Fuck I'm on my own shit, I can own it Fuck it's lonely, I'm so lonely I don't know me Wake up do the same shit Fuck, I hate this I tell people that I made it but I fake it I get dressed and do my day shift Wanna end it God, I hate this, I hate this I hate this, I hate this Buy a bunch of shit that I dont need Room is getting full but I'm empty God, I'm on my knees, someone save me Someone save me, someone save me

keshi, “Good day”

Muddler

Thoughts all jumbled up again It’s a mess, a messy darkness storming Through your mind with all the words and Thoughts so muddled, unreadable, again Open eyes, but you cannot see Closed them shut, but the swirling dark Won’t give up a single coherent strain No words, no light, no direction Where to look, where to turn When your thoughts are all So badly jumbled up again

Yellow

The last magic was white And worked wonders After a while I miss it, I want it, I don’t This one is sunflower yellow And hasn’t done shit Apart from making the sunflower Yellow-white sun my enemy I don’t want it, I want The white magic back Or any other as long as It does work wonders again

Steadily

Molten lava eating away at your innards Slowly but steadily, disintegrating your bones, too Thrashing against the inside of your skin Making you stumble, heave, grit your teeth Making you clench your fists and curse that traitor Slowly but steadily killing you Everything but softly, anything but fair

Who Are

Who are you looking at Who is that in your skin, walking, talking, touching Touching others, feeling their heat or denying it Who are you really looking at Who is the one directing your body whilst drunk on liquid drugs Whilst sky-high on all kinds of polluted air Who is the one taking another smooth sip with your lips Who are they looking at Smiling, inviting, expecting, exhilarated, aroused Who are they looking at

Residual

Where are the stories With so many, too many murmuring through the air, in front of our eyes Are there still ones left unsaid, unsung, unwritten Stories still hidden under whispers, burning to be heard clearly Where are the stories The hurting, the wretched, the tragic, the dark The quietly lovely ones

Phase 4

You hear the words but don’t comprehend their meaning All their weight doesn’t get carried through your skin It is simply lost right before your eyes The black hole in your chest has become you None of their humaneness gets reflected No matter how much they throw in your direction Your can’t even blankly reflect their emotions anymore The black hole bloomed too big Your innermost mirror, eviscerated, fully bloomed

Fortnight

Every minute, that sickness twists your insides a little more Which is a lie, a lot more Gnarls and warps them with an uninvited sadism As if it is the only thing you can ever always rely on And it grins through your rising nausea Which is a lie, it screams That it is and always will be the only constant in your life

New Things

Searching for something new Always, time and again There never is anything new under the sun There’s nothing And still, you pick and pull strange pieces together For something akin to some thing new

The Touch of a Thought

The touch of a thought Whispering through your mind Over your lips Tingling whispers of Something profoundly personal Leaving from the secret depths Of your ribcage Crawling up, up Clawing through your throat Up, up, and feathering out Over your thoughts before Suddenly falling down onto your tongue Whispering over your lips Something you’d kept close, hidden The thought of a touch Whispering across your skin Over your neck Terrifyingly caressing touches of Someone else, and your mind is Clawing at your flesh Digging deeper, deeper Back into the secret depths Of your hollow ribcage

Ah, yes - the famous historic nipple twister of “female presenting” nipples. Would “male presenting“ man-boobs with “male presenting” nipples not be sexual for any on-looker and thus deemed appropriate by tumblr, I wonder. Or would those, too, have to be painted at least 500 years ago to be deemed  appropriate for the public because “art”.

Everyone reblog this as much as possible over the next two weeks for good luck

Poetic Justice

Just fly away, says the black bird Just scare them away, says the white snake Just eat them up, says the grey cat But then it ponders, with its tail tip twitching And adds with a grin, But not before playing with them Twice as cruelly as they did you wrong And then, it finishes, very pleased, and then Just eat them up whole

Well

It wells up inside your chest Like a well’s water surface surging from the ground With all the unknown dirt and grime, but also Evanescent particles of minerals That might strengthen your unalteredly white bones After you’ve managed to climb out that well After you’ve brushed off the dirt and grime Will your skin glitter under the day Your bones shine clean under your flesh As if the ground had never drowned you

If I was born as a blackthorn tree I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you Fuel the pyre of your enemies Ain't it warmin' you, the world goin' up in flames?

Hozier, “NFWMB”

Reprieve

It came over you like a silent wave And its abyssal depth inexorably put you to sleep Yet, strangely, inexplicably, for once, this time Your lungs breathe easier when you wake up again

Liquid Music

There’s something stirring uncomfortably, forebodingly under your ribs Lurking, waiting, crouching in silent anticipation But it doesn’t jump, not yet, not yet And that’s almost, almost just as bad as the attack itself There’s something crawling around your organs, under your skin Lurking, waiting, laughing It knows its turn will come You know it, too Too well And so you guess and try, try, try Finding a method to lessen its crawling through your veins Clawing into your thoughts, claiming your attention by being There’s a slowly, slowly, surely growing desperation To find what’ll keep it down, keep it numb, keep it ignorable Or at least non-threatening Music, music, alcohol, more music, more alcohol You’ve seen your fair share of needles, no more of those into your flesh You’re disgusted by bad smells, no cigarettes on your lips and lungs You can never be sure the pills will actually work after several weeks Several weeks of more, of less tolerable adverse effects (More insomnia, more hyposomnia, accelerated falling into dark pits...) So you find More music, more, and maybe just one more glass of that one drink you like There’s something stirring uncomfortably, forebodingly under your ribs You know it’s there, lurking, waiting But with another sip of burning smootheness Tingling tongue, simmering skin, numbed, non-hurting thoughts You don’t find it all that threatening anymore It’s the music, isn’t it, just the music you’re swaying to So you drink in more of that music, more, who knew that Music came in liquid form as well, well, all is well You’re finally well, aren’t you, are you not, not, no you’re not, not well

Phase 8

It pierces right through your solar plexus And leaves you short of breath Short of words Short of functioning So you can’t say that it hurts Somewhere in your chest although nothing’s left Because all that ever was Suddenly escaped right into that alluring, repellent black hole And took something important with So you can’t say that you’re befallen by a homeless sadness Or that your sadness is like A sentient ocean trying to drown you You can’t say that something in your chest aches Cause you’re out of breath Out of words Out of Order