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.

Writing Challenge (Day 4): Object Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): Curb

I sit and wait for something to approach my resting place. A place soaked in a temporary moment. The rough edges of my seat only inspire me to leave my perch. Yet, I remain anticipating forever. My place – my perch – is not inviting yet it calls to the continuation of life. As I bask in the glory of my moment of rest, I see something in the distance. It approaches in a tempting way. Sulking through the atmosphere like a somber feline. But the sadness calls to me. It reminds me of some moment I can’t quite recall and maybe it’s because I don’t want to. Maybe it is something I have tried to forget. I shift uncomfortably in my place and I realize my rest has bitten me and I feel a small pain in my thighs where they rested on the concrete…

Session 2 (10 minutes): Bouquet

While most girls see the glorious and vibrant flowers atop a bouquet, I can only anticipate the thorns. I’m scared to hold a bouquet and I am scared to catch one. For once I do, I will only be mesmerized for a moment until that moment is punctured by the inconsistencies of life – the thorns. They will catch my flesh and rip ever so gently. I will find it to be only irritating. But, it does not take long for an infection to spread once on ignores the initial cut, and that is what most people love to ignore.

But the flowers – their petals – invite my eyes and mask my worries. Their vibrancy and sheer bliss contained in vessels of beauty. They tell me to forget about negativity. To take the hardened edges of life from my body, and shed them. The bouquet leaves me unarmed and almost controlled. The curves of each flower become the curves of mountains, who inspire with their majesty – a mountain which I can climb, and once surmounted I am promised to reach utter happiness.

And as I am deterred from reality, I reach the peak, find the happiness, embrace the bouquet, only to rediscover its essence of ephemerality…

Session 3 (90 seconds): Rain Cloud

Billowing ripples of excessive fluff. The remnants of an industrial size pillow fight. The illusion of comfort hiding the reality of damp disappointment. Promises broken…

Falling

Just a little piece from someone I’ve never met whose words seem to resonate with my own emotions.

Finnished with it all

I love you, I swear, I do.

But I am not in love,

To you I have not fallen.

But standing is something to do alone

And it is loneliness that kills me,

So softly,

So slowly.

But when you ask

If you are enough for me

The answer is no,

Because I want to fall

To the frozen floor

And melt in the warmth,

In the arms,

Of the person

That I’m in love with.

But to that person I have never promised love,

And my promises they may never hear.

I want to stand with you,

As I have, so long,

But falling is freedom,

Is life,

Is hope,

Falling is a leap of faith

I have forever desired to take.

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Advice from a Tortured Soul

Whisper your sweet stories of love’s fallen desires,

To souls with unopened ears.

Litter your soul with the fragments of joy’s crashing glories,

Horde your heartache.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel.

Query those familiar with Old Man Sorrow,

Those who have tasted enmity.

Old Man Sorrow teaches the tainted knowledge,

Bilks the ignorant and optimistic lover.

He holds the charred remnants of scorched hopes in his creased claws.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair.

Blister the soul for kismet happenings.

Slake the soul’s desire for desolation,

Dispose of the glittering dustings of cherished memories.

Inevitably brutal, life is, I promise you that.

It is a callousness strengthened by fallen remedies.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair,

bleeds from wounds resistant to all bandages but time.

The heart balloons with a sick satisfaction,

Let it.

The heart grapples with your nightmares,

Let it.

The heart chokes on your life,

Let it.

The heart dies.

Let it.