no one's becoming more talkative
showers your yesteryear with its HOODLUMPS
clinking boats of friendly emptishness
a trickle of twine
impale the laymen
braids of unforgiving pretenders
skulking breathing them flyboys
the earth an egg's white villains
an expression of inquiry that invites or calls
to have or formulate in the mind
a spoken or written reply
(to say again)
consistent with fact or reality
used to indicate an alternative
contrary to fact or truth
to perform or execute
the property or quality that distinguishes living organisms
having the same quantity measure or value as another
act or state of being extinct..
Broken mirros and shattered faces. Today I ran so far
that I could feel my heart leap into my throat and attempt to put me
out of my misery. And then I drowned in oceans of stale water and yet
still cried when the bathroom tiles kissed my tired feet. The mirrors tell me to stop stalking them. I can't even write this one fucking entry without stalking them! They hate me. And I hate me too.
Sometimes the sky can fall so fast that you don't even have time to
watch the birds e-v-a-p-o-r-a-t-e into the blue mist and the clouds
scrunch into a sphere of thunder. She's not pretty, so let's just
tear off her skin and hide it under the carpet and p.r.e.t.e.n.d to love her so that she feels a little bit better. Well I'm sorry but I just can't cope anymore.
I can't cope with watching the pretty girls and their perfect hair
falling over their peachyrosey smooth checks while they do their
perfectfuckingresults exam. Goddamn somebody save me, this monster is
eating me alive.
while i was sleepin in the cave the monsters of the desert escaped and made the world their chewing gum blowing their bubbles like my spaghetti cat from hell and all the people of the forest said kill them before their goo spreads to the ocean and wake the dreamer in the cave whose noises end the internal menace revolution and so they sent their brown birds over the backwards rainbow to the place where the circular staircase rose from the mountain and they began to climb up and up and up until they found themselves in the most purple desert they had ever tripped in knowing full well that the cave of the dreamer resides on the other side and they flew and flowed and rolled across the desert for what seemed like minutes until they found the cosy cave of the dreamer but the door was locked but they found a back way in but one of them slipped and died but another was born from the ground so they called it even which was the one and only belief of the dreamer who dreamt on the other side of the back door of the cave but when he heard them and woke his belief was lost and the evil goo monsters lived until the last word of the story
hello, i'm aaron and i like to write stories like this, i hope this is the place for me....
existance, resistance, is futile. but letting go is impossible. these words, they wrap around and created safety, try to keep them, but they are promises and they are breaking apart. they make up feelings and emotions and this girl that needed a jumpstart to her robot heart, they acheived their purpose then shattered her when she was complete. will no one put her back together? who can? the artist has been dead, his apprentice not skilled enough for this piece of work. she is complicated, but in the hands of the knowing, she is simple. words to her are art. they flow in and out of her, they make her whole. but they betray her, and she grasps their meaning as they slip away. appreciation is meaningless here. she chatters as nerves buzz, and sits quiet when they pop. with the coming of ages, she stays stoic until the words enrapture the seconds and hours, the days and weeks. they say manic, manic, manic, they twist words and poke fun, and she laughs but never cries. the sky and the sea, they understand, they know that words are only sounds and sounds are only emotions, nothing matters when emotion takes charge, but everything matters when it escapes. the coming of ages and the taking of flight, these and the instillment of sound in a byte, will recreate this work. they will make her whole again.
to define the lorem and ipsum of life is to fill in the holes. chink in the plaster. smear it deep in the cracks. how did i find you? do we give up everything for children? did i die when i had a daughter? giving birth to words and poetry is easy enough. fill in this hole, that crevice. holes. they say i am manic and i say no, i am happy. but i know the difference is medication only. i could write all day and they call that something latin, because it's easy to explain away what we don't understand. science is cruel that way. she's bipolar manic sometimes depressive and in those moments and weeks and months i do not write. only things on my head. like poetry that nobody reads. for good reason, i suppose. i hold baby hand and i think i am just a mama with some problems, but at night when she goes back to her daddy's house because i am too sick to have a child here, i know what answers the questions that plague me. i know i am ill and that's what they say in white coat gibberish even more than my glossalalia spoken text word robot sputter. i don't think anybody understands what it means to be this way. what way? which way? there is no GPS for the mind's lost compass. it's a crumpled map, corners torn away. this could be las vegas. it might be maine. emotions are fuddled and i am the glaring clock staring back from a cracked mirror. lorem and ipsum. typographical mysteries come lay down beside me and hold my aching head. i hear rain but it's not raining. i hear key pecks though i am not typing. no wait, it is storming and a baby is rocked in my lap, though i am all memory and no substantial moment of the present tense. there is a lodge in the throat here, gah gah gah, you know what i'm saying? don't you. you understand about the bees in the mind. the wasps in the mouth. that's what this is. they call it hypergraphia or something like a mythological bliss via creative sociology... but i call it just another five minutes in my head.
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where we can knowingly write a love letter to our polar bear. he called her Kendrick (or was it Kendrick?).
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