START
Don Quixote madness pulses through my veins. I crave a more than real life existence and end up chasing down ghosts. Memories long gone and now up for reinterpretation. I try to make a farce of it, but recognize where I am still negatively attached to life’s narratives. I feel out the stories of childhood. I search for some kind of meaning. I end up falling fickle into the hands of my parents, asking why they made the choices they made and did they realize how it would effect me? Why do I allow it to effect me to this day? Why can’t I let the ghosts go? Am I attached to the pains and fears of the past? Are it those pains and fears that make me feel alive? Probably. Is it worth it? Is it making life work in my favor? How do I want life to work if I don’t feel like it’s working?
Maybe writing about it is the place to start.
The adventures of Don Quixote’s chutzpah surges through my brain. I crave the unbeaten path no matter how painful.
The Pain and Power Of Words
↫ Life has never been an easy walk ↬
.
.
.
To sum it up, life is like a cake walk
⊹ Just...full of challenges ⊹
And every single day I make it through this game
▉▅▃▁It hurts▁▃▅▉
_______________
Everything here either wants to hurt you
Or
⥉ kill ⥉
you
And they usually come at you with words
<><><><><><><><>
They get in trouble if they kill you
⤜So they make you kill yourself⥽
*
⁎ ⋆ ⁎ ✶
✶ ⋆ How wrong ⋆ ✶
⋆ ⁎ ✶ ⋆
*
They throw words at you
And then you
↡
end
↡
your
↡
story
⊱And they get away with it⊸
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⋰ You get so used to being hurt ⋱
That you start to do it to yourself
⋘ You believe their lies ⋙
≎ Words are kinda like knives for your head ≎
Each one brings more damage
So yeah, life is hard because of these opinions
Everything here will try to kill you
E
V
E
N
︽
︽
︽
《《《 Yourself 》》》
︾
︾
︾
It Spoke To Me
He lay there,
P E T R I F I E D but very much A L I V E
The moths covering his jaw, were O O Z I N G with S E N S A T I O N
He moved and danced along with the maggots that burrowed through his skin.
T A R T E R D paper skin and H O L L O W bones, dug out by the ants within...
His eyes swallowed in, and left behind... he spoke but with the larvae hanging from the roof of his mouth.
R U S T and chambers full of D E C A Y, from limb to limb.
However, I must ask;
“Are you still alive?”
My Earth
You dance with tears of joy in your eyes,
Earth blooming.
Earth blossoming to your heartbeat.
Can you hear me cry?
Electrifying beauty, crafted from a heaven beyond the distant stars.
My home,
From the ashes of time to the cracking wake of dawn, you have only started to unveil your colors to me...
Guhsing waterfalls full of life,
Temptious winds, take me flight,
Cold Moonlight, lit my summer night
Harmoniuous unison,
Tapping resevoir, plentiful treasure
Mi tierra como te amo
Translation to English: My Earth how I love you.
Indelible
Whoever said
“Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me”
did not know the power of
a well-timed verbal barb.
Many a sting I’ve endured
from sharp sticks and rocks alike.
But never did the pain
pierce so deep
or linger so long
as a vitriolic word.
What is not commonly known
about the nature of the spoken word
is that words hold a tangible substance,
solid as any physical thorn.
Once released into the atmosphere,
words may impart a gift of hurt
in a single cutting remark,
unable to be retracted,
lasting as a wounded heart.
If only we all took some time
to consider the indelible mark
left behind by the words we speak.
Maybe we would wait a moment
before expressing our thoughts,
or simply let a few nasty syllables
fall unspoken by the wayside.
Heart Of Gold
I know life is not perfect
I am aware of the pain needed to get what you’re after
And I can understand that not everything works out
I’ve seen it all before
Nothing I’m not used to
My heart has been shattered and broken
Cut and burned
It has cracked and died
But, even after all that
I always manage to get back up
And fix what they broke of me
My heart is not made of steal
Not made of stone
Not made of glass
And not made of bone
《 I have a heart of gold 》
Beautiful yet strong
Cunning yet expensive
I know what I can do
And I don’t care that I bearly survive their vemon
I will get back up
I will walk through the fire with nothing but myself if I have to
Pain will not stop me
Fear will not stop me
I will carry on through this storm
And you will never see me shatter
Because of my heart of gold
I know I will
Raining blood
Today is a normal day
The clouds are grey
Screams fill the air
And people are dying
War is not a fun game
But everyone still plays it
Everyone is afraid
Scared
Running
Children hold their mothers tight
The war sick;
They are killing everything that moves
It’s a normal day.
As usual,
⤜It’s rainning blood again⤛
The Pain Of Being Betrayed
I've waited for years on end
I've killed my heart plenty of times for their happiness
I've been stabbed for so many years
And I'm always left in the same place I started
Alone and in pain
Everyone always left me to rot
Everyone always left me to die
And I let them
I should've done something
I could've done something
But everytime someone new comes along...
They just try to break me
And it must be so disappointingly easy
Because I let them
The worst part about being betrayed
Is that it never comes from your enemies
I Still Don’t Talk At Holiday Parties
In a dream, I invite my father over for dinner. In a dream, I speak with my hands. I press index and middle finger on each hand together, then fling what they’re holding away
/they’re holding nothing/
and I’m saying, I’m lost
In a dream I flourish both hands out to my right and push myself away, and my father loads the word abandoned into the barrel of a gun
I hold up 3 fingers on each hand and the light blushes at my innocence
I am speaking with my hands, but I don’t know most words, so in a dream I clear the table by pressing my face down into the dirty plates. I pull the table cloth out from under the dishes, and it’s actually a quilt, and the food crashes to the floor, and I suffocate on things I didn’t want, and I leave my bed to stop the crying that started in the closet
The ceiling is yellowed and the walls are suicidal, when I put two fingers to temple and close the thumb down to shoot
I don’t know how to speak with my hands, so in a dream I stare into my father’s eyes. I hope that when I cry, he swallows the tears and teaches me a new way to deal with the things that I locked up in the attic
/the attic is empty shadows/
But even in the dream he agrees with the word gun, and I hold up an amber alert so that he knows that what I meant by the milk carton was that this is where I learned how to fix things
I press a bullet into his palm and a pill into my own
I paint the scene in red, I swallow the scene in blue