls little nerve-endings
In my brain.
Strange distraction.
Chemical reaction.
Fucking attachment.
Sideways view
Of me and what I could do.
This may be the death of me.
Strange distraction.
What might happen, I can foresee.
Chemical reaction.
This waiting period, an eternity.
Fucking attachment.
Jumping feels good sometimes.

I Hate Being Late to Meetings Called “Appointments”

You know, it would be really great

If I could give you a grade on being a friend.
Scratch the scale; no zero to ten.
There wasn’t a test but somehow you failed again.
Lift me up off of the ground !
You think you are right-side up
But I can see that you are still so incredulously upside-down.

Topsy

Turvy

S l     o      w        l          y

I stand small on my own two feet
Realizing you trapped me… in exile;
Yet, remaining unaware I had been there for quite a while.
Your silly smile and oh, how I fret for
What you didn’t say.
Regret.
Falling limbs.
Broken back.
Maybe a mistake but, I know

You know it would be really great.

Currently …

My words are broken.
Technically I suppose most words are broken, in fact. But these fragments of my own unknown history enter through your senses to the brain and I wonder if you wonder from where it is they came. I, myself, ponder this frequently and most times quite uneasily. A jumbled, fucked up puzzle I attempt to piece together. To share or hide away from the world to weather the coming storms. Now the empty, relentless tides of my mind ebb and flow. My moon shines down it’s industrious glow, longing for company yet in preventative attempts to become exposed. To be or not to be in clothes. My heart is scathed and I, morose. I send it out to sea in a boat quite enclosed for healing. Protection from the known-so-well thievery direction. My mind, stuck in a web of desire and deceptive remorse. My heart is gone.
My words are broken.