Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Here's some stuff I've written lately. It's all psycho crap.
I absolutely love how
they all think
I'm
fine.
Happy, even.
With my
great boyfriend
good grades
hippie attire
I must be fine
they either don't
see
or
they
ignore
the cuts under my hemp
due to the fact
that I despise
fucking my great boyfriend
and the good grades
are only because it's fairly easy
and
if I'm alright in school
the secret stinking drunks
will stay out of my life
and
let me out of this cage
unknowingly
on the weekends.
I am supposed to be writing a research paper
on anorexia
but who gives a fuck?
I only want to
cut and
bleed and
fuck
drink
snort
smoke
shoot
puke
sleep
burn
burn
burn
drown
It would be quiet
to drown
down below everything
in a cold blue fist
cold.
quiet.
dark.
passing into unconsciousness.
passing
to get closer to
the dream world
where DMT makes me
psychosane.
And I can finally
breath.
Dylan.
Save me.
Save me, dammit! Dylan!
I need it!
I need you!
Give me drugs,
pump my veins...
get into that magical
gland
in my brain
where there is nirvana
and I can go
psychosane.
Give me the drugs, Dylan.
Dylan.
Psychedelic.
Tripping.
The fruit and grass,
the sun.
feet.
the music.
I can feel everything.
we are above it
we are flying
take me away from here
to neye
to nirvana.
Please, Dylan, I am dead.
Save me.
Wake me.
I want to live,
but not like this. That.
not like that.
Save me.
Save me.
Save me.
Crash.
----------------------------
He is shocked by the amazing foreign-ness of the undersides of tongues
As we cower in the backseats of cars
Denying that we reek
Just as badly as the naked rotting street children
With dreadlocked hair and dirty genitalia
In more ways than one
They bear black teeth and trash-caked nails,
Fighting for their own piece of insanity to become normal.
They laugh manically at the aristocracy,
Mocking their half-hearted attempts to understand
The rampant napkin scribblings
Of naked rotting street children.
-------------------------------
I walked into a class
with marked up arms and
a copy of Bukowski
not really aware of
my expression or attitude
just being.
And this girl.
I smile at her because
due to curious circumstances
she knows me
and
I know her.
Then as I crack open
Bukowski
and read the first
line of the uninitiated
she is suddenly standing over me.
Telling me,
you know,
if you ever need to talk,
I'm here,
alright?
And I freeze
go stiff
because why would she care about me?
She must know something,
I assume,
and I glance at
the ribbons on my arms
and hate her for knowing.
She said
she's artistic
a real Renaissance girl.
Yet if she were truly artistic
would she not be crazy
like me?
Would she not ignore
my scars of madness?
I suppose
I suppose I hate her
because
she
is like me
in the mask she wears
of quiet artistic normalcy,
or at least sanity.
she is terrifying because
she, like me,
knows that
such a thing
cannot exist.
And so she sees these scars
and knows they are
self-made
that they spring from
the desperate screaming
blinded starving
self-pitying
bitchy manic
self hating
delirious thing inside of me
that dares call itself an artist.
But we both know
this game, this facade
So I smile.
Thank you.
I am here for you
also.
And I compliment her shirt
And she walks away
to sit in her desk
in this penitentiary
where they pretend
to nurture
us
But if we shine through these masks,
truly shine,
they shove a diagnosis
and candy-colored pills
down our swollen throats
so the girl and I
we sit and we pretend
and I hate her because she knows.
---------------------
Those are just three I randomly picked up off the floor. Blah. Although I got in a car accident today and Gaston's depressed and I feel absolutely obese, I'm actually pretty happy right now. And I have a great inspiration for a new book, thanks to Kyrstin. (:
Yay.
Posted by Alex at 7:08 PM