i watch the flames as they caper along their wick

letting pools of tears gather at their feet

as they release mahogany into the air

so that i may be surronded by warmth

and comfort in my forested paradise.

i let my hand hover above the page of translucent vibrations of emotions,

pen in hand

words in art.

i let my mind focus on the soothing sounds of calloused fingertips reaching out to bruised strings and broken voices clinging to the heart for support.

i sit back,

i relax,

i let the world envelope me,

as time becomes a mysetry

and my bones find harmony

in the scent of peace

in the warmth of knowing and unknowing

in the breath of love and anguish

in the life of complex courses.

This repost is dedicated to all my peeps who have suffered the past year of hell without access to their holy ground

When the weight within my bones

Becomes more than it should be

I wrap my ears in ’phones

’Till there’s only the iron and me

When the rage within my veins

Wrecks my inner harmony

Each bar provides the reins

And we ride, the iron and me

It pushes against my core

Ignoring past or pedigree

There are no goals to score

Only us, the iron and me

Each lift breaks me down

Each pull tugs patiently

As my spirit begins to drown

In sweat, the iron, and me

I pour my heart into each press

My breath in each “two...three...”

As I lift more I carry less

All I need is the iron and me

When I finish my last rep

Leave the bench for reality

There’s a purpose in my step

For I have forged the iron in me

"There is success in failure, You get to try it again and make it better. To up and give up after one try is the real failure." said my grandfather once or twice.

This comes from an uneducated man (fifth grade education), who, as he grew, became a police officer, a father to ten children, and also made a run at Lt. Governor of the state of North Carolina. He ended up owning a tobacco farm (65 acres), and eventually built a country store he built from the ground up, and operated it for 25 years.

He was in World War Two, Army infantry. Shot three times during the European Theater but refused to go home. Eventually he was awarded three Purple Hearts and a Silver Star.

Two words were never part of his vocabulary as far as I can remember: quit and failure.

The comfort smells good, smells like hugs in the night,

Smells like heroes have come back to fight off your fright,

Like taters for tots, like kitnip for cats,

Your brain is convinced it needs platefuls of fats;

Of microwaved fear and fry-plattered regret,

Of sweets, chips and chocolates to quell the foul fret!

You know it’s not healthy; that’s half of the point;

A ritual only true pain can anoint.

And your mouth waters cruelly, like never before,

As your frenzied ache eats you right down to the floor...

But you don’t taste these comforts.

They just fill you up.

You wolf without thinking.

You’re just a sick pup.

And after, you feel even worse at the core.

But that doesn’t stop you. You forage for more.

More! you glut-guzzle. You wish you were dead....

So next time, don’t start it.

Try writing instead.

This does mention Depression and Anxiety. May be linked to Dysphoria? I don't know I'm trying to figure myself out. Other than that, have fun.

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I write music. Like, feverently listening to the greats of the genre, and cramming on music theory that relates. Maybe it's a waste of paper, but I don't know. It's fun. When depression takes over, it's just kind of, there. When my depression takes hold of me, it's easier to write. It's hard to play, but I can viusalise, and hear in my head what I want it to sound like. It's just, easy, I guess.

A flat major, 160, 4/4. Arpeggios, and scales. Fingers gliding across the keys, blissful melodies, and harmonies, to match. A musical mask, to alleviate a burning sadness caught in my throat. G#, B#, D#, F#, G#^7 I. Moonlight Sonata.

Power chords Laced with elegance. This can't be captured through distortion, can it?

Scratching pencils to paper. Runs that would normally be impossible are written and played to perfection. I can't play them. Tears cloud my vision. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. AGAIN. STOP FUCKING THIS UP.

That's better. B#, G, B#, (D, F, G run), D. B# dominant seventh, first inversion. B#^7 I. Running through the chord, moving to the next chord. Blood, sweat and tears, soaking into my covering. This can't be touched by fluids, don't let it get touched it's fine, good.

Pure panic, an idea. Write it down G major. It's stupid. Scratch it off. Rewrite it. That sounds good on guitar. Improvise. Try vocals, realise that you are an instrumentalist for a reason. D minor. Fuck.

This doesn't work. Consumed by emotion, write more. Sleep on it, and decide I like it. I add brass to it. Write more to it, and have a fully established piece. next day you hate it and scrap everything about it, and all of the papers you wrote about it get shredded and recycled.

Regret it. Try and rewrite it and hate the newer version. Rinse and repeat.

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Fuck, I love writing music. Emotions just fuel my anxiety, and that fuels my need to write music. So that's that. Time to write some more, 23:10, let's goooo

Take care,

Winter.

Everyone has his ways of coping with something, whether it may be eating, reading, writing, or any other passion or hobby. It might seem strange to put all these miscellaneous things in the same bag but it actually isn't because, if we give some thought to it, they have one thing in common which is helping us to lull the suffering by means of pleasure and excitement.

That's how human nature is, we are all guilty of avoiding the pain to some extent, but there is a point when either our body or our brain has enough, and therefore we have to face the pain of the emptiness within ourselves which is excruciating, and we cannot escape reality anymore. What to do? Nothing except lingering in that state of pain and for a while, alternatively, giving our attention to the small, habitual things, which are not spectacular and so require a constant, patient, unwavering concentration, a skill which is never learned once and for all.

i hide in a shell

of small expectations

it protects me

from the reality

that surrounds

when i feel brave

i peek out

just to let people know i'm there

but once i'm seen

i sneak back in

i hide in a broken shell

of small expectations

light seeps through

its cracks

my eyes memorized

by what lies beyond

unbearable truth

a burden i don't want to bear

the fear of disappointment

of failure

of not living up

to great expectations

so

i hide in my transparent shell

of small expectations

I hand myself a match

in the moment when it can’t go back

light it with hope

and then wait for it to explode

BOOM

there she is again

waiting for the light to change

when she already blew the red

coping skills

they come, they go

but in the end

it’s what she will do

again, and again

(TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM)

.

.

Open, type, delete, repeat.

.

Should it be horror or humor?

Should it be light or dark?

Should it be meaningful or inconsequential?

Type it out, see how it work.

That didn't-

.

Why do I keep using the same damn word-

Now I have to open a thesaurus.

.

No, that doesn't sound right.

.

Should I try to write romance?

No, I suck at that.

Action sounds better.

.

Should I write about someone dying?

That sounds better than romance at least.

.

I've run out of ideas... damn it.

.

Anything is better then rubbing my skin raw, mom.

.

.

.

.

Maybe writing is my coping skill.