.

I thought that if I could make something beautiful, a piece of art, a haunting poem, if I could do something with all of this ugly stuff inside me, it would make the mess excusable. It would make the living in a bruised being, worth it.

.

the four ‘p’

psychology, philosophy, physics and poetry. thats what my heart aimed for. that’s how you could summarize my interests. i love to know people, i love to know our mind and how we work. i think it’s such a shame that, no matter how much we try, we will never know what others really think. and plus, i really love not philosophy per se but more the act of making philosophy, of just, throwing up really complicated thoughts you can’t stop thinking. and many believe philosophy and poetry aren’t good togheter, because one “investigates the truth” while the other hides it. i think they can be a good couple. i do a lot of my poems on my very fucked up thoughts. thoughts that would’ve made me have a lobotomy from the age of 10 if i was born 100 years ago. i also associate poetry with my love for literature and writing in general, plus music, because poetry is music, just silent. and then, physics. not that i’m oppenheimer, i just really love the stars. like, a lot. i love the moon, i love the planets, i love the white hole — black whole theory as well. my favorite movie is interstellar by the way. and i think it really is the epitome of my four p lovers.

I think one cruel trick of humanity is how easily we can glide through a period of time not knowing how meaningful it was. But by nature we yearn, so we're reaching and reaching for something we can never relive, and something we'd never appreciate the same anyway, and many of us do not know how to endure that.

This is where I write

I wore my best clothes for you today. I woke up late, but I still set aside extra time to make myself pretty for you. I never wear makeup, but I painted my lids with eyeshadow this morning. Some mornings, I do not have the energy to brush my hair, but I did a special style today. I did not know whether I would see you or not, but I did all of this just in case. I love you even if I never see you again. I look for you in places that I know you’ll never be.

I don’t believe in god… but I still look up at the stars and beg him to save me.

When I stop existing

— (via thediaryofalover)

"how are you?" is such a selfless, human thing to say. like, it's just a greeting for most people, but it's !! really, you care about my day? you care enough to ask how i am? with no regards to how your feeling? like, yes i will answer and tell you about the homework i have to do and how it's raining, but i love it, it's my favorite weather, so isn't it great? and maybe you say oh, i'm not a big fan of rain, but i'm glad you're enjoying it! or maybe you say oh, i love rain too! but, regardless, i get to ask how you are next. i get to listen to you tell me how you've been living your day thus far, and isn't that just incredible? that we can have an interaction like this with so many people a day? that we can ask everyday and still get a different answer? that society has just decided that a good way to greet somebody is by giving them time to tell you about their life right now? in this moment, i am granted a little bit of your story and it's incredible.

This morning, like any other, i brewed two cups of tea. Without you in my living room, disheveled and half clothed in the most beautiful way, I drink both cups and finish in half the time.

i got that dawg in me but instead the dawg is just a constant sense of longing, to be alive, to be dead, to be anything but stuck here

Human

Curses, corruptions; I let my body sink down in the bog-water Where there is sound, nor vision; Where muscles stiffen alike rigor mortis. Despondent, I, Let myself be engulfed By a loathing for all that I am Without ego. Forsaking my own Humanity, for I do not Understand The conscientiouslessness Of the sentient. For all that I am, and must be, To claim a self-righteous place Amid creation; for all the reverberations Caused by my inborn destructive nature, I choose death. And yet This darkness; this sludge of Existential disgust, cannot claim my spirit, Even if I do offer it by volition. At the disintegration of my every selfishness; These drives, that senselessly force me alive; Where even love cannot save me, I find the light of darkness; The mercy killer. Unwilling, scared, saddened, yet, decisive, No matter how heavy the reaper's scythe is. It is not love that saves me. It is mercy. If such light should Burn in my human heart, I can open my eyes, And breathe.

--- 2-12-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

”remember this fundamental truth”

I felt such pity for myself, that I would never achieve the level of artistry I’d observed in my idols. I nearly cried my whole life away looking at their creations, grieving for the work I’d never be able to do. I wanted nothing more than to be the truest of poets. I wanted it to hurt, I wanted it to burn. But it was never enough. My words were abrasions on the surface of the skin when I longed for them to be wounds cut deeper than could ever meet the eye. Before I left for good, I wrote her a letter. I said “I never created the art I wanted to, but the closest I got was loving you.” When she found it, she whispered into the dark of the night that my words made her raw. She became a wound. I got what I always wanted.

Men will truly never understand the raw and aching way that women love. They will never understand the heartbreaking feeling of looking into their lovers eyes and feeling their soul reach out, begging to be held.

Throw the dice

Life is a game that you must play.

Throw the dice and see what it says.

Often, the odds are low.

No matter what, you have to roll.