Through these blue eyes

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Everything I have ever written, I have come to realize, has been written for you.
But it is with the walls that lay in crumpled heaps beside my mosquito-bitten legs that I understand just how real this all seems to be. Just how breakable it all truly is. So, please, when you read through my thoughts- my mad, broken, scattered thoughts- remember that it was all written for you.


I have nothing and so much more than I have to prove. This is for me. This is for you. I have nothing to give, but I pray you accept this, and I pray that if you can't that someday you will.

Proof

Prove it to me, if only once. Give me some hope!
Prove to me that just one fairytale is real. Give me something to search for!

Eucalyptus.

Wouldn’t life be grand if we were never truly sad? If those moments of grief didn’t rule our souls and the weight on our shoulders could never grow? What a life it would be to take your extraordinary pain and turn it into nothing. If there were nothing to apologize for, if no more scars would be forced onto this form anymore! How I wish to witness a life without a heart; where nothing could be felt, all pain would be thwart. No compassion or feelings of any such kind. What a life it would be if that life could be mine.

I read this post and thought of you and realized that I don’t think of you every day anymore. or even every week, or month. Those days and nights when I was a child that were full of thinking only of you, believing they would never end, are just memories now. You no longer consume my mind and heart and I no longer wish you did.

I read this post and thought of you and realized that I don’t think of you every day anymore. or even every week, or month. Those days and nights when I was a child that were full of thinking only of you, believing they would never end, are just memories now. You no longer consume my mind and heart and I no longer wish you did.

(Source: s0uthernair)

the presence of kings and conquerers has not changed, simply the name we bestow upon them has.

I truly apologize for the lack of writing.

The truth is that words have not been coming to me as they used to . It’s as though my entire life is not my own and I’m so sorry that I cannot find the words to explain this abandoned concept in my head. How can I write about myself if I no longer understand myself? My poems would be an inside joke that only the thing I’ve become may decipher and if that is the case I would rather have nothing to my name that is no longer my own. Maybe I’ll come back someday but my words are vile and I cant bear the thought of having you witness them.

Afterword.

There is nothing I would like more than to say that I enjoyed this journey. This book I’ve been writing had twisted plots and miraculous turn-arounds. It fought me from the first page and is strangling me on the last, yet I insisted on carrying on for as long as I could.
We look upon our novels and believed that we were something when we started, but towards the end we stop. We can’t carry our burdens onto the page, not because the weight is so grand, but because we realize we created them. They are the villains of our stories and now we are understanding that they are what we never wanted to be- they are what we’ve now become.
Do not look so down onto my story in the last few lines when you see I cut it short. It is my decision to make it so that none of us can see why I won’t carry on.
Without a secret to my name I would die with nothing.

Kill me, though not through man. I do not feel sad, but periodically happy. Don’t let me go back to being what I once was.

The rain stopped long before the noise.

I burried myself

beneath the thunder and witnessed the storm

roll through. They had no meaning; these hollow

beatings, yet they’re all I have left of you.

Interview.

Walking in the front doors, dressed only in the garbs that are bound to diminish individuality, I am told to sit inside a room and asked to speak the truth

What is the truth to you? You are greed and the corruption of every spirit ever touched though creative inspiration, only pushing these beings down a hole they shall never emerge from.

I watch their fake smiles in disgust as I realize every word you know concerns only your personal gain and how far you may exceed your quota for bodies in this office.

Looking through the shades, I find the strings to every puppet you try to manipulate, praying as I run that this life shall never be mine. 

I clip the remaining string from my back; I am the puppet master, no longer a simple marionette

Speech.

The noises inside this head are inaudible to most, yet they speak so strangely to me.

I hear them whisper as I think and scream whenever they choose to do so. When I find my mind thinking of two many things at once I notice the voices get increasingly louder; trying to drown out all the others with each thought provided.

The voices are all the same yet so uniquely distinctive, I cannot describe their actions plainly.

One is rolling, the other stands while one controls the rest though demand.

I’ve hidden these voices in separate compartments for far too long.

I feel the voices becoming stronger and my physical being becoming ever-so-slowly gone.

The gravest mourning.

It’s Tuesday morning. 

I’m waking up from a dream of you; all of your light wrapped around me and your being flowing through mine. 

I cannot let this go. I keep my eyes closed. Scared of the mere thought of losing your touch.

Your body moves with mine and all I have is you beside me, below me, above me. All I am is in this wave.

The light before us begins to shine ever-more brightly and I tighten these lids keeping me away from that reality, if only for the moment longer we have.

Slowly, gently, as stinging as can be I watch you leave, grabbing at your spirit with every crashing tide.

I wake up in Tuesday mourning; begging God to keep you close to me tonight, once more.

Literacy.

What is a poet? Some may say that it is someone who has studied long and hard to perfect their craft and demonstrate their skills by explaining emotions through verse.

I disagree.

A poet, a writer, is as much of an artist as the man who sits in the corner of the park, bending the shades of the trees to his vision with every stroke of his brush. 

The world, however, does not treat poets as artists. 

They conform them to grammar and “correct” the spelling errors made, assuming that the artist did these things unintentionally.

However, the greatest revelation I have come to know is that everything an artist places in their work, be it a drawing, game, sport, et cetera, is placed there for a reason. There is nothing in a book (created with the craft) that was put there unintentionally or as a means to fill the empty space. 

Emotions are not to be explained. They are to be instilled into one who is free enough to create conclusions into what the artist was trying to convey with their work. Any being who has created something so meaningful will assure you that if one soul was touched by their work the rest of society may critique as they so choose, because the souls that need no explanation are the ones that it was meant for.

For one, who does not understand, to reprimand a soul for not following their appetence is not worthy to receive the message in the first place. Ignorance is the declination to aspire understanding, and those who are such deserve naught from those aspiring to instill it.

(for leaveyouapen)

Mr Lonesome

Is it hard, Mr Lonesome, to fall asleep in that bed? 

Always dreaming of that existence, yet never resting your head.

Are you tired Mr Lonesome, of every day you lie awake? 

With those demons climbing up your soul, exhaustion will surely make its stake.

Mr lonesome, how long can you live without flesh atop your bones?

When will your body break beneath this shattered world- within these broken homes?

I feel you, Mr Lonesome. I feel when your awake.

I feel you when you fall asleep, and those moments that you break.

Your head will rest upon these sheets. This cold won’t touch your bones.

Your strength is truly undefined, Mr lonesome, the greatest to atone.

Over thinking.

It is impossible to over think. - Given.

but I believe even the impossible has boundaries; barriers. 

Thinking is something every single being in this world should do more of, but can we think about the wrong things?

I have struggled with training my mind my entire life. I have tried my absolute best to point it in the right direction but I feel as though if I think that there is something I should not think about, I must focus completely on the subject and analyse why it is wrong and how I can stop it. But our minds can play tricks if we want to believe something… or can they?

Belief. I believe that if you have faith in something that, if only in your reality, it becomes real. Belief creates an entity of its own. You may have an imaginary friend, or hear music when no one else can, or feel things in ways that cannot be explained by tongue, but so many deem these beings unreal

Why?

Unjust. So many consider the things that you can see or feel or believe and treat it as though it is not right or that you are lesser than they for even imagining something at all. 

Improper to trust in the things you believe.

So where, I ask, does truth end and belief begin? 

Believing in something at all is courageous. Belief is the combination of your mind at work and spirit at play and to reach such a state is exactly what this world should strive for.

But perhaps I’m simply over thinking things.

A breach in contract.

I believe that marriage should only be on the basis of love- this love consisting of liking another person so much that you wish to spend the rest of your life with that individual in close proximity. However, our society, throughout history, has used marriage as a political means to joins families and cultures in order to better their world. 

I do not believe I was ever meant to get married by the way marriage is defined by society’s terms. 

I have the capacity to love someone so deeply that every inch of my being is theirs and I believe that someday I can love even more beings with all of my being. But if I were to get “married” I would be lying to myself as well as the indivual I signed the contract with.

So, my conclusion is that one day I want to have a ceremony and in love share my love for that being with as many people as I believe deserve to be witness to the affair but I will never sign a paper agreeing to the terms of our love or use it to define anything to eachother.

If I were to ever get married it would be solely in love. The ceremony would be the marriage and it would be a truer testament to stay with this individual for the rest of my life if there were no contract that kept us together. Only true love and soulful passion would bind us and no contract would be null and void from our arrangement with eachother if we ever were to drift apart.

The largest concern in marriage is that your partner will grow but not towards you. I hope and pray I shall find someone who will grow every moment for the rest of their lives and that I will have the opportunity to grow with them on every adventure.