5-18-16

Death is at the top of the list of my obsessions. I don't know, why, really, it's just intriguing. Life- over. Memories become something left behind and held onto too tight (do they get claustrophobic, too?). As quick as that- it's done, over. Inside jokes and things only they'd get, no more. You can't dwell on the past but how do you live in the present when it's nothing like it used to be? Potential destroyed, life just. Over. O. v. e. r. It's hard to comprehend. It's so fragile, so weak, so breakable. Yet we feel so indestructible, infinite, powerful, living in this little space of time that we're alive. We hold it so close, it's so precious. But that precious untouchable item that gives us everything we have can disintegrate into the ground. Decay can begin any second, any hour, any day. Truth is, we've all begun. Even living is the start of decay. Death is so sudden, so final, so permanent. I wish it wasn't.

We sat and talked about taylor swift and everything was quiet but all I could think about was the fact that what's mine could be gone. Any day now. The impending, inevitable Over with a capital O.

I love to read peoples' stories, get to know their life. I, not sure where to go to study that but I'm so hooked on humanity.

I stopped listening to the voices in my head because they've gotten me into trouble.

We look at other peoples' responses to certain situations as justification of our own. Somehow we assume we're the only ones doing things wrong, which, quite frankly, is incorrect. Live for yourself, make your own decisions.
- (m.m)

I have a poetry notebook I write in at school (which is being used quite frequently oops) and above were my rants for today, I'm thinking about later on maybe over the summer, posting everything from those pages into a poetry book because I love it, but I'm not sure. A rant book like that of revengeavenue (check her everything out, i guarantee you'll love what she does almost as much as i do, if possible) would honestly be a good idea for me lol below you will find a poem written last night, I couldn't get my lazy ass to update yesterday xD the part sort of relating a person (this poem for me talks about a few different people, references different areas of my life and is mashed up into something of less reality which is usual) to heroin or any drug that you shoot, really, the way I worded it makes it sound like the person is my darkness, the person is the something begging me to slip away (yet the reason "I'm" resisting that?) but that's not how I intended it to seem (this person knows who they are), i like how it sounds, though, and I'm not willing to change it. It kinda ends up sounding like "let's give up together, I'll overdose on you and you'll die with this vessel of a body as I go limp on the bathroom floor" which is cool tbh, interpret it how you want, though. I'm not even sure I know what I meant by that stanza, at least not something specific and detailed with some underlying message.

5-17-16
And maybe tomorrow makes me so uneasy because it'll be an even day.
I can't blame numbers.

Off off off
Shut it off
Off off off
Something's off,
Something's wrong,
I feel in it my throat-
It's scratching.
Scratching the way my fingers did that noisy Friday,
Scratching like your favorite record nowadays,
Scratching like your voice after you've sobbed on my floor for hours.

It's blurry but I see you.
It's dark but I hear you.
It's raining but you're warm.

I never thought so much could crash down on the both of us so quickly,
My god, time has outdone itself here.
The ceiling is falling all over your dirty fingers and floats through your lungs like smoke, tangles your hair.

Somehow I've strung two bodies along for the last three months,
I'm not sure how we've made it so far.
Your tired eyes tell me you're done,
And so am I.
I channel you through my veins,
Tying off and shooting up.
Keep me up, my love,
For the walls are spinning and some voice is telling me to slip into this darkness.

Maybe I'm scared of numbers,
Maybe I'm just scared of the days.
Time is a matter of numbers, and it hasn't done us well,
For the most part, that is.
We're not made of numerical material,
We mix like liquids,
Fluent and colorful,
Something creative,
Dark souls.
- (m.m)