Trust is subjective and you can’t give into what you don’t believe.
I don’t think I want to trust that there is more out there than a casual stare into the night as the light of the world goes tumbling down into the causal roads that lead to nowhere.
There was a time that I trusted everything anyone has given me as a sign of peace, but it was only till recently I saw marigolds that bounded color to transfix a gaze that was unwanted.
I used to trust up until that point, but the end is to be made that trust is a distant memory.
Trust is subjective.
I feel like I’m floating in the middle of the deep ocean
blue, I keep things right for myself.
At any minute, things are thunderous. I can relate, It’s one of those things the ocean can’t help.
I see the storm head and the waters gilt and jolt me with it. I panic the same when I discover someone new.
The stormy weather leads me to the underwater graves of ships that never made it to land. Lasting spirits of the widows perched on hollow wood that gives false hope that understanding.
I am my vessel returned where the weather is going to take command.
My feelings about myself —it’s like an ocean; idolized as calm, but widely known to be disastrous.
I’m going to tell you a secret
It will never get old,
I’m going insane
It has been foretold.
The old maiden in the caves
Touch me when I was young,
“This one will flinch in the sink,
Her brain will be undone.”
the most mundane things
tangle me in their strings
the bodies I’ve put under for
they pull up in streams.
As I told you once
I have been sick since day one
My brain melts daily
My strategy is deadly unsung.
What he thinks when he sees her:
I’d reach out and touch you and let you know that I am everything that will keep you happy, warm, and safe. Alas, I won’t because I know you will never accept because you don’t like the way I look. But it’s just a look, not who I am. But that’s okay because I know you’re too good for me and you would be embarrassed to take me places because you don’t want people to laugh at you for being with me. I would never want people to laugh at you for being with me.
The seamless sacrifice destruction of it all. He can’t see that she want’s him. She desires him, in his all.
His self-talk destroys his reality, it’s sad to think she will never call.
She’s waiting for him to answer. His destructive self-talk blocks her call.
when bitter, shy birds soar
out of a murderer.
Never look to jump off the ledge to prove who you are. When calls of identity are mixed with a judgment of being someone you don’t know exist within you. The best thing to do is to not engage and walk away. People will use you what they want from you, true. That does not mean that you have to further engage in the destruction of your character because you decided to do something that abruptly stopped the claims of false engagement.
I left a truth that I was an image; a crappy token. I thought I spoke their language no, it wasn’t showing. I made time to catch their issues when they failed, but my existence was a mere springboard to their wails. Oppressive things, they thought we had in common; it was alarming to find out they thought this was a cute way for deep bonding. They fed off of plagiarized words with shapeshifting careless bases; as they take the credit while I’m remaining nameless. All the money spent —I call it time, the snakes would jump out and boast as entitled swine. Take it upon themselves to make things even weirder. I thought my dismissal was disgustingly clear.
Now that partnership is dead. Oops, they misread.
They thought I was a scribe, no run in bribes.
Kicked them out with no look back, now they feel attacked.
The news rocked that I was bad, but really I was glad.
She’s funny, I’m not
She’s charming, I’m snot
She’s outgoing, I’m real shy
She’s tells the truth, I’m full of lies
The ornate facade that wears my mind
Pretty things I do to hide
Shield myself–if the world truly knew
If this mask fell off, I’d truly be screwed.
I do not have the words or mind to make myself clear most of the time. I spend time rambling wandering for words trying to repeat what I think in shades of green, yellow, and blue. I cannot speak yet, but still demand I am heard. The words are not there, but the elements of sound are. I just admire the written language. Words carry meaning back and forth as a carrier pigeon bringing messages at times of war. Writing is an art. Art is not peace but war.
Some missives are easy to follow, codes built especially for me. I welcome it as a direct order at my level of understanding. Some words are silent. Silent like the eyes looking back at me, wanting to say something, but cannot. I see the words in the face but I do not see the message, it is not at my level of understanding. I want my pride to die in a sensual manner that would bring my eyes to words, and make my message whole. I hope they will catch my meaning at my level of understanding, and make it theirs’s. Yet, the dispatches remain unclear. I have enraged feelings met with silence, flowered in shades of red, yellow, and blue. It is too prideful to be dependent on words that are there for exposure of the insecurity of wanting to be desired by another human being.
No matter what enigma I try to relate, the eye contact that is forever for the taking. I am not fathoming; our codes are at different levels of understanding.
Also, I’m trying so hard to get it, but I am not very perceptive. Regretfully I speak silently, because I do not have the understanding.