When I write things,
convulse with hatred, (scarce and public)
over them,
I want to recall walking
under scaffolding carrying a knife
with a spring behind the blade,
at 9pm, and assuring
how confident I was in what I had written yesterday;
on my way. Still taught
avoiding a beating or loosing the last phone that the insurance company was going to give me - high, not hesitant -
frantic utter immediacy, shuffling
sideways under eves of men and barely storing ideas'
secondries:
gallant, carried-leg-hope
of severed nerves sewn together
again.
I knew the paned quagmire,
lit a fire and stood there for great while,
then I called over when my son died
to the men sat on the other side.
My boots were slung crooked on the ground
of thinking, I'd stood a week,
and before one month passed the cracking sounds
had stiffened my neck and roused the meek.
Although I had cherished my compassion
like a rusting compass, biting insects snipped in, in droves;
this further and the reality that drowning happens
should not have been enough to temp me from my alcove;
I tended this fire but I hadn't built this road,
an isometric forest, myself an issuant alone.
Look over my shoulder. I dare you.
That is what I'm scared of.
My lazy eye is scary; my fucking lazy eye makes me scared to look you in the face. Teachers, up front, sometimes look over my shoulder in another sense because they don't want to catch my eye because the snapping eye click pops my right eye out of line sometimes. Of course, the anticipation hightens senses; it needs to.
Take in breath.
Breathe.
I love eye contact. Sanctual, no more than four inches eye contact! Learning Support in league with my politics tutor, and he's the principle, and I am paranoid, (and learning to not abriviate and BE WHOLE) accuse me of being a private person! I am a public person.
This is a journal, isn't it.
And words are abstract. Words are stick people twisted. So punctuation is not what silence looks like, love is not L O V E or 'heart' it's
and the only way to ever really know, and to ever really write, is to live.
Suicide Nothin'.
Suicide no comments made. Suicide "Fat Girl"; does this help? Is vacuum.
Is vacuum with wires.
-Suicide tangent.
Suicide Tangent
and all for the best?
Doing anything is irresponsible
and doing nothing just as bad.
We are back to suicide and the best trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn't exist but look how useful sociological study is and that was invented by atheists.
Myself? I'm slippery.
She looked at the glass with her head tilted.
Beneath here was a frozen lake of a viscous liquid -
Or so she thought. It was ever so slippery.
The glass looked back at her, as it does.
It didn't know and it didn't think.
She put down her hat, she picked up her hat,
She danced a reiki dance. The liquid began to melt.
The pane, at a distance of paces, was visibly crisp and colourless.
It screamed at her with broad, perpendicular teases
so she teased back with a dummy run. She feared for her throat.
When I write things,
convulse with hatred, (scarce and public)
over them,
I want to recall walking
under scaffolding carrying a knife
with a spring behind the blade,
at 9pm, and assuring
how confident I was in what I had written yesterday;
on my way. Still taught
avoiding a beating or loosing the last phone that the insurance company was going to give me - high, not hesitant -
frantic utter immediacy, shuffling
sideways under eves of men and barely storing ideas'
secondries:
gallant, carried-leg-hope
of severed nerves sewn together
again.
convulse with hatred, (scarce and public)
over them,
I want to recall walking
under scaffolding carrying a knife
with a spring behind the blade,
at 9pm, and assuring
how confident I was in what I had written yesterday;
on my way. Still taught
avoiding a beating or loosing the last phone that the insurance company was going to give me - high, not hesitant -
frantic utter immediacy, shuffling
sideways under eves of men and barely storing ideas'
secondries:
gallant, carried-leg-hope
of severed nerves sewn together
again.
I knew the paned quagmire,
lit a fire and stood there for great while,
then I called over when my son died
to the men sat on the other side.
My boots were slung crooked on the ground
of thinking, I'd stood a week,
and before one month passed the cracking sounds
had stiffened my neck and roused the meek.
Although I had cherished my compassion
like a rusting compass, biting insects snipped in, in droves;
this further and the reality that drowning happens
should not have been enough to temp me from my alcove;
I tended this fire but I hadn't built this road,
an isometric forest, myself an issuant alone.
Look over my shoulder. I dare you.
That is what I'm scared of.
My lazy eye is scary; my fucking lazy eye makes me scared to look you in the face. Teachers, up front, sometimes look over my shoulder in another sense because they don't want to catch my eye because the snapping eye click pops my right eye out of line sometimes. Of course, the anticipation hightens senses; it needs to.
Take in breath.
Breathe.
I love eye contact. Sanctual, no more than four inches eye contact! Learning Support in league with my politics tutor, and he's the principle, and I am paranoid, (and learning to not abriviate and BE WHOLE) accuse me of being a private person! I am a public person.
This is a journal, isn't it.
And words are abstract. Words are stick people twisted. So punctuation is not what silence looks like, love is not L O V E or 'heart' it's
and the only way to ever really know, and to ever really write, is to live.
Suicide Nothin'.
Suicide no comments made. Suicide "Fat Girl"; does this help? Is vacuum.
Is vacuum with wires.
-Suicide tangent.
Suicide Tangent
and all for the best?
Doing anything is irresponsible
and doing nothing just as bad.
We are back to suicide and the best trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn't exist but look how useful sociological study is and that was invented by atheists.
Myself? I'm slippery.
She looked at the glass with her head tilted.
Beneath here was a frozen lake of a viscous liquid -
Or so she thought. It was ever so slippery.
The glass looked back at her, as it does.
It didn't know and it didn't think.
She put down her hat, she picked up her hat,
She danced a reiki dance. The liquid began to melt.
The pane, at a distance of paces, was visibly crisp and colourless.
It screamed at her with broad, perpendicular teases
so she teased back with a dummy run. She feared for her throat.
When I write things,
convulse with hatred, (scarce and public)
over them,
I want to recall walking
under scaffolding carrying a knife
with a spring behind the blade,
at 9pm, and assuring
how confident I was in what I had written yesterday;
on my way. Still taught
avoiding a beating or loosing the last phone that the insurance company was going to give me - high, not hesitant -
frantic utter immediacy, shuffling
sideways under eves of men and barely storing ideas'
secondries:
gallant, carried-leg-hope
of severed nerves sewn together
again.