She Was an Ernest Person

POSTMODERN ART2
Part of POSTMODERN Zeitschrifte collection ©2015 by Asperganoid

 

She, alive or dead, loves her kids.

She, dead or alive, wants to live.

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Bedtime Stories For Little Nobody

My son made a fist and punched me across the face. He said I’ll never be his father again.

My mother pointed the steak knife at my chest and told me to piss off.

My son has never called me mom.

When my mom says things will get better I swear at her with my thoughts.

I resent my father for being timid. I mean my mother.

I never miss anybody because I’ve never had any friends. At least that’s what I make of never missing anybody.

Acoustic guitar and sad thoughts over solemn voice reverberating staccato.

My mothers boyfriend is a stand up guy and I resent that because I’m not; yet I haven’t the desire to be one. a paradox to resent something you do not want to be.

Go to sleep now. Tomorrows never coming.

A heart emersed in smog: E-mail floating the vast liquid cyberspace

These emotions are so powerful, potent; they erode the electronic channels flowing to-and-from my heart.

I’ve never been one to surround myself with hoards of friends – but each unexpected event; every tragedy or surprise, no matter the scale, – has me severing the already minuscule network I have developed for years around me.

I simply cannot take the overriding emotions. My body cannot take it. My eyes were bought cheap but now they’re a low grade x-ray pair which sees through flesh (I have no control of this) and the sight of humans laid even more bare than I can already take sends me over the edge.

I un-plug from this dimension as best as I can.

I refuse to leave my apartment when I hear something terrible has happened to a friend; and they will need me for support, – obligation wrecks my nerves even further.

Writing this ist trop much, I’m soRri but I cænt – continue: die Sanduhr ist gestiegen.

ø To whom ever is out there ø