Oh, my friend, I’ve broken it,
And I can’t seem to find,
Strength inside these shadows
Where nothing ever shines.
And what it is I’ve broken?
My life, my soul, my mind.
So, my friend, forgive me,
For not holding on,
There’s nothing left to cling to,
Or even stand upon,
When bad has outweighed good
For so very, very long.
And, my friend I’m sorry if
I can’t catch you if you fall.
It’s not that I won’t be there
To help you if you call,
It’s because I just won’t be
Anything at all.
I watch the people, and their
Greener sided fences.
I note their masks and their reflex defenses.
I move through life just being myself,
‘though I could be anyone. Anybody else.
I watch the people and their plastic smiles,
Their luxury sports cars driven less than five miles.
Armani suits, suited to suit them,
Or viewed through the right eyes, suiting their disguise.
And I wonder if they’re happy in their artificial lives.
I watch the people. I could mimic their movements,
Act out their gestures, smiles, plastic puppetry.
And I wonder if I’m happier inside self-misery.
‘Cos I could have it all, have everything I see.
And all it would cost is just me.
Spin now, leaves of yellowing red.
Your futile negotiations
With the wind would still have led
To every drop of blood you bled
From limb and limb and limb.
Dropped, discarded, forsaken, shed.
Too many, perhaps, of mine instead.
Something always draws me back,
Though I’ll admit when I was wrong.
But try an understanding that
Sometimes I ‘m here, but my soul is gone.
Endless aching wears away
Far more than I can spare,
Lays raw my sensitivity,
‘Til I break down and lie, saying I don’t care.
I’ll hide behind glib arrogance and puns,
A child ‘neath her mother’s skirts,
You may be misled if you think i don’t care,
Cos I care so much, it fucking hurts.
And oft I am wont,
To see each struggling step-by-step
As progress in the grind,
‘Til in my ear, a whisper,
And laughter from behind:
‘Silly rabbit’ sayeth life,
‘Trix are for kids…’
My thoughts ring out like gunshots,
I feel the wounds within,
The warmth inside me bleeds away,
My soul is wearing thin.
I’m standing here in darkness,
Staring straight into the sun.
My heart unable to decide if
I’m ending or just begun.
The choice keeps getting colder.
Do I end here or begin?
Because before I get much older,
I might end up giving in.
Didn’t get that far through ‘Joker’,
Before I started to cry.
I wouldn’t make a very good clown,
I couldn’t say why.
Movies I see in myself
Always tend bring me down,
Because people are cruel and unkind
To those with a different mind.
You’d have to look pretty hard to find
One more different than mine
I can’t put a label on it,
Except that I don’t seem to fit
But I still couldn’t tell you why,
A movie of a man who laughs
Is making me cry.
I’m older than this time yesterday,
But younger than seconds hence,
I feel there’s so much more time to spend
On the other side of that fence.
I know all the lyrics to my favourite songs,
But can never remember the tune,
While only the grace of borrowed light
Allows you to see the moon.
I’m surrounded by good looking daydreams,
Of who I want, or want to be.
I’m in love with my ego,
But my ego don’t love me.
Where’d it go?
The bright star I should follow.
The blackbird or the swallow,
I hoped would guide me home.
For I am lost.
Meandering, misguided and malingering,
Looking for a coloured string
Or breadcrumbs softly scattering
That mark my path unknown.
You may feel lucky when you know where you are,
But unfortunately for me and my stolen star,
This reversely is adversely conversely true,
And I’ve wandered way too far.
And the moment, this moment, well maybe I own it,
Or maybe I’m in a dark room,
Pitch black, with a cat that I’m trying to catch,
Whose existence I only assume.
And my dreams all sprout from darkness sown,
And I’m always and never forever alone,
They forged my last sword into a throne,
An unending game I play to atone.
Swirling in my haunted head,
Promises broken, friends misled,
Choosing one, not the other instead,
What have you got to lose?
Only your dreams, your soul and your shoes,
And the brightly coloured thread.
Every single one of us
Has something longing tries.
That speaks from unseen places,
Within each heart, decries.
No grand proclamations,
No great discourse or mystic word,
But a simple desire
To be understood and heard.
With each attempt to make a sound,
Ten will overcome.
Our melodies defeated,
Our vocal chords undone.
Too oft these sounds are violent,
Compelling gentleness to choke and die.
For each of us that has no voice,
Therein shadows lie.
It seems I posess a penchant
For inexplicably, inextricably
Colouring on the outside
Of lines they create with such pride
Then insist I remain inside.
I ask for pencils
In Shades of Cezanne Blue,
And lines are just a thing
I want to draw right through.
I felt I was drawing everything alone,
But one day I saw you:
Colouring outside the lines.
I spend so much effort resistin’
Anything that feels like addiction,
Convinced myself I was winning,
While you were addicted and grinning.
Now I’m not so sure,
What I was put here for,
Always avoiding the dance floor,
Avoiding drugs and drink even more.
Got buried in my own sorrow,
Hating being alive,
While you lived life like tomorrow
Would never, ever arrive.
So who was the idiot then?
Happiest way back when
We had the chance to be carefree.
I thought that I could see
Further than you.
Guess I hadn’t a clue.
You seem happier still,
Moreso than I ever will.
Lately I seem to find
Myself in a forest of pines…
My wisdom but a soap bubble
Those of us whom
In life, are cast to play the sadder part,
And so sad thus,
Said possessive of a heavy heart.
Oh! Feel the weight of me!
Well here we are, it’s time again,
The festive season.
Time to hurt the ones we love,
No rhyme nor reason.
An Angel sits atop the tree,
As something to believe in.
Should e’er an angel come to earth,
May my heart unfreeze then.
If we all got gifts our deeds deserve,
Not rewards just for believing,
There’d be no need to wrap them up,
You can’t hide the truth by deceiving.
Good to heaven, bad to hell?
Some have faith,
But some things
You can’t buy or sell.
We all find what we need to believe,
Don’t need a reason.
I only have faith in what I can see,
Enjoy plastic season.
I don’t think I ever grew up, just older.
“There’s no happy ending.. so they say.
Not for me, anyway…”
-Dr. Horrible’s Sing-along Blog
I bear the scars of your forty-fives,
You tried your best but I’m still alive.
You used two pistols and magazines,
Shot my heart and destroyed my dreams,
But a heart still works if it still cries,
And I cry.
I’m full of holes from your forty-fives,
You couldn’t have missed me if you tried,
But planned demise isn’t what it seems,
Because I survived all your plots and schemes,
And a thing’s alive if it still bleeds,
And I bleed.
Now I’m immune to your forty-fives,
And when you shoot me, I will still survive.
The slugs are out and the wounds are clean,
So go find better guns, if you’re still keen,
Cos a girl’s alive if she can dream,
And I dream.
I suppose the trees, in retrospect,
I should have attended, my neglect
Of time’s subtle scythe, and due respect
For their reminder; nature always calls,
And she who answers always falls.
A premonition of my future
Abandoned casually by trees
Autumn leaves, as they led
Falling echoes of my life,
Fleeting, fled. Underfoot
On which to tread, and I,
Despondent, sighing said:
‘There lies everything,
Don’t by it’s beauty, be misled.
The whole world and all within ends thus:
These dying leaves are us’.
There seem so many truths,
Which one do I face?
Which one takes the place
On the pedestal?
When I tried to face them all,
They warned me I would fall;
See me falling.
Trying to pretend
That the song will never end,
But for better or for worse
I think I’m running short of verse.
I can pretend at emotion,
Lip syncing to the song,
But the words are all rehearsed,
And each line is getting worse.
All I feel now is an emptiness,
Just nothingness, maybe less.
An undefined ache
Where I thought my soul should go,
But I’ve always been a fake
And I just put on a show.
So convincingly the act
That I once believed the fact
That I could be a real girl.
But oh, Pinoccio,
I should have listened
If I had anything to say, maybe of interest,
I’d pin the fuckin’ thing up on my pinterest.
But all my conversations now are with myself,
And it’s slowly eating at my mental health.
Like seagulls picking at a whales’ rotting corpse,
The wide beach view is fine, until of course,
You look a bit closer, see the detail,
That’s my sanity: half eaten whale.
I should probably get a friend or maybe two,
I like them in the same way I like you.
Fine until they open up their mouth,
Then I don’t want to hear whatever shit is coming out.
Well, maybe I’m a narcissistic bitch,
With some kind of messed up mental itch,
But if I scratch it ’til it don’t itch any more,
There’ll be chunks of greyish matter scattered all over the floor.
They say you’ll never love someone ‘til you learn to love yourself,
Well Catch 22, here’s a thought, let me share the wealth.
How can I learn to love myself, ’til I’m loved by someone else?
The lesson goes both ways, as most good lessons do,
And because everybody else hates me,
I’ve learned to hate me too.
Spent three weeks in an unmade bed,
A pounding in my skull,
Repeating thoughts in my head.
Like the lyrics of a song
Singing ‘please let me die before long.’
I’m trying hard to hold on to the act of holding on,
But even now my own mind wants me gone,
So the line I’m holding onto’s not that strong.
The basic problem with this kind of rope, you see,
Is that it’s tethered far too tightly to my sanity.
Maybe if I enjoyed a single moment,
Maybe if I could control or own it,
I’d be happier alive,
Given a reason to survive,
But all I get is non-stop misery.
So fuck me.
No apologies for profanity.
I’m stuck here in my head, wishing I was fuckin’ dead,
Because there’s nothing in this world that I can see,
Nothing for me.
Nothing for me.
Some days I don’t know if I’m more like Dr. Horrible or Penny.
Have you seen my life around?
Now it’s lost,
I have found,
The whole world wanting.
Not pages torn from fairy tales,
Far stranger by many accords,
No songs to make a million sales,
Or plays stepped out on Broadway boards.
But it’s a dizzy, dancing, summer spark,
A falling, flying Meadowlark, and
All those nights spent in the park
Laughing in rain, and wet, and dark.
Also the sharpest knife that ever was,
A blade that has no par.
It has to be that sharp because
It constantly cuts, with ne’er a scar.
Those kind of days are hard to misplace,
Oft’ tattooed upon my face,
There, in ink you can’t erase,
Writ large the tale, my fall from grace.
I’m a tattered teddy-bear,
Never quite cared for enough.
Although I claim that I don’t care,
I’m still completely stuffed.
I’m not sure if I forgot
Or have just grown indecisive,
But I can’t really quite recall
Exactly what my life is.
I used to know where I belong.
Used to have a favourite song.
Now I don’t know
What my greatest fear is,
Favourite beer is,
Time of year is,
Or even how deep the lithosphere is..
OK, I never really knew that last one,
Carry on, my wayward son.
Melancholy musings must
As everything, regress to dust.
All things return from whence they came,
Doth my memory the same.
Sparks of Spring-blessed childhood.
Early risings and cool dawn grass,
As sunrise amplified reality
Granting tiny temporary kingdoms
To my imaginative keeping.
Barefoot child I,
Twixt river and orchard wild,
Would careless spend my day
Full of mud, fruit and fae.
Until as is wont, up I grew.
Something one should never do..
I hate weekdays,
They drag us from our bed,
Where we could snuggle down together,
Keep each other warm instead.
The winter morning chill pervades the room,
Then together, almost as one, and far too soon,
We cast aside the cover,
Glancing shrewdly at each other
Before competing for first shower,
Hot-water, soap, and scour,
While the other makes us coffee,
With toast all buttered down,
Warming frozen fingers,
Wrapped in a dressing gown.
Humming out a cheerful morning song.
Perhaps I don’t hate weekdays all along.
Melvin Udall: “People that talk in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”
-As Good As it Gets
Melvin Udall: “Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes, with boats, and friends, and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that’s their story; good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you’re that pissed that so many others had it good.”
– As Good As It Gets
“Procrastination is a way for us to be satisfied with second-rate results; we can always tell ourselves we’d have done a better job if only we had more time…If you’re good at rationalizing, you can keep yourself feeling rather satisfied this way, but it’s a cheap happy. You’re whittling your expectations of yourself down lower and lower.”
When you liked me,
I even kind of liked myself.
Now you say you hate me
Like you’ve hated nothing else…
So this is what ‘forever’ looks like
From the other side.
A lot like broken promises
And echoes of goodbye.
Like everything you never got
But always thought you’d get.
Like each forgotten lonely grave
Of every childhood pet.
The only thing that’s certain is,
It looks a lot like loneliness.
There may be those who think I’m just not that bright.
But I can find a door-frame in the dark,
I don’t need a light.
There’s no mail service here on any weekend day.
I know the letterbox is empty,
But I’ll go and check it anyway.
If the remote doesn’t work
I mash harder,
If there’s no food in fridge or in larder,
I’ll check two-dozen more times just to see,
If something appeared magically.
I can open those childproof caps,
But still the hot and cold taps
Confound me unless coloured or labelled,
Or why a tablespoon is not for the table.
And I still trust people,
I still open up my heart.
And I still can’t find myself
In the dark.
So you’re empty,
And you’re angry,
Once with hope
That’s now gone,
It’s been used.
Stole your believing,
So much doubt.
You let the world in,
Now a hollow thing.
Eaten from the inside out.
So you sit there,
And you don’t care,
They took so much more
Than you had in store
To be taken.
And the heart
You once had,
In this world,
I’m dressed to bitch, and
There’s an angry itch
Behind my eyes.
One that says I may be guilty
Of more than one demise.
Imagine their surprise
As I cut them down to size.
My verbal six-shooters hang in cross-draw,
Sights filed down, and furthermore,
With a quick-pull-trigger,
This mouth is set to go off.
‘You’d better run, better run,
Outrun my gun.’
‘A rose by any other name
Would smell as sweet.’
My life, by another name,
Would still be incomplete.
But is this life?
Betrayal of self.
Exquisite waste of moments?
I idle and decay
The meadowlark laughed.
Her singular propensity for disregarding
Guilt and sorrow
Made me think of you.
Everyday is such a perfect day
To be down.
Especially days when you’re around.
I try to tolerate such intolerable intolerance,
Given the chance. The circumstance.
It’s not the end
Of the world,
But I still fall
For the straight girl.
“It’s for the best.”
“It’s only a cat.
“You don’t want him to suffer ”
Such are the platitudes intended to make it easier to murder my companion of twelve years. My best and only friend. The most gentle and pure soul I have ever encountered, and quite probably the only reason I’m still alive.
When he’s gone…I can’t begin to imagine..
Now I must hold him in my lap while he is murdered.
MURDERED! despite knowing it will end his suffering and it must be done.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
I haven’t done anything else.
My life, the eponymous derailing train,
Out of control, and I’m feeling the same.
At least the wreck will be magnificent.
Read the news, see how it went,
My life in print, splashed across a page.
So unremarkable for someone my age,
She lived, she died, is what it will read.
The in-between is what I need.
So much time and room to grow,
I hope I do, before I go.
[ Connection Stable]
[ Downloading Personality Upgrade ]
In this version there are major updates to the [Happiness Sub-Routines], which will lead to overall performance in:
-Doubt and Misery (bug fix)
Also in this update, Greater Reduction in:
Leading to smoother functioning Personality Systems, and Happiness performance.
Some Users may notice feelings of discomfort and lack of self identity, but with our new social media peer pressure campaign, this should soon pass, as you become accustomed to being just like everybody else.
[ Upgrade Download Complete ]
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Sits uneasily, bus seat perfunctory.
A lump of hard plastic.
Stares through the once was window, now just a diary of scratches and rage.
Watches uncertain possibilities of herself huddling around trash-can fires, scrounging through back alleys behind steaming food stores.
Standing staring back with vacant yet accusing eyes.
Sees herself in the cracks.
The could have been.
Might have been.
Hot and heavy tears,
Perhaps they fall for all the could-have-beens.
Perhaps they fall because I’m uncertain on which side of the glass I belong.
Hates the burden of this unwanted blame.
Unresolved guilt builds into anger.
Resents your unspoken accusations.
Sick with self-doubt about how true they may actually be.
Hates these imagined obligations of grief, twisted and embedded in my head.
All these not-so-very-unlikely possible, potential versions of me.
I hate them.
I hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate society, for making me feel as though I should constantly feel lucky.
Lucky to be as damaged and fucked up and empty as I really am.
Oh, so lucky.
‘And how are things with you these days, Alice?’, inquired The Cheshire Cat.
‘Well’, she answered, ‘You know that feeling when everything seems to be working out?
Your chickens have all come home to roost.
There’s a glorious sunrise, and finally, life is good’?
‘No’, replied The Cat, ‘ I can’t say that I do’.
‘Oh’, said Alice, thoughtfully, then after a little while, rather sadly, ‘Me neither’.
How long since gentle hands
Knew well the contours of my face?
When last did we not kiss,
Rather drink of each others lips
The lingering taste of dew
And morning sun?
Too many days plus one,
Too many days plus one.
I smile and pretend like I’m ok,
And everyone I know
Views me that way.
But my masks are made from stone and lead,
And I carry them all
Inside of my head.
I know there’s something wrong with me,
But I don’t know what, and
No one can see
The cuts that run across my skin,
Where my soul seeps out,
And the world creeps in.
I don’t know about this thing called life,
Seems like it’s just a metaphor
For suffering and strife.
I’ve tried to see the beauty others see,
But I’m really not so sure
This world is for me.
And just like that,
The world destroyed her creativity and dreams,
Like an ice-pick lobotomy.
Death, a rotting corpse of us doth make,
No different thus to when as fools
We lived and thought we were awake.
How arrogant our daily toil,
Because we moving breathed and spake.
How easily this mortal coil
Leaves us to linger in its wake.
When all my tomorrows are just yesterdays,
And today is today is todays old replays,
And so many come, but nobody stays,
What then? Well what then?
When my thoughts are a filthy and fraying shoelace
That I should cut loose, and simply replace,
Except I’m afraid my shoes won’t stay in place,
What then? Oh what then?
If there’s no one to talk to, not even myself,
And I don’t have a thing cos i don’t have my health,
And my life keeps on stealing my spiritual wealth,
What then? So what then?
When the colour of sadness is always blood red,
And there’s somebody other than me in my head,
When I feel less alive and slightly more dead,
What then? What then?
Don’t you think it’s strange
How we shift, change, rearrange,
Everything we can, but stay the same?
How each of us ourselves behoove
To grow, move, further improve,
Strive and strive, yet we never arrive.
We tell ourselves that all our pain
Is part of life, to strain and gain,
How accepting we all are.
Before we grow too old,
Grow cold, end stuck in a mold,
Are we able to break free?
Well to show you that I can:
I just rhymed carrot
I don’t want very much.
Not too much.
Always something I can’t touch.
Wish to touch.
Just a normal life and such.
Not too much..
A little sugar please,
In the coffee of my days.
They are unsweetened, black,
And full of malaise.
Just a spoonful of honey
To lighten the taste,
Of endless afternoons
Going to waste.