freewrite

Addictive.

melt my heart and take me high

...i'm that kind of addict.

stories of overcoming toxins of a past life

not realizing the poison that's coming in.

keep it coming.

if the high fails, give me more.

...i'm that kind of addict.

everyone said i should quit

...i'm a blind kind of addict.

i inhale it, i inject it, i engulf it to the point of perceived bliss

Stop.

is this even real anymore?

does this drug even get me high

or do i just want to believe it does so much so i won't have to feel anything else?

Withdrawl.

back and forth feelings of

i need you, i miss you, i want you

realizations of

you're no good for me

you turn my veins into boiling acid disguised as blood

...still boiling.

your toxic levels rise so high, you infect everyone around you

do i still want you?

no, but that high, i'd take back any day

not from you

from Him

down

...i'm hella down for a life of uncertainty
just as long as you're not sure either
i'm down to never find what i'm looking for
just as long as you're holding my hand as we search
i'm down to never find answers to any of these questions
just as long as it's your voice telling me
you have no clue what to do...

truth

i'd like to say that there is hope
but i don't know if there was
...or is
and i find myself being too scared
to write in the present tense
vulnerability hitting me so strongly
my weak knees are already failing to keep me grounded
losing my grip on the reality of who i was without you
too worried that i'll have to find out the hard way
then i get too afraid to speak too soon
and write of you in the past tense
hands write tense
and the tension cramps up my thoughts
i'm not free
captivated and trapped in the moments of you
frozen in our winter kisses
missing our summer heat
and childish as it seems
i don't want to admit that it's over now
and maybe if i don't say it out loud
the truth won't hear me
reality won't catch me
and they'll forget to grasp onto it
onto what i already know
is too true

rant

the feather is cold, dry and virgin to present time's inkwell.
It's embellished in a reoccurring frozen thought.
I see emotions and their leaking auras ascend from it's shell,
and I decide to reach into the darkness to exclaim the current state's requiem
Attempting to explain the dirty slated ways of them,
because I'm caught in this cycle of looking back to...
"now and then" but...
I remind myself why the feather ever became neglected in the first place.
I sit justifying it to save face amongst the crowd of un-attentive peers.
The soul always felt destined to shape a seer but I still stand before you today...
incompetent...
writer's blocked, soul locked, lacking all accomplishment...
There is me.
That was then
This is now.
So now i've re-learned that optimism is this epic monument that requires maintenance on a daily basis.
and though I understand my brained is over staffed,
still...nothing ever seems to really get done.
So once again I let it go and leave nothing for those amounts to grow.
show and tell a green colored mask, show only black and royal blue,
and hope the sun lends an ear and maybe a vision too...

[september prompt]

though i know it was easier to piece it back together
even a broken mess of what used to be
instead of creating a new possibility
but my way was never the easy way
no matter what stood in the way
i had to find a way
i needed to find a way
to break the mold of a way i've hated for so long
i could already hear the echos of the past i was tryna escape
the all too familiar repetition i felt in bad habits
even when my heart started aching
i could remember the throb of the break
from past ways before
the way i didn't find on my own -
merely the way they talked to me
talked me into knowing it all

i hadn't lived my own life - i lived someone else's
it was a mess trying to piece back someone else's faded footsteps
tryna follow too closely
but in reality
the harsher truth in the lost path
the way i can't seem to find
i just wanted to make my own way
to get there
and find a way
somehow to live it
my own life
my own way...

freewrite: mismatched

loving you is like an itch i can't scratch.
and dammit, it's one of those that moves around too.
it's painful sometimes.
frustrating at others times
but amidst all the negative things i can point out about it -
all it comes down to is the fact that it's there;
whether i gave you permission or not
it doesn't seem to matter -
you invade my thoughts
and i swear i feel helpless enough to just surrender.

the mere fact alone makes me feel hopeless.
who wants to feel this way.
who wants to admit these types of things.
who in the world would want to honestly say that
someone's got a hold of their heart
and doesn't even care?
maybe that's why i can say it breaks often.

to be completely honest,
i'm a little tired and emotionally drained
and it's getting to be really heavy on the heart for me.
i know you probably think that
i'm bound to say something real sweet and poetic about you,
but loving you is frustrating.
and we, the living half heartedly
the bruised, but still alive
the painful, yet existing
loving, yet unloved
those of us...that hurt for the mere
presence and absence of mismatched emotions
...we don't listen to love songs the same.

May 2010 prompt freewrite

May: "He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize." - Oscar Wilde

it was only through words
i dared to live beyond the motions that kept me safe
sane in reality,
my imagination
ran wild
ran crazy
ran insane
in a run-on sentence game
my reality a game of who could play normal
my truth of mind hidden away in seamless hidden meanings
silently trapped behind the words that held so much more substance
and i admitted more through poetry
than i could ever admit to myself through tears
and i'd hope they read closely
read quietly and understood fully
they read secrets behind these meanings
and lives hidden away behind reality.

Inkless Pen - (May 2010 prompt)

He cannot spit,
He cannot emote,
He cannot express,
He cannot write what he really wants to say.
challenged by uncertainty,
disturb by his thoughts,
troubled by his confidence,
pressured by his repetition of common cliche.
an insomniac soul,
a deteriorating health,
a regretful past,
a bothered heart beating in cold grip.
The knee hurts,
The walls don't speak,
The family is strong,
The sun is brighter than last year's trip.
She was a recent smile,
She was the triple eyed,
She was a second time,
She was the first faded image of these four.
it tries to speak,
it wants to relive,
it attempts a scream,
it hopes to achieve more than it asks for.
wondering if they listened
understanding their insecurity
believing they're true
hoping there is more to what's already been said.
They write willingly
They write openly
They write unknowingly
They write this in place because their art is dead.

Inkless Pen pt 2. (Visual)

Because this is the story of my life...
all the troubls that one can endure.
every mitsake we have to le rn from.
we emobdied what we c..mprehenf..
....e see with our e..ys...closd...ed...
our.......a d//.....q..........
lsi......to.. it spe.........for.......
beca.use....the .....scatt.rrer....brain.ed..
he...arrt.....s.........f............fo....
oif........if.............pnot/.................s.......
......di.....................................e..................
......................d......................................
................................................................................................
................................................................
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..............a..................





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............................................................................x..........
................................as................................


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................................hel..................................
................................................................
.................................................................p................................
................................
................................................................
................................................................me...

forreal this time.

...as if it was yesterday
that I first knew what it felt like

to be loved.

That moment I knew,
that very moment when he left that dining chair in our dimly lit kitchen,
I immediately felt that emptiness inside,
the kind of feeling that makes you feel like nothing is complete

without the one you love.

I knew then immediately that when I first laid eyes on that very imprint he left,
the way our chair covers were now slightly disproportionate from when he got up
and when I felt his hand touched my shoulders
and the way my shoulders welcomed his touch

I felt complete.

That I knew then as I embraced his simple yet meaningful touch
that he was mine.
That smile that pierced the dim light of the kitchen,
that particular smile that smothered the room with warmth
on that one cold night of December,
I could feel then that he would be mine

forever.

Because it wasn't like any other.
This wasn't your "let's make love" smile, this was the
"let's make life, love and stress happen.
Let's live every unhappy moment together
and make it love."
And I was confident since then to say that

I was in love.