flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe.
“Torrey also noticed reports that schizophrenia rates rose in the United States the same year cat ownership became popular, a fact that has led researchers to look into Toxoplasma gondii, a parasite that cats transmit to humans. It’s not harmful to everyone – though it appears to make those who harbor it more sexually aggressive.”
Article I stumbled upon.
You think being
bothered by your “friend”
With their demands
and having to deal
with the complex
(or whatever they are)
emotions of another
human beings trials
and tribulations is a
well you’ve got another
thing coming when this
gravy train of uninterrupted
Isolation runs out of tracks
You’ve got another
The grown up world
Will eat you the fuck up
Worse yet; there’s
No way of coming to
Terms with it
Reality is all about
And then deal with it
Don’t be yourself.
You’re nervous right
Now, thinking about
It. Anxious and filled
Don’t be yourself.
Nobody’s going to
Nothing’s going to
Stop the encroaching
Sharp objects of life
You’re thinking death.
It’s so much easier
Than everything else
Just be somebody else
Hope as hard as you
Can that you’re even
Capable of being
Anything other than
What you are
What you Have been…
Try or, Face the possibility
Of… Failing life.
Fail life and life will
Operation Be Somebody Else
Because who you are just
Cannot handle it and will
Never be able to handle it.
Do, not, be, your, self.
Some may describe me as quiet and as one who does not stir up manure no matter the situation or circumstance and they wouldn’t be wrong in their observations as I am for the most part a placid little fucker
But there’s a particularly dark corner of my psyche in which hate and anger glows hot with excited indignation at all things alive or inanimate
Don’t tell me it’s my grandmother’s birthday, don’t ask if “I know how to warm” certain food because the microwave is crocked (I wasn’t born yesteryear)
Don’t make assumptions; don’t tell me you’re “sticking to your own truth” (for fucks sake what the hell does that mean??? Are there two thousand truths and you’re the ring leader of this idiocracy?) – Fuck off.
At times I feel guilt about my private little explosions because their content is so vile they would leave many a anger-therapists in a coma of disbelief
(mind you all of this rage is kept inside); I curse and curse and curse and wish the most vile things would befall those around me and politicians most especially (next to pedo’s and rapists, and general thieves)
I Hate with greater passion than I Love. One could say I love not at all. But oh hate; yes, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue.
When I was cheated on; I imagined things which have burnt a picture in my head to this day about my former lover (although I am without resentment towards the cheater now)
It is, admittedly, a good thing that all of this volcanic ire remains within.
I’d be a vile creature (much like those I despise) were it anywhere else.
[All things considered. I’m a full blown Humanist] ( 😀 )
A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra
A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.
If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly
Dear Muthafudgin Diary
This is really bad,
I used to be one of those people who boasted about not getting addicted to stuff but…
That has changed, apparently
I’m addicted to Coffee. Yes; how do I know?
It isn’t an itch, I’m not telling people I’ll suck them off for some beans, no
As the caffeine wears off at night, I find myself floating in a murky pool of loathing, there’s a dark sense of self, I am acutely aware of the slow pace of my existence and its blaring disgrace. And I can’t write for jack.
I wish I were dead.
My first thought was “you better not have any coffee tomorrow,”
But I needed to sort this apocalypse now and figured “see if it’s the coffee, have some now.”
And sure enough, half a cup of half a teaspoon of some good ol’ roasted beans and I’m typing away with a lit mind and a brighter disposition
It doesn’t sound all that bad, really. It’s not cocaine or meth or death
I’ve never liked depending on things though…
So I’m hooked on coffee, and for some reason out of all of these years it has only recently started to be profoundly psychoactive on my brain, what a way to usher in the new year!
P.S. To think just thirty minutes ago I was struggling to write a sentence and here I am having written quite a bit!
Cheerio! Coffeenoid out
La nuit du café noir.
Teeth, face, eyes. What torture.
Draw your sword and bury it in my gut.
I am in a pit not of my own digging; I wish to free myself, not to escape and walk on level ground with the rest of society but rather, to be buried in it.
Tears. Death. Blog. What emptiness.
Unplug me from it all.
I have lived in half, quarter measures,
I wish to switch off completely.
Not fight inevitability.