dissociation
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Cinnamon Sally,
With the heart of a cinnabun
And the aura of cinnamon
Prances around the fields
But the spice fills her nostrils
To where she can't breathe
Cinnamon Sally,
i can crack the mirror in a blink of an eye
no blood, i wonder how i changed it
so quickly, i wish i had time
this hair, it isn’t mine,
I want to exist in the real worldTo plant my rootsTo hear the life of summer dawns and dusksTo see the flowers growing through sidewalk cracksTo smell the passing waft of freshly cut grassI wish to be real
addled and broken
a heart still outspoken
another hazy day
someone, break down the curtain!
playing out a part,
like a puppet on a string
a bird without its legs
must rely on its wings
dreamcatcher, dreamcatcher catch me a dream
a pretty, shiny, lovely thing
a siren song that gleams
let it cover up the ugly parts
the mismatched cloth and clumsy stitches
shoved underneath the bed to hide
I am plucking my feathers again.
You say it's a stress response.
Maybe one day I'll pluck enough of them
that my mind won't fly away anymore.
I'll be grounded here with you.
All my life I’ve been around
Niggas who think they can take something
From me
My skin
Rips at the sight of them
Their teeth
The mind can disconnect from the body when it is too painful to be in our vessel.
Almost like a complete decapitation of the head, but the body is still of use.
Now why would a person do that?
detached from myself I need
another to fill me
still alone but useful
still alone but in the center
each action has a reaction
giving each move a purpose
a reason
a care
The oaks outside my window frame
Shift gently in the breeze
Like they’re waving good morning
To the hopeless romantic with torn jeans
my mind is an airplane
when is it going to land?
searching in the sky for life's biggest question
when is it going to end?
the cause of this is like
stars bursting in the night
impoding to escape from reality
stuck in a natural galaxy
Some days are nothing but black
Fighting a battle in endless fog
Seeing nothing, hearing only pitiful static
Some days are nothing but black
Nights bring emptiness, fading wordlessly to fog
Is there a point to all this?
Some sense of release hidden behind years of
Doubtful ventures into nothing.
Can I outstretch these fastened wings,
And search for some greater feeling,
driving down the highway with nothing but my sanity
barely clinging to reality
staring in my vanity chasing after clarity
She stares at the blank page
Then at the far wall
”We’re all mad here,” it says
Whispering
Yelling
Beckoning
I feel so small
A tiny version of myself
Balled up inside
How does the narration convey the idea that Meursault is a simple man to the reader?
He’s not
He’s not
He’s not
He’s not
He doesn’t have access his emotions
He’s taking it day by day
A year ago I had been frozen.
The frigid frost had seeped into my mind,
Spread into my heart no matter the obstacle I had set before it
And I could not stop all my senses from becoming numb to the world.
Soft pattering on the roof,A steady blanket of feather-light rain bathes my house.The dark periwinkle color peeking in through the blinds;It's safe. Paws padding softly over to the window,
My wrist, formless, shifting and breaking like a cloud;You grab hold, tightly--too tightly,And I vaporize before your eyes.
i will never know how to breathe without pain
there will always rest a parasite in the wrinkles of my brain
speaking in code to my uterus and to my esophagus,
this "being human"? i'm bad at this
It is a dense fog
As thick as pea soup
Struggling to suffocate me
Eyes unable to see mere inches ahead
It is a storm cloud overhead
Ominous and dark
Filled with rain about to drown me
you
can lose yourself
in nothingness
if you want to
the number of times
i've done it myself
are countless
in the nothingness
you are numb
and feel nothing
I was on my computer talking to some chick I barely knew. I can't remember the conversation, but it was a nice chat. She was surprisingly friendly.
Of the train according to the front, after the order of 1000 suns cry eyeball - can all combustion terrace.
Aforetime another wretched night
Many a tempest raged the Heavens
And One sat vacantly in that rocking chair
Her thoughts a bleary cloud
Continuously a flurry of reasoning
