Plagiarisation

‘I say’, said Alice,
And so she did.

Until such a time,
At another tea party,
In a different rabbit hole,
She heard, reverb, words
She knew were hers.
She recognised well that which she had created,
Now in another place, twisted and restated.
And she screamed with anger.

But her mouth was quite full,
Of delicious cake.
And she choked, and swallowed,
Furious!
Then, on reflection, took another nibble,
And swallowed again.

‘You’, she said most sternly,
‘Have NO RIGHT!’.
‘No right at all’, she continued,
‘To take words that I have wrought,
And use them as your own retort.’

But no one replied, and
With no thief in sight,
She returned, despondently,
To eating cake and thinking furiously to herself,
In between appreciating the silky sweet icing,
How she might, she might..

‘Someone has stolen my words!
I simply can’t abide the pilferring
Of perfectly presentable poetical practice.
Something must be done!’
And something was.

The familiar cry :
“Off with her head” was heard,
And with it, every poetical line and verb
Alice had created here,
Indeed, once there, had dissapeared.

Oops! Something happened to their page.
‘And that’, thought Alice, ‘is that’.

‘But now I don’t know what to say.
They’ve taken my mouth and my voice away.
They’ve taken my words away!’
‘I can’t say what I wish, I wish!’

‘Words and emotions I need to shout!
Going ’round in my head like a fish,
And THEY CAN’T GET OUT’!’

‘An Alice with no voice of her own,’, smirked the Cheshire Cat, ‘is hardly an Alice at all, now is she? My, my, whatever shall she do?’.

‘I suppose I may as well no longer write, Cat’, said Alice.
‘As I cannot speak the words of how i feel then,
In case someone was to simply steal them.’

‘But I don’t know how I might ever mend,
Without all my words to spend,
Like bright pennies at a bakery..’

She had a thought.
Say, do you have any cake?’

Alice sat, munching cake, and taking time out to think on the matter

Let’s be outspoken

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.

Insomnia pt.2 – Nevermore

So I’m jiggling my legs like some frenetic junkie, waiting for the benzos and codeine to kick in.
It’s one of those nights where despite the warmth of the room, I feel cold inside.
My self hating nihilism is all-prevailing and the certainty that I will never be better, that I am doomed to endure day after day of misery and frustration, clings to me like a cold wet bedsheet.

The experience of staying awake all night, especially 2 or 3 days/nights continuously, not only creeps into joints and muscles as stiffness and pain, but eventually becomes a pressure inside the head, like a clamp crushing upon your brain.
Given enough time, everything about staying awake for extended periods of time becomes unpleasant.

My best efforts to boost my mood upward, to think of positive things, and to convince myself life is worthwhile, such as trying to believe that one day I may be even happy, is met every time now by Poes’ Raven, embedded in my mind, it’s vocabulary no greater now than from it’s famous past.

‘Things are going to get better’, I repeat to myself.
“Nevermore”, comes the inetivetible reply.

‘One day, I will be happy’, I even try to believe it.
The Raven croaks, “Nevermore”.

‘I WILL be happy’, I tell it.
“Nevermore”.

I wonder if it understands double negatives.
‘I will not never be happy’, I offer.
Silence.

In the end, I just return it’s ridicule.

‘I will not never inversely opposite become antithetically unhappy’, I say, although I doubt it will fall for any convolutions of syntax and reply ‘Nevermore’.

The raven just stares at me. I suppose because the raven is a creation in my mind, trying to fool myself when I know the plan, isn’t really very logical.

But logic seems to diminish exponentially as hours continue to pass without sleep.

As does motivation, positivity, and the will to live.

I’m beginning to become so freaked out that I can’t even cry.
I want to, I can feel the tears behind my eyes, but the raw scraping of my nerves won’t let them flow.

A tiny bit less control and I’d probably be laughing maniacally. Panic and lack of reason start burning hot in my chest, a strange counter point to the ceaseless icy chill in my guts.

From experience I’ll still be awake this time tomorrow (5.30am), so there’s always some potentially delusional posts to look forward to.

Lies. (thoughts ‘n stuff.)

Where now does your honesty abide?
I think I saw it broken down
And rusting by the roadside.
If it were ever to exist,
I think I must have missed
When you sold it for some cigarettes
And cheap and sour wine.

Lies.
Everyone tells them.
From the grand false promises told by commercial advertising and famous rap songs, to the small secret ones we tell ourselves in the midnight light of the refrigerator, that ‘just one more snack won’t hurt.’

Lies.
Everyone believes them.
In the end, it’s not believing the lies that hurts the most, but the unveiling of the truth behind the lie.

Exposing the ugly reality hidden underneath the happy fantasy forming many parts of your life.
The sunlight of truth shining on your vampire’s masquerade.

And it burns.

The lies you tell yourself are always far more damaging than those told to you by others. Even those closest to you.

Or perhaps that’s just another lie.

The lies that cut the deepest are usually those best hidden.
It’s not the magician you have to keep an eye on, it’s the assistant.
As the line from the movie says: ‘the closer you are, the easier it is to fool you’.
Maybe he wasn’t just talking about magic, it applies to relationships too.

You rarely see, or want to believe that the one you trust / love the most would lie or hurt you. But they most often are the ones who do.

Some things bend.
Some things bounce.
Some things mend.

Others break.

—–/

..pointless rant..

I’m in for a bad night tonight.

I’m both feet first from the bipolar plane without a chute, and I’m pretty sure that I’m about to hit the ground hard.

I can’t pretend to write any more metaphorical poetry right now, can’t find the effort to put it into candy coated rhyming couplets.
Everything I would say is rife with clichés about torn up hearts and souls, and all embroidered with far, far too much wankery.

Anyone who’s been ‘here’ will understand:
Simultaneously flushed hot and cold.
Feeling so empty it’s almost alien, yet full to bursting with wanting to cry, freak out, and panic loudly from the emotional overload, only to find it’s always trapped helplessly inside.
Unable to sleep.
Wired but exhausted, unable to focus.

Wondering if maybe going through this again for one more cycle, one more DAY, is really worth it.

To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m bothering to post this.
The cynic in me says perhaps only 3 or 4 people will ever bother to read it, if I’m lucky.
I wouldn’t say that no one cares, but I can say from experience that no one cares twice.
You can ask continuously for help in a hundred ways in a hundred poems / posts and all you get are a couple of likes.
Right now, I’ve run out of ways to ask, especially when I’m not really sure what it is that I’m asking.

If I’m honest with myself, I suppose I post to affirm that I exist, right?
A thousand unread journals under the bed proves nothing, except perhaps, that it’s a large bed, or that they are rather small journals.

But to post online…’they’ say it’s there forever, in the web somewhere. Something I wrote, existing forever…well, for as long as the current form of the internet exists. Uploaded to The Matrix.
To have one person read it. To connect with it, to like it, or even to hate it entirely, is to create a human reaction to ME.
I EXIST.

Just another drama queen right?

But I get it.
I read similar blogs. As similar as they get anyway.
So many cries for help, disguised as poems, stories, or conversations.
All wandering and winding around the topic.
Feeling it, but not unwrapping it. That gift under the tree that never gets fully revealed.

But what can I do, other than acknowledge, ‘you exist’.?

You exist.