What is it
my mind wants to get at, always extending, hungering, looking
back, always tearing open again its own modernity,
as if each thought is more than the little present
moment it sounds like, but, raised at an angle, piercing me, having me imagine,
to build such antique violences in my head, it is a thorn? This moss
has been growing for ages now, can do nothing
but snag and grow … What is it the mind won’t
unsee, beautiful flaw?
I’ll say I love you,
which will lead, of course,
but those words unsaid
poison every next moment.
I will try to disappoint you
better than anyone ever has.
If you want to analyze me
Read my journals, the notes on my phone, the drafts on my laptop the songs I don’t listen to, the books I read or just ask me, I suppose you’ll just ask me because it’s your business to know what goes on in my business. If you’re worried that I’ve stopped finding an outlet to express myself, don’t worry I won’t ever be able to truly bypass the need to gets out the little cockroaches that seem to skitter around and reak havoc on you.
I think this place has worn me out or I’ve worn it out. Gonna spend time harvesting all my favorite writs, authors, artists and poets from here before I shut it down. Same goes for my other tumblrs
Healing is an art. It takes time, it takes practice. It takes love.
Show me disloyalty, I’ll show you detachment.
I want to explain how exhausted I am. Even in my dreams. How I wake up tired. How I’m being drowned by some kind of black wave.
I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.
The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.