capsize

I can’t muster up,

roll up,

a compendium of courage

just enough

to balance onto this string,

so i’m always on

tiptoes,

either grappling for gravity

or

floating (so high I can’t feel my fingers)

 

teach me these few

things, how not to:

clip fingernails to

split knives, then try to trace my face

or smash teacups

because the house has

ceased to whisper (i can’t stand silence)

or scorch the tips of pencils

when words stay hanging below my throat,

limply,

refusing to move any

farther onto paper

 

sometimes,

if my mind eases on the accelerator,

i’ll make sure to

stand under a storm

and hope for lightning

i’ll have my hands full of

plasma coalesced into electricity

(so blue it could burn your eyes)

at least there’s this

effervescence,

i may say,

that I can dissect,

squint into,

pick and fiddle with

like an old toy

made out of unknown

mechanisms

 

my life is a time bomb

and i’m running away from

the silence between each tick

tick

tick.

from feeling like

an empty hotel room with

undone beds.

don’t leave me vacant,

 

 

I’d rather capsize a boat

than have it float

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze

 

anyways

sometimes,

maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling

shining

heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?

 

i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and

confident,

like what i am not,

 

let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical

sophistical

 

being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill

 

I’m addicted

convicted

 

 

 

i think it’s broken

I think it’s broken.

I mean,

on the outside

my hands glide

over shimmering

shiny polished to

perfection

steel,

and I mean,

the engine runs well

quite swell.

it’s ready to take flight

you may think

I’m quite right

 

open the door;

it’s

deconstructed

words

thorned berries

sharp sounds of

syllables,

unwanted.

Haunted

crying

mumbling

stumbling

over wires

in puddles

scratched knuckles

electrocute me

maybe i’ll be free

 

and maybe you’ll

get past all that

but oh honey

how funny.

pass the haze

and it’s

numbers

static numbers-

piling over numbers

climbing over

calculator tiles

for miles

counting

the crumbs i had

for breakfast

and lunch

and dinner

and yesterday’s meals

and hell maybe last

week

and ill label that

biscuit i hid in the pocket

behind the dinner table,

crushed by my boot

because it wasn’t on the

timetable

 

and at the very back

on the walls,

i’ll have beautiful angels

with

red halos

carved on to

shadows of my

thoughts-

they just love picking at

the light and

dimming it, just slightly,

politely

“don’t take it personally,

but I might just,

since I must,

combust this

lust for joy”

and i’ll bow down to

that

bow down to claws

that clench over

something bright,

ill give in to the dark,

the pain

let me drain into the sink,

 

sometimes i enjoy it

 

i just might

idealism, imagination, exaggeration

so, everytime i write on here in Times New Roman, I feel like I’m talking to a therapist, and I am, in fact my own therapist. I remember the TV show where the patient falls in love with their therapist, unluckily this cannot happen with me (though I so very wish for it, and I wonder how it feels like to love oneself). However, that is a topic for another talk and it’s quite a long winding road.

I’m here today to talk about (not embrace, but maybe a little bit) my overly active imagination and idealism. I don’t know whether I cherish or hate it. This is because on one hand, it’s spurred me on to creating something of the eerie or beautiful, on the other hand, it has had my heart forget it’s job so I’m sort of left there, hanging, with a hammer planted into my chest. It’s like expecting someone to pick you up on the road and you wait thirty minutes – well they must have been late, there was traffic- and an hour slips to four hours and you fall asleep on the bench you were waiting on. The end of the story is, that it never comes, this relief of the person coming for you  (relief that my heart muscle will set me free and stop jittering like a puppy). idealism is a nice concept, it even sounds sophisticated, something that rich educated teenagers use in poems, and to me it’s borderline stuff of nightmares and borderline majestic. It makes you feel grandiose because in that little skull of yours, everything is going the way it is- you’re running the show, honey. so the kiss you wanted landed just right on your lips and that second glance definitely meant more. but in the real world you’re not even sure you have lips to receive that kiss and maybe your lover is looking to the left and not at you. but that’s okay because then you suffer and this little bitch here enjoys the feeling of jumping ten feet stories high or simply dark things you find behind corners. but that’s all okay also because at least i’ll follow the trail of sadness/self victimisation/disappointment(mostly) and bunch it all together and this so called thing/ “art” comes out. and my teacher always says my work looks like anger, I say yes and it’s not anger towards the one or the world that didn’t follow my script, but it’s anger towards myself for making a script in the first place. sometimes i wonder what it feels like to pluck out all my teeth or cut my thighs in front of my lover so that i could simply write about it. this all stems from me just wanting all moments in life to be intense and life-changing and soul-grasping and I can’t stand the ordinary. I don’t want contentment, I want bliss. I don’t want neutral, I want pain or sorrow. I want it all to the extreme and I’ll never be able to stand in the middle of a capsizing boat.

ps. words you say will probably be tattooed on my eyelids

(i like feeling a lot so i don’t know where im going. and change seems scary and weird and uncomfortable and BORING)

i wish i was running

 

( i wish I was running so at least I would know the cause to this frantic rising and falling of the chest)

 

My heart’s beating

With peace

at the same time it

Thrashes and clashes against

My ribcage – forced to act like a

Shield to my mind

 

It’s running fast and I’m exhausted

I haven’t stopped in ages

My legs fall limp slowly burning

Up my thighs. this feeling

Make it stop –

Stop this beat –

Beat it up, batter this heart.

At least it’ll die down

 

Writing this is half as cathartic

As I thought

Maybe I really should stop expectations

But these are just syllables after another

 

The exhale I wish I could make

Would be of a train starting up:

Oil turning to steam

Like blood turning to vapour

I’ve experienced the unfolding of my

Nerves in my pulsing brain

But now

This aching won’t die down, take me back

Not to the place

But to the feeling

 

I don’t know

What I want my hands to wrap around

Or my breath to hitch at

So I wait

 

And the clock ticks

It won’t stop.

 

Make it.

 

But you’re never in control anyway

Nobody’s gonna tuck you in on the last night.

Sorry.

Or am I?

 

It’s not Much

but it’s better than running on nothing

 

Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats

 

Coats and coats

of laughter

kisses

press record!

remember

 

pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough

 

they’re made out of

porcelain

posting pictures

that define their

life

because they are

nothing more

 

emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens

 

But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect

dollhouse

 

Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.

 

Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.

 

It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t

sleep

 

Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.

 

Better not.

Screwdrivers & Sculptures

I wish I were as small

as an ant

to crawl into one’s

mind

with a scant

screwdriver and manual.

 

I’d slither

and slide into the control centre.

Somewhere in between the front

and left part of the skull.

Slightly hidden

but not at all dull.

 

Don’t worry.

I’d tweak with some things,

of course:

Make them pleased to see me.

Throw out their judgements –

make them like me

in the form of a plea.

 

Accept me

Give me attention

without tension.

 

I need to know

my place here

or the voices I will hear.

I need

importance-

not transient.

For once.

 

I know I sound selfish

with all these “I”s.

 

A little working ant

full of ego

aren’t we all?

 

I can’t help it

if I find hostility behind every look

if I don’t seem to find acceptance

even in the commodity

of my own mind –

… maybe I should have resigned.

 

If I rip myself

at the edges

tear out some pages

maybe I’ll fit

their ideals,

on wheels.

 

If I change the

title of the book,

fake an excerpt

add a few words

then I’ll find my nook.

 

So, they will open

the doors

say “welcome,

it’s all yours.”

Because I will

be the little sculpture

they built,

their little puppet.

 

In exchange,

just my identity

to become a non-entity.

 

I pull it out of my pocket

just like a card-

one swipe

it’s all gone.

 

No big deal, right?

 

Well I guess, for now,

I’ll return to my own fantasies,

hopes

one day I will rise above

this all,

realise nobody

is staring

it is only my brain

that is tearing.

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