I am tired of unsatisfying thoughts of unsuspecting words.
I want it all to stop.
Crashed. Blew up.
Come with me.
Dearest come with me.
I am done with it.
Do you like it?
Kenneth is Immortal
Black white.
Flying a kite.
I can’t hear her.
The neurons are pretty tough.
Visuals of hatred for the talented past.
Imagining noises of carousels and various rumblings.
I need more time.
It’s not insane.
But bend over and succumb to temptation.
Or pretend your mind isn’t on the misunderstood, the unimportant, the marvelous.
Don’t touch me.
Feel me.
Pity you’ll never understand the difference.
I want you.
You liar.
You’ve only let go of your reality.
Why have I done this?
Why can’t I be satisfied?
Why am I always going to be irrelevant?
I don’t trust myself.
I don’t trust you.
Stop.
Please don’t stop.
I love you.
Pretty Things
My mind is trapped in this box.
But, it’s a really colorful box.
So, everyone thinks it’s pretty.
Pretty things interest people.
They make people want them.
So.. people come looking to explore the box.
And they do.
But, sure enough, they soon run away.
Because the box isn’t so pretty on the inside.
It’s actually pretty crappy in there..
The colors are crappy.
There’s crappy elevator music playing in the background.
It’s hard to figure out what’s even in there.
You know, cause it’s so crappy.
I’m inside the box.
In this little cave underneath the contorted mess of solemn crappiness.
My cave is pretty.
I hate the box.
To be continued..
Thoughts of a Worn-out Watcher
I speak when I want someone to hear me.
But, without fail, my thoughts are misconstrued.
And, without fail, I cringe as faces respond in misinformed delight to my words.
The horrible irritation that comes from these simple attempts to connect to others fills my being with fervor,
For blissful ignorance such as this has always been on my naughty list.
And, in moment like this, I lose myself in more ways that one.
My mind hides from me.
My heart loses touch with reality, and beats devoid of passion,
Soon after, my soul crawls inside that pulsing mechanical furnace inside my chest and revels in its synthetic heat.
The heat is pitiful.. but something alive with no life like my shriveled soul can’t really tell the difference between existing or living.
So my innocent soul likes it there.
I haven’t been able to find her for a while – the hooligan.
She’s been gone for longer than usual.
I’m not sure why she is so much more scared of me than my mind seems to be.
I mean, my mind and I have a pretty consistent relationship.
He comes back to me enough so that existing in society is obtainable –
Enough so that no one can tell that my soul is missing.
I can’t tell if I am thankful that no one notices.
I can’t tell if I will ever find my soul again.
I can’t tell if anyone will ever understand me.
I can’t tell anyone that I am..
But my thought is interrupted,
And suddenly my eyes focus enough that I can see the edge of a grin –
A grin that tricks me and makes me want to tell it my secrets.
So I do.
Cecil Blutcher Releases #HIGHerEd Mixtape
Chicago native and Penn State master’s student Cecil Blutcher’s mixtape #HIGHerEd has been released.
OOoooohhhh weee.
Can’t stop, addicted to this shindig.
Can’t stop, addicted to this shindig.
Can’t stop.
Can’t.
I didn’t know something, and you made sure I knew that.
So I tried learning something, and you didn’t like that.
So I pretended to hate it too, and now your gone.
You say you hate yourself, but you really just hate everyone else that isn’t you.
And that hate emanates from you body through your jokes and bombastic gesticulations.
Your ability to attract is your most dangerous quality.
Your despair captured me, a fly buzzing around your delicious light.
And, I ached for you. But, even though I knew you were dangerous, I willing leaped into your glow. The pain was nice, and so I vigorously embodied a masochist while your energy consumed me.
Now I am on the floor, with a twitch that I am not sure will ever leave.
You are an incessant self-deprecating monster, if, of course self references everything but that.
And I see that. Everyone sees that.
But, strangely enough, now I see you.
As I struggle to hold on to life, I can still peer above me and observe your being.
I see the power behind the glow. The power that stems from something deeper.
The power that does not come from within your exterior, but from the grounded body of electricity that remains in the past. It is immovable, and it is necessary for your life. But, it can be used for something else.. openness, and ability to accept love, and ability to receive ideas and judge them as valid for another, even if they may not be for someone else.
Unplug your hate, and use it for something other than destroying those who see the power, the wonderful power.
The potential. I can’t stop thinking about the wondrous potential.
You, in all your chaotic glory.
Then again, I am just a fly.
Because why not.
Hey. This is another slam poem I did. It’s pretty self-explanatory. WOo.
Falling
Sometimes you just have to embrace someone for who they are.
i’ve fallen and i can’t get up.
A moment kissed with life,
Forbidden from strife,
Was eaten by strife’s wife.
A.K.A You.
Writing Challenge (Day 14): “Where” Writing
Session 1 (5 minutes): On the City Bus
Walking onto the bus, the anxiety grabs hold of my nerves and squeezes with a bitter intent to raise my blood pressure. I swipe my card, sensing a slight tug from the card reader – someone should get that fixed. And then I lift my head, and my eyes cover the crowd with their sense of awareness. I see no completely empty seats and realize that I must sit with another. Those with empty seats next to them include an elderly man with wrinkles screaming of his endeavors through life, and a woman exuding confidence and a lack of consideration for other human life. There was also a younger man who seemed..
Session 2 (10 minutes): A Wedding in an Old Church
The door is grand – white, crackling paint covering wood stripped from a lively forest. The rings and curvature of the wood, unsuccessfully hidden from the human eye, told stories of strife and fortitude. As she walked down the aisle, all she could think about was the door. Was she the door – a hidden story whose life would soon be revealed after years of weathering and age? And if so, would her soon to be husband appreciate the value in her cracks, or run from the sight of what he saw as worthless antiquity. Or was he, too, part of the double door. She was the left door, he was the right, and they connected through the clasping handles. Untouched, they were inseparable, but the turn of a knob, and they could be separated. She tried desperately to get these thoughts out of her head as she passed the damp cheeks of her loved ones. She focused on her body – the internal thoughts of each of her muscles. Her feet ached from the pressure building from her heel’s false height.
Session 3 (90 seconds): Canoe on the River
My arms ache from the incessant back and forth, push and pull, strain and release. But the pain subsides as it begins to rain. The surface of the river is invaded by the pleasantly mild and inviting raindrops. The sight lays content over my body like a towel just taken from the dryer placed over a shivering child chilled after a bath.
Anyway. 