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

“You accepted my love so easily, but in the end, when it mattered most, I was a burden, so you couldn’t be bothered with me.”

Could anybody please explain to me where it was I fucked up? I’ve burned through every memory, but it wasn’t enough to smoke out the inciting incident. I went from a warm soul to a body consumed by wildfire, and I can’t be sure why I set myself on fire to begin with. Everything was perfect, right?

We had each other.

We had love.

What else could I give you?

Why wasn’t I good enough?

You’re gone, but every time the truth comes to the front of my mind, I shove it down, down, all the way down, right through the ground beneath me. When I started, the truth barely reached the back of my throat. 6 years later, and there isn’t an ounce of me that doesn’t hide the truth. Every footstep creates an echo of an echo, so it’s impossible to tell where I started from, and I’ll never reach the end…

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

“My love remains an unfurled bud, a future with a diametric fate; I’ll blossom in the Spring, or else suffer through another winter alone.”

You aren’t here.

But somehow,

Even when I can’t feel you,

I am guided by you.

I know what you are;

Just a false light,

A fleeting sight,

But my eyes

Catch your fire

And my heart takes over;

I can’t move forward

Without you.

My world remains opaque,

Where nothing exists

But the indent of your feet

On a path I can only follow,

Hoping that it leads me

Towards our new beginning,

Or to the end of me.

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

“Distance, like the stars from our Earth, the very same distance from my heart to yours.”

The twinkle in her eyes isn’t from stardust, diamonds or pearls; Her eyes shine from her own wonder, her curious nature for everything around her. A polished stone set in metals pales to capture the allure her eyes hold, for her eyes are to alive for such similes to hold a sliver of justice.

She is not a star, some solar entity floating in space, whose light takes lifetimes to reach those around her. She is home, in that comfortable sense of belonging to something that means everything. She is the familiar creak of decade old stairs in the way her smile crinkles around the edges of her mouth, she is both the soft touch of pillows you used to build forts with siblings and the firm cushion that captured so many tired tears…

A stare from her is the reflection you saw in the mirror when you were 10, before the world and the nightmares turned all thoughts dark and your image into a shadow, something to be feared and despised. She isn’t…she wasn’t just some pretty face, some human body to pass the time with, to float through life with. She was…brilliant in how she tricked a boy into loving himself, into thinking he had a real shot..I can never hate her…I can never hate anybody because she made me focus on me..and now I can’t look away, but I don’t like what I see..and she isn’t here to quell my demons, and I’m so tired of living in the dark…I’m tired of fearing death and fearing life, of being empty of anything aside from fear..I’m running on autopilot, and I just can’t do this anymore..I need someone to save me..somebody please tell me they can save me..

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

“Coloring in the spaces between the lines on my wrist, I have to admit, I’m a pretty shit artist.”

You were coloring in my lights,

Drenching a binary world

A pallet of contradictions.

Unbalanced, indiscriminate yellow,

Stoplights shaded evergreen,

And as your lips buzzed my name,

I felt the edges of a wave

That promised to dye

My timid October orange

Every variant of the red

Lurking in my veins.

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

Every day is a cloudy day when you can’t even be bothered to open your blinds.

I love the smell of water in the air. It’s so fresh, and it makes the air feel soft as I take a deep breath. That scent adds some sort of fluffy tail to the lasts wisps as they trickle in, tickling the back of my throat, making my lips curl towards the sky. It’s amazing how different my entire body feels when I’m wearing a genuine smile. It’s a feeling I recognize and cherish.

But just as quickly as that familiarity invades my bones, it also begins to seep right back out. That smell of water clicks with other wires in my brain, and I’m rushed into a common scene; me, in front of my bathroom mirror. My clothes lie all around me, and my eyes are focused only on my reflection. I’ve done a good job hiding the scars for years and years, but I can’t hide them for more than a day from myself. And the image I see in the mirror, it always hurts so much…

I love the smell of water, because I love being in water. I love swimming and floating in a lazy river. I love cannonballs and diving into the deep end and going down the waterslide 1 million times. I love playing catch, making insane dives off the pier thanks to the soft landing the water provides. I love relaxing on the beach, sprawled out on a towel, working on my terrible tan lines. I love chowing down on watermelon and popsicles and cans of root beer. I love all of that…I loved all of that…I loved the water when I was a kid. I looked forward to going to Turkeyfoot Lake every weekend. I couldn’t wait to spend an entire day swimming, followed up with barbeques and backyard baseball. I loved catching fireflies at dusk, and lighting sparklers when it finally got dark. I loved my summers.

I loved being in the water, so of course I love the smell of water. But now those memories make my stomach cave in, because I know what will happen now, if I tried to relieve any of those moments. So many questions would be asked, and I wouldn’t be able to answer more than a few.

“When did this start?”

Before my first trip to the lake, I was already cutting, but I was just starting. I made sure to keep things small and in more hidden places, like my thighs and legs, places people wouldn’t see so readily. I already understood at 9 exactly how fucked up this shit was.

“Why did you start?”

I don’t have a good answer for that. The best I can do is this: I started cutting after I stopped peeling my skin and biting my nails. I would pull the skin from my fingers in 1st grade, I remember. I peeled that skin until they would all bleed, and it drove my parents and teachers insane. So, to avoid being yelled at, I progressed to more subtle, accurate methods. A pen prick here, a tiny slash there. It was just easier to maintain.

“Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?”

Does a cut hurt? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sure a deep cut would sting. I’m sure if somebody stabbed me, or a samurai sliced my stomach open with his katana, I would be in pain. But these little lines running the length of my arm? Those don’t hurt. They are shallow, hardly breaking the surface. They look worse then they are. But to answer your real question, I don’t know why I feel like I have to hurt myself, especially when I know my scars will hurt others much more than they hurt me. Lately I think it’s because I know the more scars I have, when someone finally does see them, they will see so many scars that the hope they can help me will immediately be lost. Basically they have become a sort of insurance, a fail safe to ensure that I fail.

“Why do you want to fail?”

Because I want to die.

“And why do you want to die?”

Because I can’t fix me. I can’t fix who I am. Dying won’t make up for the horrible existence that is me, but I can’t make up for it by continuing to live either. So my choices are to either keep going, or call it a day. I need to call it a day. It’s what’s best in the long run, for the world and me.

“Then why are you still alive?”

…because no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely give up dreaming that I’ll find a way out someday…

“So what will you do next?”

I’ll think about change. Then I’ll talk about change. Then I’ll plan some changes. Then I’ll make some changes. Then I’ll slip up. Then I’ll slip up again. Then I’ll give up on changing. Then I’ll find myself at the bottom again, in awe of how the bottom just keeps getting deeper, and I’ll start the whole process over again.

“And what happens, when the bottom never comes?”

It will mean I’ve either grown some wings and taken flight, or I hit the bottom, broke both my legs, thus making it impossible for me to ever climb back out.

“And when you can’t climb back out?”

I stay down there, and I starve.

“And then?”

And then…. I can finally accept myself…. and I will finally be able to die…

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

Come join me on Facebook!!

I have made the decision to finally create a Facebook page to help spread my blog! I currently have “0” likes, and I don’t see that really changing beyond a few people. Still, I think it’s a space where better conversation can occur (I read every comment I get, but I’m not the best at always responding!)

If everyone could do me a favor and please share my blog and Facebook page with your family, friends, or strangers who look like they’d enjoy a trip through my head, I will be forever grateful! And while you’re at it, please also follow me on Twitter!

http://www.facebook.com/thatlittlelightfromyourlampshade

Twitter – taylorfinn0810

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

My body is ash, saturated gray, invisible on cloudy days, and blown apart with a single puff of wind.

Now, right now, I cannot focus my eyes. They water in the bright light, damaged by any image aside from the pitch black. My feet are cold under my white and gray socks. I am shaking. I feel sick. I want to run, far away, but find myself captured in a million different social situations. Talking; I can’t do it. My mind draws a blank as my dry mouth fails to produce a word. It’s strange; I fear being alone like this but cannot stand looking at anyone else. A broken mirror, which is what I am. Shattered, unable to find any hint of what I once truly was, only these pieces that could be from anyone, anything…