The Earth Is Not a Cold, Dead Place

You were right when you told me my mind is a labyrinth. Its curves, dead ends, and trails leaving you dizzy, disoriented. It is deep, so deep I haven’t even reached its depths yet, and God only knows what the hell could hide there, what monsters lay waste in the catacombs. You taste their venom before I do though, their darkness. They rear their ugly heads when my conscious cannot bare to hold in my surroundings, when the air becomes too hard to breathe, when blinking becomes difficult because sleep doesn’t exist for weeks. You hear their words first, slipping from my tongue, regurgitating themselves from the dark. They escape from my mouth, clearing the distance between us, only to land on your chest, teeth gritted, ready to bite at moments notice. And you feel it. You feel their anger, their hatred even, in the sharpness of their claws against your skin. You feel their impatience, their constant let down, their heartaches and headaches and you know as well as I do, that they will not let you forget it, those sick bastards.  

I can’t write anymore.

Seriously.

What a waste of years, adolescence,
Each, a blurred array of memories in my mind,
They strobe past doused heavily, in envying greens and desirable gold,
Merely meshing within my own.
They cause me to feel, as I do not wish to,
Sick with longing,
And desperate for warmth amid lost souls.
Arms are unable to comfort me now,
Their caring nature lost in losing ambiance,
They merely make me colder.
Solace is found only in limbs of white,
Carried in fingers of black,
Lifted by shovels too thin,
And unearthed,
Outside, in.

It’s been a while since words escaped my mind, since they’ve leaped off my tongue, off my fingers, sprawling themselves across white. Time has passed since I’ve unlocked my thoughts, they’ve gathered dust in my conscious for far too long, cobwebs congealing in their midst. I don’t know what or why or how it has happened, but my hands took their leave of absence, and my heart grew distant for a while. They still haven’t returned completely, my hands and my heart, they wander often, though I’m forcing them now to come home and tell of their tales. I’ll listen intently as they whisper of the world, speak of its new found greatness, beauty. I’ll listen, and listen well, for it’s been a while since I’ve emptied completely, since I’ve breathed easily. It’s about damn time.

Massive writers block.

Lover’s Perspective

She dances a curious dance, you would know just by looking at her, though most choose to avoid her gaze. Most decide to surpass her in halls, or look over her on streets. I wonder if I’ve gone insane, since staring at her seems to be the only thing I’m capable of doing lately. I watch her walk, study the switch in her hips, still after all of these years it remains unchanged. She walks on the outsides of her feet, so her legs are nearly bulled, her hips revolve round with each step, rotary machinery at its finest.
My eyes quickly find hers, and descend into the ocean of colors her irises hold. I swim in them often; I float along the dark blue lining, and paddle into the lighter tone of green, until I reach an orange ring of sand next to her deep black pupils. I love it here, within her being, encased in her soul at moments glance. I think that’s what most miss, she’s a damn book, open to the world, if someone would just look her in the eyes. Though no one does, and no one seems to read anymore anyway. I feel as though I’m one of the few left in the world, still enchanted by words, and personal stories. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with her so easily, because I read her whole life in one infinitesimal glimpse.

It was years ago now, but the feeling still lingers in the pit of my torso, a rock never digested fully, it still rises through my chest whenever I see her, read her expressions over again. It’s those damn eyes, and her silly smile. They’ll haunt you every night if you let them. With each blink a page in her personal story passes. More words, more feelings pour out from underneath her eyelashes as though each moment in her life falls like a tear explaining her demeanor, demonstrating her character.

Character. She certainly is one. She’s too many even, too many different people, all her, though all separate entities. I’ve fallen for each one. Her childish side; ignorant to anything that pains her, ignorant to other’s thoughts of her, she is free there, and you can tell. This is how she was born, there’s no doubt in my mind, or so the stories of her eyes tell me. If there were no struggles in her past, she would only be this person, always. Though, pain is familiar to her and pain changed her drastically. Sometimes, when the burning memories rear their ugly heads, she breaks, and falls. Her smile fades, disappears completely behind her clenched teeth and she holds herself tight for long periods of time. Once In a while, she’ll tear you apart herself, for maybe no reason at all. She is angry at so much, her demons. She will throw them at you, douse you in horrible glares, sick words spiked with venom. She’ll become dangerous. She is everyone and everything. She is all the characters her story needs. Maybe that’s why I fell so hard, for every part of her.

She writes. She exhales words, inhales thoughts. She is one of those coffee drinking, up-all-night, throw up-on-paper, type of people. She makes a home in her bed, snacks and cups half way full with caffeine, she lays for hours in thought, or sits upright continually tapping away at the keys on her keyboard. I’ve grown so accustom to these sounds, they’re as comforting to me as her heartbeat now. Sometimes we will be laying with each other, tangled in limbs and love, and she’ll bolt from my side, throwing the covers around her, stealing my warmth away, and race to her computer to write something, anything that happened to have crossed her mind, down. I laugh. I cry sometimes, tears of joy because this is mine, she is mine and I have this wonderfully crazy being as my other half, and I’m damn near the luckiest man on the planet.

Despite my evident love, she isn’t one for showing much affection, at least not at first. I wake her in the morning with kisses sometimes, mostly because I cannot help myself, other times because I forget and think she’ll find it cute. It scares her, wakes her from some haunted dream, nightmare. She gasps for air, as though I’ve stolen it all through her lips, and pushes me away, eyes wide in fear. It hurt more at first, stung with the heat of pure venom, though now it’s a dull pain, cured by my sigh, and her apologetic smile. She leaves to write again, and I can only think about her pasts, how they prevent her love so much; barriers to break, over and over again, a never ending war with sick memories. perspective

Anonymous asked: how many followers? :o

way more than i thought i would have.

im just glad i have any.

Unfinished, unedited~

Another year is passing, as they tend to so quickly now. Months flying by in a progression of scenes, like a movie skipping and disorienting itself as if to only provide the viewer with the most pivotal moments.
My mind begins to act as a projector of sorts, displaying the images within my conscious, taking me back from reality, and forcing me into the past, where I cannot help but find comfort in.

The deranged movie begins, and I am watching scenes from New Year’s Eve, the past year is starting and I’m attempting to console a friend whose face has paid worship to a porcelain god. It’s early in the morning, as one could imagine,and we are knee deep in the liquor we consumed. I remember it well, as such a horrific lesson tends to brand itself in your memory. What I learned that faithful night was to never drink Pink Lemonade Vodka as it feels like the bile of Satan coming back up. Though, if I recall correctly, I didn’t puke that night, the acidic quality that drink had, never digested properly, and woke me running to the bathroom. It took hours for my stomach to finally release its revenge on my actions, and allow me to return to my house, never wishing to delve into alcohol consumption again. I wish I listened to myself more often.

Months later Spring Break arrives in distorted vividness. The first spring break I’d be taking away from my family, or really, the first spring break I’ve ever really had. The closest three friends I had at the time were my only company along with the parents of one. We decided early on, to take our trip on the road, an eighteen hour ride straight to Florida. So, we did. The days we usually went in and out of sleep hoping that when we woke, we’d be that much closer, but it never really made a difference. We passed our time cramped in the van by making bracelets, or watching movies. It wasn’t at all horrible, but it wasn’t something I’d enjoy everyday.
I can’t say I remember every detail of the trip, because I don’t. My memory sucks, trust me. It’s not because I was damn near obliterated every night, because we didn’t even take one sip of alcohol, but because my mind is so full of things it doesn’t need, it doesn’t take the important things in. Though, regardless, I know somewhere within me, I had fun. And because these things are always recapped, regardless of whether you care to hear them again, or not.

My mind then skips it’s footage to one of my more proud moments. My feet aligned on the track, breathing heavily from the nerves. The gun sounds and I await the baton from my first relay member. I smile a smile I don’t think I’ve ever felt pressed against my cheeks before. Stretched so tightly across my face, pulling every minuscule muscle sideways. Finally her foot steps on the detonator, the tiny triangle on the red rubber that indicated me to start off sprinting. Bombs explode within my legs as I reach behind me to grasp the cold metal end of the baton.
The next thing I remember, we had won, and I was off to states.
States. The place I had been trying to deem entry into for three years.

Though as the scenes continue to change, my personal movie playing the remaining reel of the past year, I can’t help but let my mind wander into the next. The one that seems to be making all the difference, what with my graduation, turning eighteen and other signature checkpoints in life. I can’t help but know that this is all changing, changing for the better, or maybe for the worse, or maybe hardly at all really. All I can truly tell is that the air is different now, holding in it a scent similar to nostalgia, old books, and once used perfume. I’m waiting for it to leave, and I’m not sure when it will, though when it does I know for certain that something will alter itself within my life, as it seems to so often, as everything seems to so often, and I will be happy about it.

Here is beautiful,
Radiant in afternoon glows,
Oranges and yellow suns,
The horizon, closer than home.
Though here is dark,
And unwillingly found,
Deep black clouds filling
The sky, drowning it out
You are alone
Here.

Sorry I haven’t posted much guys I have had massive writers block~

It means so much that you’re following tho, so thank you<3