2017 pictoral

keeping sane is a job in itself. 


You Can’t Hide or Run From IT

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
big deal?

well you’ve got another
thing coming when this
gravy train of uninterrupted
Isolation runs out of tracks

You’ve got another
Thing coming

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
Experience first
And then deal with it

Don’t be yourself.
You’re nervous right
Now, thinking about
It. Anxious and filled
With dread.
Don’t be yourself.

Nobody’s going to
Save you.
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
Eject you.

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.

Fear: Are you scared or…

I wonder; is hiding ones reaction unhealthy?
Allow me to elaborate;
I am versed in the skill of hiding my “fear” when around other people.

When a person scares me (unintentionally), my heart races, I almost jump out of my skin,

But the person wouldn’t know because on the outside I am as still as a mouse.

One becomes a master at masking their honest feelings when the world constantly crushes you, and you develop a mistrust, a deep suspicion (is anybody watching me, waiting to see me “being weird”)

On the other end of the scale I seem to scare everyone in my family because I walk (as my mother says) like a cat. (Not literally, I’m just really quiet, my foot steps light, my breathing calm)

I am incredibly conscious about the spaces I occupy, making sure I do not stand out, (a protection mechanism; because nobody bothers a ghost)

I rather enjoy my ninja status.

But I need to solve my anxiety problems (will I be less of a ninja when/if I do?)

So many decisions I make on what I wear and how I talk seem to be a muddle of aspergers and anxiety, so I don’t know where MY identity starts and where the effects of social ills have affected me begin.

Here’s to figuring that out.
Asperganoid OUT.

P.S.: What are Lumbersexuals attracted to?

An Unfamiliar Corpse: A Journal

Entry By A rattled Little Thing

Of course I do not want to go to that wretched death gathering people call funerals; or to a farm in some misty land to buy the body parts of pitiful creatures.

An astonishing behavioural display; moving mountains for the dead!

Never have I seen such a reclusive group of people make with such haste plans of any kind!

It would be ludicrous to expect some form of courtesy from this band of relatives to refrain from asking me such uncomfortable questions as “do I not want to tag along?”

With my nerves? Perhaps they wish to prepare for another funeral.

It is no wonder I have grown to become such a fragile thing tugging at the last petals of my sanity; they are barely attached to my withered personality as it is!

I sigh. So easily am I rattled. Offended and taken off guard!

What tomorrow is to most is in my mind a bat-swinging apparition in a dark room looking to be the end of me.


Management of a jumbled brain

Things I manage to mismanage in my brain:









One or two or several more get magnified and then I waste my time because I have my expectations all wrong completely ignoring the reality or I have it all right except I don’t take action or I focus on something but it is beyond my ability so I waste time and end up disappointed.

Who needs friends when you have a pillow?

Anxiety Induction

If you enjoy Sir Ernest Hemingway, apologise I sincerely, he drank and wrote and writed and drankeded.

Many a writer in the past did this; was their drinking responsible for their output?

Maybe; but I inquire deeply, what are you, if no creative gold bursts out of thyn loins no matter what ‘chemical muse’ thee shamefully ingested?

Is it possible, can one be obsessed with becoming an artist (and the romanticism it bears) to such an extent that they can be completely and utterly blind to the fact that they are in reality such a blatantly regular Sock; art could not possibly spring forth from their bosom, Let alone any orifice?

Blinding and painful naval grazing.