A bit of my weird psuedo-poetry.
Nov 3, 2010 11:13:44 GMT -8
Post by nchaos on Nov 3, 2010 11:13:44 GMT -8
Whoo, so I can actually post my writing now that the censors are gone!
So I called it 'psuedo-poetry' because it doesn't rhyme and is more of a contained rant than anything, but I actually really like em'. All forms of criticism are wanted/appreciated.
Waiting Room
Today I sat in a waiting room full of broken souls.
The smell of loss and false hope and lies hanging in the air, a mix of mothballs, stale sweat and cheap beer. I sat in a waiting room painted in institutional shades of blue-grey, colors named after stones, color themes based after prisons and loneliness. I waited for an answer, waited for a solution.
I waited for them to sign me off as a lost cause.
After putting all my eggs into one pocket, I hoped no one would shoot me down, and wished on a dying star that the world would wait long enough for me to get a foot up before slamming back into full speed. After a night of what if's, the certainty of failure seemed almost preferable...almost.
But almost only cuts it in horseshoes, hand grenades and small nuclear warheads, someone once told me, and I need every bit of luck I can get. Drowning my sorrow in liquor, suffocating my hopes in fear, doing the things that I've needed to do for so long but I've put off until too late was ten minutes ago...sense seems so senseless now, and relationships are all relative.
As I shuffled back out into the sun, finally exhaling, feeling the cold melt off my skin I felt something close to hope. I waited, I'm waiting...
In Between
There's something in this that words can't work for,
Something so utterly inhuman and wonderful that I'm wasting my time trying to capture.
And in that futility, I realize, is something innately and stunningly human.
Paradox. Hypocrisy. Complete, silly, bullshit.
I realize that if only in the next sixty-seconds, this is worth trying if only for the sake of trying.
Worth doing if only to see if it can be done.
Something about the sky this morning and everything coming in with it fills me with awe. Smells like shampoo and exhaust fumes, clean laundry and rotting fry grease are fluttering outside my window, outside of the same window that we found the mantis on a few days ago. Over shit-colored buildings and burnt out apartments is a sky that puts Van Gogh to shame.
Over a city that's slowly dying like a cancer patient are colors that are so beautiful, so vivid and so incredibly unreal that I feel everything in me move. The feelings, the thoughts, the sounds of 6:20 AM are hauntingly lonely and somehow so more unifying than anything in the world, as the thought enters my mind that the only other people awake to see this spectacular sight are people as confused and fucking lost as I am, people getting up for jobs they hate and wasting time on things they don't comprehend.
In the next few moments I am struck by a sudden, deepening, alienating sense of togetherness far beyond anything those New Age psychopaths can rant about. This isn't 'higher being', this isn't 'cosmic awareness'. It's bold-faced, honest, terrified humanity at it's beautiful, hideous finest.
The sun's first whispers are crawling across streetlamps now, faux-antique streetlights planted in a worn out town, pretending to give us what?
Fuck if I know. An excuse to bitch when the scumbags break those sweet, cosy little light bulbs maybe.
Power lines are one-dimensional cutouts across a psychotically beautiful sky, something I'm stuck on, something I'm drawn to and something that innately fucking terrifies me. I feel the changes moving in, I smell the fear and hope and desolation that the birthing Tomorrow will bring and I accept them, embrace them, and wait.
Without the sounds of sirens, speaking, screaming and stupidity this city could almost be beautiful. This house could almost be a home. I can almost feel myself again.
With these colors that I've ached to capture, shades that I'd die to be able to paint and words that come from somewhere else, I'm breathing in again, as the world slowly exhales and Tomorrow digs deep it's nails, casting off the shell of Yesterday.
Like something from the Langoliers, Yesterday becomes more than a word and more than a date on the calendar, it becomes moot. Non-existent, surviving only in history and other less tangible ideas. Tomorrow has become Today, and I've once more survived the strangely lonely, ghostly time of In Between.
Rehab
Addiction is a funny thing. An unrelenting, nasty little niggling in the back of your brain.
Poking around your thoughts, bothering you incessantly, and just generally pissing you the hell off.
Sometimes, I think, it's easier to just listen to a voice that's always been there, to just do what feels right.
Sometimes, I wish I had the balls to just finish what I'm always starting, to just push a bit further, squeeze a bit tighter, bite a bit harder.
But nobody every said I was brave.
Or at least, nobody that matters anymore.
When I was younger, I used to shut myself up with painkillers, choking down each candy-coated promise like it was salvation incarnate, hoping to relocate permanently to the Land of Instant Gratification.
It's the closest to gratitude I've every known, and I'm not a very patient person.
When I graduated into liquids, it never helped, it just slowed me down.
Or at least it slowed my heart down, enough times for me to wonder what's left of a liver, enough times for me to know the cold that's sweeping just below my feet, waiting for me to fall again and not bother to breathe this time.
And beneath all of that, is a boy that I hate with all of my heart.
A person who'd look wonderful in pieces,
A curse if there ever was one.
Besides all the bullshit, I'm a simple person. I crave. I need. I get rejected. I get pissed. I get violent.
No,
I get vicious.
Violence, the absolute affirmation of life, the strongest reminder that I was indeed living, not just surviving.
Bleeding, gashing, shaking on the floor, our memories ground into the concrete, my words hanging in the sweat-thick air.
Oh yes, there was magic in there. Inane and raucous, primal and wonderful and fucking stupid.
It was everything. It was the only thing.
We felt so out of place on a bed, even with his knife at my neck, even with my skin horribly bare in the light, even with my eyes hiding from his.
And beyond all that, I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than my idiot-child's dreams, more than my other addictions. This drug was the worst of all, if only because the false promises had a voice this time.
A perfect voice, a soft voice, a voice that hurt because it was so fucking sweet. A voice fit for a lying son of a bitch.
I look back at every piece of skin that's been draped over his arms and feel a hate that almost makes me happy. Jealousy, vindication, utter disgust running rampant in my veins like the purest, clearest poison. Violence is a part of me, a vital part of me, breathing and living and shitting nothing but confused, mindless anger. And it feels orgasmic, to hate, to inflict, to destroy.
In my dreams I see him in tears, like he was one night, curled around the toilet bowl like a lover.
I see him helpless, I see him shaking, I see him in the short bursts of helplessness that I've clung to like old photos. The edges are worn, the picture is shit, but the memory...the memory is wonderful.
I wonder what it's like to be on the other side of the knife, to be the one with the camera, to be the one laughing between gasps with blood on my hands.
I wonder what it's like to be God.
I wonder what it's like to be free.
So I called it 'psuedo-poetry' because it doesn't rhyme and is more of a contained rant than anything, but I actually really like em'. All forms of criticism are wanted/appreciated.
Waiting Room
Today I sat in a waiting room full of broken souls.
The smell of loss and false hope and lies hanging in the air, a mix of mothballs, stale sweat and cheap beer. I sat in a waiting room painted in institutional shades of blue-grey, colors named after stones, color themes based after prisons and loneliness. I waited for an answer, waited for a solution.
I waited for them to sign me off as a lost cause.
After putting all my eggs into one pocket, I hoped no one would shoot me down, and wished on a dying star that the world would wait long enough for me to get a foot up before slamming back into full speed. After a night of what if's, the certainty of failure seemed almost preferable...almost.
But almost only cuts it in horseshoes, hand grenades and small nuclear warheads, someone once told me, and I need every bit of luck I can get. Drowning my sorrow in liquor, suffocating my hopes in fear, doing the things that I've needed to do for so long but I've put off until too late was ten minutes ago...sense seems so senseless now, and relationships are all relative.
As I shuffled back out into the sun, finally exhaling, feeling the cold melt off my skin I felt something close to hope. I waited, I'm waiting...
In Between
There's something in this that words can't work for,
Something so utterly inhuman and wonderful that I'm wasting my time trying to capture.
And in that futility, I realize, is something innately and stunningly human.
Paradox. Hypocrisy. Complete, silly, bullshit.
I realize that if only in the next sixty-seconds, this is worth trying if only for the sake of trying.
Worth doing if only to see if it can be done.
Something about the sky this morning and everything coming in with it fills me with awe. Smells like shampoo and exhaust fumes, clean laundry and rotting fry grease are fluttering outside my window, outside of the same window that we found the mantis on a few days ago. Over shit-colored buildings and burnt out apartments is a sky that puts Van Gogh to shame.
Over a city that's slowly dying like a cancer patient are colors that are so beautiful, so vivid and so incredibly unreal that I feel everything in me move. The feelings, the thoughts, the sounds of 6:20 AM are hauntingly lonely and somehow so more unifying than anything in the world, as the thought enters my mind that the only other people awake to see this spectacular sight are people as confused and fucking lost as I am, people getting up for jobs they hate and wasting time on things they don't comprehend.
In the next few moments I am struck by a sudden, deepening, alienating sense of togetherness far beyond anything those New Age psychopaths can rant about. This isn't 'higher being', this isn't 'cosmic awareness'. It's bold-faced, honest, terrified humanity at it's beautiful, hideous finest.
The sun's first whispers are crawling across streetlamps now, faux-antique streetlights planted in a worn out town, pretending to give us what?
Fuck if I know. An excuse to bitch when the scumbags break those sweet, cosy little light bulbs maybe.
Power lines are one-dimensional cutouts across a psychotically beautiful sky, something I'm stuck on, something I'm drawn to and something that innately fucking terrifies me. I feel the changes moving in, I smell the fear and hope and desolation that the birthing Tomorrow will bring and I accept them, embrace them, and wait.
Without the sounds of sirens, speaking, screaming and stupidity this city could almost be beautiful. This house could almost be a home. I can almost feel myself again.
With these colors that I've ached to capture, shades that I'd die to be able to paint and words that come from somewhere else, I'm breathing in again, as the world slowly exhales and Tomorrow digs deep it's nails, casting off the shell of Yesterday.
Like something from the Langoliers, Yesterday becomes more than a word and more than a date on the calendar, it becomes moot. Non-existent, surviving only in history and other less tangible ideas. Tomorrow has become Today, and I've once more survived the strangely lonely, ghostly time of In Between.
Rehab
Addiction is a funny thing. An unrelenting, nasty little niggling in the back of your brain.
Poking around your thoughts, bothering you incessantly, and just generally pissing you the hell off.
Sometimes, I think, it's easier to just listen to a voice that's always been there, to just do what feels right.
Sometimes, I wish I had the balls to just finish what I'm always starting, to just push a bit further, squeeze a bit tighter, bite a bit harder.
But nobody every said I was brave.
Or at least, nobody that matters anymore.
When I was younger, I used to shut myself up with painkillers, choking down each candy-coated promise like it was salvation incarnate, hoping to relocate permanently to the Land of Instant Gratification.
It's the closest to gratitude I've every known, and I'm not a very patient person.
When I graduated into liquids, it never helped, it just slowed me down.
Or at least it slowed my heart down, enough times for me to wonder what's left of a liver, enough times for me to know the cold that's sweeping just below my feet, waiting for me to fall again and not bother to breathe this time.
And beneath all of that, is a boy that I hate with all of my heart.
A person who'd look wonderful in pieces,
A curse if there ever was one.
Besides all the bullshit, I'm a simple person. I crave. I need. I get rejected. I get pissed. I get violent.
No,
I get vicious.
Violence, the absolute affirmation of life, the strongest reminder that I was indeed living, not just surviving.
Bleeding, gashing, shaking on the floor, our memories ground into the concrete, my words hanging in the sweat-thick air.
Oh yes, there was magic in there. Inane and raucous, primal and wonderful and fucking stupid.
It was everything. It was the only thing.
We felt so out of place on a bed, even with his knife at my neck, even with my skin horribly bare in the light, even with my eyes hiding from his.
And beyond all that, I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than my idiot-child's dreams, more than my other addictions. This drug was the worst of all, if only because the false promises had a voice this time.
A perfect voice, a soft voice, a voice that hurt because it was so fucking sweet. A voice fit for a lying son of a bitch.
I look back at every piece of skin that's been draped over his arms and feel a hate that almost makes me happy. Jealousy, vindication, utter disgust running rampant in my veins like the purest, clearest poison. Violence is a part of me, a vital part of me, breathing and living and shitting nothing but confused, mindless anger. And it feels orgasmic, to hate, to inflict, to destroy.
In my dreams I see him in tears, like he was one night, curled around the toilet bowl like a lover.
I see him helpless, I see him shaking, I see him in the short bursts of helplessness that I've clung to like old photos. The edges are worn, the picture is shit, but the memory...the memory is wonderful.
I wonder what it's like to be on the other side of the knife, to be the one with the camera, to be the one laughing between gasps with blood on my hands.
I wonder what it's like to be God.
I wonder what it's like to be free.
