Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

It was a brief moment, when serendipity smiled upon me, but if that was all she could give, I’d rather have gotten nothing at all.. (part 2 of 5)

I want serendipity to smell

As my anguish ignites,

Its carnivorous flames

Feasting on my doubt.

The breeze is perfumed

With a sinister smog,

And even though it hurts,

This smoke is the only air;

And so I am left choking

On the ugly scent

Of a burning heart..

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

If this was nothing more than destiny, that would be great. Then I wouldn’t have to blame it all on me.. (part 1 of 5)

I want destiny to taste

The last sliver of air

Netted in my lungs.

It’s Nitrogen imbued

With a wink of vinegar,

And a gasp of sour carbon,

Made all the more potent

By a throat varnished

In wood turpentine.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.

I just want to read books for a weekend, without worrying about work or the world. I want to take away my sense of responsibility, for myself and every other self within a 10,000 mile radius. I want to spend hours browsing at bookstores, moving my fingers along exposed spines. Between all the paper and ink, I am a Queen. I am the only voice of power, and only by my mercy will these voices be heard. The threat is, of course, hollow. My feet, face, hands, stomach, legs…so my entire body… it’s shaking and wiggling and it’s impossible to hide my desire to read every last pen stroke in this paradise. I just want that sort of weekend. Hell, I just want that sort of life. And maybe somebody who wants to make a book club, just for 2.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I spent the summer wishing for a storm to wash away our spring, but never stopped to think about what comes after the rain.”

I spent my summer melting,

My autumn fearing another fall.

 

The new year was a blanket

Of snow and cumbersome guilt.

 

A spring sun demanded I begin,

But all of my roots were dead,

My branches devoid of green.

 

So I wasted the Suns generosity;

I still received it’s light,

But without the strength to blossom

It just created a gilded shell.

 

And that’s it all there is;

I’m just painted gold,

Paper money in the wind;

I hold no value except for

The values others place on me.

 

So I am buried,

Hiding from any hint of rain

Lest my colors start to bleed.

 

I’m afraid of the smallest storms,

And nothing, not even time,

Can stop me from withering away.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

WordPress saved my life

This blog has meant the world to me. I’ve only been doing this for a few months, and it’s not very big, but just having a place to let my thoughts leak out, without having to hold back, is keeping me alive.

I started a new job on Monday, because I had a mental breakdown at my old job a month ago. I have never been a stable person, but like most people with anxiety and depression I have fought to keep it from showing. I made an extra effort at work, because I’m embarrassed by the whole thing.

But I had a bad beginning to 2018, and I got carried away one night. I took far to many sleeping pills along with far to many drinks. My neighbors found me right outside my apartment, lying face down in a pool of vomit. My arms and legs were cut to shreds, and my left arm was marbled purple and swelled to twice its normal size.

I spent 3 days in the hospital. These were workdays too, so I had to call off. I didn’t know how to explain any of this to my boss, but she’s amazing and nice, so I tried.

I failed.

I broke down in tears within the first 10 seconds on the phone, and after 10 minutes of that she told me to just email her.

3 days passed, and I was released. I had a broken arm, and my stomach had been pumped so I felt like shit, and to top it all off I left scars in places I couldn’t hide. See, when I take my clothes off I look insane, just leftover lines everywhere, but I could hide most of them. Even new ones I made, they just overlapped old ones, and it was all hidden. But I couldn’t hide these not from anybody.

I couldn’t go back into work. I couldn’t. I spent 2 more days doing nothing but crying, dreading the end of the weekend and my return to work.

Monday morning came and it all sank in; I couldn’t go.

I emailed my boss, turned off all my electronic devices, and disappeared for a week. Well more like hibernated. But even that’s wrong, because I didn’t sleep.

For 1 week I didn’t set foot outside of my apartment. I never got on my phone or computer. I never left for food or anything else. I talked to no one. I never opened my blinds. I sat in the dark, taking just enough pills in timed intervals to keep me from feeling or thinking without going to far. I didn’t want to go to the hospital again.

After that week I made a return to the world, albeit through the internet. Specifically I wrote something and posted it here, to my blog. And people liked it, some commented on it. I love getting comments. Everyone here is nice, but even if the comments weren’t nice I would be okay with that. Just putting my thoughts out to someone…it really does save me.

So now I have a new job. Nothing fancy, just something to pay the bills. And I have this blog. Again, nothing fancy, but it’s somewhere I can be myself.

So thank you to everybody who reads my blog, or doesn’t read my blog, because I enjoy reading other peoples blogs even if they aren’t reading mine. The internet isn’t real life, but I only feel alive through this site. Is that sad? Bad? Pathetic? Probably all of that and more, but I don’t care.

Thank you everybody, please keep reading and writing, and if you have any suggestions for writing topics or story ideas, or critiques of my other posts, please don’t hesitate!  

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’m a big fan of slow Mondays. I feel like everyone is the same, just trying to get things started. It makes me think it’s not too late to start over.

I prefer sliding doors over the old fashioned 2-3 hinge models. It’s much easier to slam the latter, and while I’ve had my fair share of rage needing an outlet, it never appealed to me as a good way to vent. Why, you ask? Well, to put it simply, I hate the sound. It’s a whoosh of wind, then BAM! And it’s over. It rings for a little bit, a few milliseconds as the noise works its way into every corner and crevasse of that classic 50’s ranch style home. I hate that moment. It’s not the loudest or most annoying noise a house can produce, but it still irks me. I think it’s because the sound is trying to come off as something that demands attention, but it can’t demand a damn thing, so instead it worms its way into my ears and just sticks to whatever song or voice was already taking up my auditory receptors. See, it can’t demand shit, so it can’t drive out the sounds already in my head. No, that slamming can only latch on, like some sort of parasite. It’s a whoosh, followed by a BAM! And the moment is over. Only it’s not over. That slam is taped onto the opening guitar of Crazy Train. That whoosh is lingering in the background of the second half of Bohemian Rhapsody. That BAM is an annoying echo to every bass drum kick in Forgot About Dre. Like, I can forget Dr. Dre, but I can’t forget that goddamn annoying, dramatic, pointless, stupid, rude ass, motha fucking door slam! I don’t care if you slammed the fucking door, alright?! Slam all the fucking doors you want! Slam them, break them, who cares! You won’t ever have to see those doors again, right?! You’re slamming them and leaving, and they won’t ever have to take that abuse again! So just keep going! You want to make a scene, make me yell, make me scream bloody murder, but I won’t! I won’t even notice! Just watch, I’m going to sit here and not move a muscle, and you’ll slam those doors and leave, and I won’t ever turn around or say shit to you! I won’t say a single word! You don’t deserve my attention! You can’t demand a single fucking thing, not a God Damn THING!!! So I won’t answer that slamming door…I won’t even flinch…I’ll barely even register the noise with my headphones on and my music playing…I won’t react…Not right now…I won’t give you the satisfaction. I won’t do anything until you’re finished slamming those doors! So hurry up, get it all out! I know you’re still at it! I can still sense it, underneath my music and podcasts….in the bass lines and snare drums and lyrics…it’s there…you’re still there…you’re there…

…right?

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I started smoking recently. I hate the taste, but I crave their warmth, and I have to admit…they make 2AM feel a lot less lonely.”

My blood is fighting against me.

I can feel it squirm throughout the day, a sharpness that begs for reciprocation.

I’m burning up all of my second chances for just a few moments of relief.

It’s nothing new, waking up to dried lengths of crimson.

It’s nothing new.

~And yet~

I take some solace in the fact that it still hurts.

Because that’s my only proof.

It’s undeniable proof…that I’m still human…