Writer Stuff - Blog Posts

#116

Pour so much love into me that all the cracks in me are filled and I become whole once more. Heal me, fix me. I am tired of living as a shell of a person; I am tired of being a husk. I crave for your love, not because I think I deserve it, but because I pray that your holiness may wash away my sins; those black, dark stains on my soul. Perhaps the light will seep through until that is all I am full of, until it replaces the rotting self I have become acquainted with.

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#115

A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post with the line below which is in quotes, but I can’t seem to find it

“Love isn’t always pretty.” But the abstractness of it, the chaos and life and joy that it seeps is what keeps us alive. It doesn’t have to pretty to be adored. It just has to sustain us. 

But we can also make it pretty. We can make it pretty by first healing ourselves so that we do not become rabid beasts the minute we are shown a morsel of affection. We do not treat it as an alien, foreign thing, but rather learn to love affection as we are loved. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#114

I may not have ever seen the horrors of war, but I am well-acquainted with the aftermath; perhaps too much. For a war inside oneself is nothing short of destructive, life-altering, mind-numbing experiences that leave one gasping as they struggle for air. Clawing, fighting desperately, broken and bloodied and crying, hoping someone will notice and come to help. No one does.

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#113

Why must I lose myself in my obsessions to feel nothing at all? Where has all this apathy and numbness festered? It cannot have disappeared, for I still feel it. I have always felt it and will continue to do so. But then, where has it hidden? Why has it decided to be cowardly and hide away?

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#112

Why must I be hurting to be able to create? Is my value only in my cracks? Am I only useful when I am broken and still giving? Is that what defines strength and courage? For if it does, I choose to be a coward for all eternity. It is better to preserve the rotten husk of my being than face damned ruination again, when after all I will have nothing to show for it save the scars and pain I will be forced to endure under the false name of nobility.

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#111

I am afraid my love is too much, too strong, all at once. I hold on for too long. What if I suffocate that which I love, adore? What if I crush a heart the way one might crush pomegranate seeds, their red staining the space around them and existing as a haunting, ever-present halo? No matter how many times I wash my hands, I will not get rid of the blood I am guilty of. It drips down my chin as my fangs are coated in the crimson substance. Devastating in its glory; carnal, sinful, and yet so full of tragedy. How have we come to romanticise that which kills us; the poison that will one day be our fatal demise?

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#110

-As if a creature has grown and festered in me, devouring all it is that I am and leaving nothing for me. Until it became me; until the rabid beast and my being merged into a chaotic, messy, thing. We are inseparable; not as lovers would be, but fire and ice. One ruins the other, as the devastated craves destruction to the point where it begins to go insane. Addiction or foolishness, that remains to be seen. I try to push and fight, but my cries are torn my throat, my body, my mind, my voice not my own. 

Melancholy, grief, and sorrow are all I have known. Perhaps this nameless monster is simply their physical manifestation. Deep, aching, longing fills me no matter what I do. I do not think I can survive without it. I cease to be myself without it; I cease to exist. Without it I have no purpose, no mission. 

You cannot extract me without ripping me apart, for I cannot live without the monster. It hates me, but I love it with every fibre of my decaying being. Even as I lay dying, my last thoughts are of the creature in me.

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#109

How much love, and desire, and passion, and longing, and lust can one gaze hold? Brimming to the edge with feelings unsaid, a plethora of emotions swirling in those deep pools that are the windows to the soul. Emotions that the voice has yet to convey, or has decided against for whatever reason of its own. Perhaps they have decided that they are better off buried in the crypts of the mind, never to see the light again; its fate is only to be condemned in the deepest hollows of my rotting, decaying brain. Gathering cobwebs and dust of memories long-forgotten. 

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#108 - Letter #1

My Dearest [name],

How I adore your presence. Your smile, your laughter, your energy. Enamoured by them with each passing day, I simply cannot understand how a person so sweet and kind and caring could even have existed. 

Always so open with yourself, your emotions, your true authentic self was what truly struck me. Never shying away and open to a challenge. Your appearance; a  lightning bolt, sudden, and yet stunning. Welcomed. It was as if someone so integral and deeply rooted in my soul was missing, and I had not known the craving of something I’d never had until I met you. 

I am enamoured by how the light never leaves your eyes, no matter what may happen. How they glisten with mirth, with mischief, with a hint of something that tells me I am about to be surprised like never before. You are a kaleidoscope, a blur of colour, a meshing of feelings and a thrill of exhilaration every time I so much as look at you. A rush of adrenaline fills me whenever my eyes drift towards yours and they catch, and suddenly, everything is right in the world for that fleeting moment.

Your dry humour is so enchanting to be a part of. Jokes that only the two of us know, jokes that mean more to me than jewellery or clothes. Memories are a different kind of wealth, one that I hope you will continue to have for however long it is that we may know each other. I am praying that it will be a lifetime, but we are all aware of how utterly unpredictable everything can be despite our best efforts.

We are all so utterly blessed to have you, and to know you as intimately and profoundly as we do. I hope that you will never forget that. You are loved always, by at least one person. There will always be someone who admires you. From the smallest things like your hair to your smile, to the way you articulate yourself and your unique personality. If you ever feel insecure and think that you are unloved, that you cannot do this, that it is too hard, that it is impossible, that for some reason, you do not believe; remember: I will believe in you enough for the both of us. I will always have enough love in me for the both of us, no matter where I am, who I am with, or what I might be feeling. You are doing wonderfully. Please, never stop. Right now, it may feel like you are miles behind everyone else, but that is not the case. If I am honest with you, it is the contrary. 

I truly do not know if anyone has told you this, but know that you deserve to hear this every day of your existence. You are amazing, a stunning, ethereal gem of a person, and I truly mean it without an ounce of exaggeration. 

What I have tried so desperately to say here is, [name], how much I love you. I love every single aspect of you and your personality, the sunshine radiance that seems to emanate from every fibre of your being.

I could keep going, but I am afraid the world would eternally be short of paper. I could keep going for eons and the world would be much better off for it.

Yours truly,

A friend, who wanted to write you your very own love letter. Know that I will always cherish you.

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#107

I do not know how it is possible to be enamoured by someone with an increasing, obsessive madness with each passing day. Every night as I go to bed, I think, my love for you cannot grow; it is impossible. Then you wake up the next day, and prove me wrong. In matters of love, I adore being wrong. I adore being charmed by you, by your presence, each day that I am blessed with you by my side. 

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#106

Ever so doomed and utterly damned,

I beg you grasp onto my hand.

Grab it so we will go together

So that we will be united forever.

But maybe fate hates us,

Or maybe we were reviled.

Perhaps it is not in our cards,

To be given a long while. 

A lover so broken and entirely ruined,

Was always in our stars, a freezing wind.

One of blizzards, one of storms,

It has chilled my heart in all its forms.

The lovers gaze down upon the ill-fated,

With heavy hearts and eyes that never were sated.

As much our fate they do revile, 

A part of them screams they deserve to smile.

They are allowed to laugh at another’s misfortune,

Their throats choke up as their voices hoarsen.

Hoarse from screaming for eternity, for that is what they are condemned to do.

Pain engulfs them whole as their eyes fill with unshed tears, a dagger pierces through.

We received Death’s sweet kiss, even as we were born,

I wish to spit upon His face, and I shall scorn

Every being who wishes to harm

Me or you, I am incapable of calm.

So wretched and cursed were we,

Perhaps more than all the others, as we flee.

More so than Romeo, more so than Juliet,

Even Icarus pities us as he sees us wrecked.

As he watched from the heavens, our sins are our own.

They may wish to help, but it is us who are forced to carry them lone.

Frowned upon by those who refuse

To understand our plight or horrible muse

We were made to be, of death and destruction,

Decay and ruin, we embody the precision

Of how something can be so wrong and yet utterly right,

A lone heart takes off into flight.

High above the skies as it soars,

Searching for its lover, it roars

In agony and pain, and something else,

Something only a lover can quell.

A raging fire, a rabid beast,

A blizzard of a storm, an empty feast.

My heart could not be described any better

As I look for healing, its existence, no matter

That it is not real, something I never can have,

A picture of my fantasises, sick hallucination.

Instead I smile through plastic joy, a laugh

Of pain and misery as I struggle to my destination.

Only you can fill that void in my heart,

A screaming hole,

One so utterly dark,

I have no role.

Not in my life, or in any others’,

Certainly not yours when I am undeserving of an angel.

Instead, I smother and snuff out the flames

Of love and passion, of these deadly games.

Once and for all they are completely doused.

The smoke rising from the wood, nothing will rouse.

Not an ember or a spark, not a single crackle

Will come from these dead pieces, I grapple

With the complexity that is you,

And you alone,

The stunning awe of your presence, I flew

As quick as I could, I shall have to atone

For my sins, one day, in the Palace Above

For I will be questioned, one day very soon

For my actions and words, and I will have to unlove

And provide Him with answers for which I have no clue,

I do not know which are true.

Perhaps some are, or are simply a ruse.

I told myself as I was dying

Every day I was pining

For the chance to see my love again,

A glimpse of her, a glance of her remains.

Etched in my soul, embedded in my mind,

I pray that I will one day find

Both of our happiness as we run away,

To a land that is far and stunning by day.

Perhaps even more alluring by night

For that is what she loves, as well as a light.

Little does she know, she is the light.

But one cannot see the bright

When one is the illuminator,

When she is the light, and an eternal glamour.

My senses she does shroud,

Like a blissful and calm cloud.

Covering all that enrages me,

Highlighting all the good I see.

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#105

You will be remembered, and I, condemned. For we will both face the consequences of our sins, sins which are nothing but our own. Our own to bear and our own to handle, as is the grief that haunts my heart, shrouding it in a veil of everlasting misery. It is painful, I realise, to have a heart break and shatter so many times you are not sure what is intact. The only sure way for me to know will be to carve my own heart out, that despicable organ of beating flesh and vessels that pump my traitorous body full of blood. But much like dissections, I will have understood how it works, but I will be long dead because of it. But perhaps that is my fate, to suffer without knowing the true depth and magnitude of my suffering. To simply feel everything and nothing all at once, and to scream and cry and thrash as I struggle to stay alive, to keep myself afloat above the water. 

I have been taught from a young age that the water is not scary. It is not something to be terrified of. And yet I am. And yet I do not dare put my head under, certainly not willingly, lest I drown and never resurface. Despite being at the shallow end, despite having spent my entire life there without the courage or will to travel to the deep end, the fear continues to consume me as it began consuming me a hundred years ago. I suspect it will continue to thrive on me for a hundred more. Even as my corpse lays rotting in the Earth, the only thing besides my bones will be the everlasting fear that was embedded deep inside me with every breath I took as a child. I inhaled it, not knowing the sweet scent of fear was what was keeping me alive. Not oxygen; n ot air. Fear. Such utter, unending, terrifying fear I was crippled by it until I was a shell of a person. 

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#104 - Limerick #4

A/N: Structure - AABBA

The way she walks the way she dresses

The way she talks and how her tresses

Flow down her figure like a waterfall

I am enamoured by every inch; by it all

From her I shall never digress.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#103 - Limerick #3

A/N: Structure - AABBA

Warm and welcoming, worn and witty,

Books are just that, and happen to be shifty

Cruel or cold, gentle or kind

It does not matter, I do not mind

As long as they are dainty.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#102 - Limerick #2

A/N: Structure - AABBA

A crown of flowers adorns her head,

Whimsical creatures in her stead.

Queen of the meadows,

In her wake not a single shadow

“Full of light and warmth”, I said.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#101 - Limerick #1

A/N: Structure - AABBA

She is charming and pretty,

Stunning and witty,

So whimsical and ethereal my heart flutters

Every time I gaze upon her I happen to mutter

“Oh, how she is utterly pretty”.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

Original Writing Masterpost #2

A collection of my original writing (not inspired by fandoms, fics, and such) is here. It includes poetry and my general ramblings (in progress) here and on AO3. I'm updating as I write, so this masterpost won't ever be 'complete'.

If you find something that is inappropriately tagged or if you find something missing, please DM me and I'll fix it.

Enjoy!

POETRY

| AO3 |

Part 76 | Part 77 | Part 78 | Part 79 | Part 80 | Part 81 | Part 82 | Part 83 | Part 84 | Part 85 | Part 86 | Part 87 | Part 88 | Part 89 | Part 90 | Part 91 | Part 92 | Part 93 | Part 94 | Part 95 | Part 96 | Part 97 | Part 98 | Part 99 | Part 100 |

Part 101 | Part 102 | Part 103 | Part 104 | Part 105 | Part 106 | Part 107 | Part 108 | Part 109 | Part 110 | Part 111 | Part 112 | Part 113 | Part 114 | Part 115 | Part 116 | Part 117 | Part 118 | Part 119 | Part 120 | Part 121 | Part 122 | Part 123 | Part 124 | Part 125 |

Part 126 | Part 127 | Part 128 | Part 129 | Part 130 | Part 131 | Part 132 | Part 133 | Part 134 | Part 135 | Part 136 | Part 137 | Part 138 | Part 139 | Part 140 | Part 141 | Part 142 | Part 143 | Part 144 | Part 145 | Part 146 | Part 147 | Part 148 | Part 149 | Part 150 |

Part 151 | Part 152 | Part 153 | Part 154 |

Original Writing Masterpost #1

Masterpost of masterposts

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#100 - Sestina

A/N: A sestina uses the last six words of each line and switches them around each time. It’s a fairly rigid structure. It doesn’t have to be rhyming (this one isn’t) but it can be if the author wants it to. 

This is also my first time writing a sestina so it’s not that great

A dream of peace, so peaceful and quiet,

An illusion so sweet and lovely,

A vision of brilliance, one of hope,

But like all glass castles, it must tumble down.

Crashing and shattering into a hundred pieces,

It is left in ruin, as is my heart.

It aches so terribly, full of woe and misery, my heart,

It is filled with nought but silence and quiet.

It begins to splinter into pieces,

But there is beauty in brokenness; it is lovely,

At least that is what they say, telling me it is inevitable to fall down,

And so I try, believing blindly, I prevail; the glimmer in me a glimmer of hope.

But only desire cannot keep you going, it is not enough, this hope.

I want to believe, as much as it pierces my heart,

But my brain is exhausted, my mind tires, as I tumble into the void; I go down.

At least the sound is muffled here, at least I do not wish to weep, for it soothes me; the quiet,

It is, in its own way, lovely.

As beautiful, enchanting and haunting, as a mirror imploding into a thousand pieces.

They cut me and yet I crave their presence, the agony they inflict on me; those pieces,

Those shards of glass that wound me as I begin to ebb away; and along with me; the hope.

The poets shall describe it as something beautiful, something worth caring for, something lovely.

But the bruised pieces of me are anything but. It cries, “You have given too much,” this heart.

How I crave the coolness, the calm, the quiet.

How I wish I could sink into the ground and burrow into a grave, sinking down.

I want to hide myself away, falling further into myself day by day as I spiral down.

I give up parts of myself, shedding layers of me as they fall to the ground in pieces.

That is all I am. Fragments and shards, sharp edges and mystery that is kept quiet.

A hushed and hidden secret, a posion should it be let out. They have lost all hope.

Good. So have I. Perhaps that makes us even. It cannot stand any more agony, my heart.

It is a ruin inside. Indeed, I am ruined. Not fair nor gentle, and certainly not lovely.

How I wish for a life I never had, a universe where I was loved and lovely.

A universe where my soul melded together with the world.

This organ of flesh, of blood, cannot take anymore, my heart. 

It cannot take anymore of it being split into pieces,

Into granules so small all of it is squashed, all that wondrous hope,

I am left once again with my soul being quiet.

The silence surrounds me in a tight embrace, overwhelming; the quiet,

A gradual journey of losing all hope.

I am left in pieces.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#99

I was a perfectly wrapped package, organised and orderly. Until you upended my life in the most beautiful and chaotic way possible. I am now left with the aftermath of the storm, trying desperately to pick up the fallen pieces of my heart and forcing the damned thing into its cage, where it belongs. My hands turn bloody as I claw at my chest, forcing it in, fighting, raging, screaming, crying. Saltwater mixes in with the concoction that is blood and tears. Rivers of it run down my hands, soaking me in my blood and ruination. For you are my ruination, my salvation too. You are everything and nothing to me, but at the end of the day, you are nothing but a name. 

The syllables feel foreign on my tongue. I have whispered it, screamed it, roared it to the heavens too many times. It is embedded in me, my very soul. If they carve me open, all my organs will have disappeared, and only your name will remain, etched into my heart with a knife. Crude and bloody, yes, but it is a truth that must be said. For that is what you did, and the world deserves to know how a monster can also be angel. The cruel dichotomy of it all, I sigh to myself. The pain and pleasure, the hatred and desire warring within me as a storm brews. 

You are an angel of ruin and of death, though I did not realise it at the time. I was enamoured and I did not listen. Love creates madness, they say. No, I respond, It does not. It simply awakens it. We all have a dormant insanity sitting inside us, waiting to be unleashed. Lethal and mesmerising in its ruination and chaos, just like you. 

It can kill but also heal. Though the latter is harder, it is still possible. But have you ever seen a madman who is good? Who does not wish ruin, death, and destruction upon us all? For there sits evil inside us, too. Some have more, others, less. But that does not mean that it can be ignored and left to fend for itself. It must be exercised like any other beast, any other creature. It must be tamed and kept on an iron leash, controlled with a steel arm, lest it bubble over and explode like acid. Like vitriol, which I have become an expert at spewing. I never wanted to, not really, but it was something that simply happened. I realise now that this was most of my life. Nothing was truly decided by anyone, least of all me. 

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#98

My descent into madness is ethereal. The spiralling and spinning and whirling disorienting me, and yet as my eyes lock with yours, I am grounded in a love that is all-consuming and overwhelming, and yet not enough. I need more, crave more, even as my heart threatens to stop simply because of the thought of you. 

How it is so, I do not understand. All I know is that you are on my mind no matter what I do. my descent into madness revolves around you. I did not know that going insane could be so sinful and yet full of delight. Filled with joy and yet madness, wildness and grandeur and everything in between, all at once. My mind and emotions are in a turmoil, one so chaotic and tangled that it will not untangle itself even long after my death.

My ruination is ethereal, made even more so by the thought of you.

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#97

The sky finally cracks open, wailing and bursting open as thunder launches itself across the heavens like bolts of fury, flashes of rage. It has had enough. It needed to explode. The quiet patter and calm drizzles made it so that no one listened. They were simply inconvenienced by the rain, and did not bother to listen to the song of the rain.

It begins to pour like it has never before, thick drops of rain and sleet attacking the ground as if determined to ruin and destroy it so thoroughly it may never recover again. The water screams at the soil, the very thing that allows them to coexist. But it does not understand: you cannot harm the very thing which keeps you alive, for otherwise you cease to exist. 

I can see it, but the storm is clueless.

How can something so old and ancient be so unaware?

In some ways, I think, the storm resembles me. 

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#96

They say death begins the moment the cells in your body start dying quicker than they are replenished. But what if death is something else entirely?

The fading of the light in someone’s eyes, even as they are alive and look to be well. Distant gazes and dark circles shadowing their face like Death itself.

The disappearance of their smiles, as they become few and far between, each one a newfound struggle. 

The sadness that seems to overtake and consume, until all that is left is a shell of a body, with all the life and joy sucked out of it like an insatiable beast who does not stop until the host is empty, devoid.

The moment they stop trying, and wish for anything but life. With empty eyes and an empty soul, they gaze up to the heavens one last time, before they jump.

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#95

“Give me one reason,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes, the same ones she had been enamoured by. “One reason why you love me more than anything. One reason why I deserve any of it.”

“Give me one reason,” he echoed, his voice soft and reverent, “Why I should not love you. We are all fighting our demons, are we not? What makes yours so unlovable? Simply the fact that they are yours?”

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#94

Can you feel the ache, threatening to consume you and your entire being with one wrong breath, one wrong step, one wrong move, one wrong word? It is as if I am full of that ache, as if there is nothing in me but a hollowness and void that cannot be filled. My emptiness that I have kept bottled up, it threatens to overflow from the container I have kept it so carefully wrapped in, trapped in. And yet I know if it spills out, it will be the end of me.

My ruination and demise, all because of the ache of what I cannot have.

My sanity will be lost, my ruination and descent into utter madness complete, as if a final piece of a puzzle clicks into place. It will be official then, that I am not who I masqueraded to be, as the mask chips away, each fragment decaying and falling apart at my feet. Oh, how it resembles my heart. 

But I do not know how to survive without the mask. I donned it, thinking it would be useful. But now that the time has come to take it off and forget about it I have found that I cannot. It will not come off. I cry and scream and beg and tear at the mask, until I scratch my skin raw. My voice grows hoarse with the agony, the pain and embarrassment. 

I have melded the mask so deeply into my face the lines are forever etched into my skin. It is part of me now, as are you. 

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#93

What tangled webs we weave, intricate and detailed, and get caught up in our own expectations as we suffer through the heartbreak and pain that has long since defined us. Not as a person, but as a species. Emotions are what make us human, after all. Not our intelligence, for we are surely not the most intelligent species to ever walk this Earth, mark my words, and we never will be.

These tangled webs of passion and love, deceit and lies, as we get trapped in our own creations. Seeing everything, yet unable to move an inch. Paralyzed to the core and beyond, our minds drifting in a thick haze. Silent witnesses to our own demise and eternal damnation.

Not all damnation must be in hell, after all. Most of the time, it is here, on Earth, as we feel our heart shatter as we face the never ending fires of betrayal. Loyalty is foreign to me. The concept I am aware of, yes, but not the feeling. Any person who has been through hell and back will tell you that. 

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#92

How do I escape this pain? It is in me, my blood, my veins, my soul, so deeply embedded in every part of my body that one will have to tear me apart to extract the thorns of agony, to get the shards of glass out, that have cut me and wounded me from the inside out.

Though I suppose it is my fault too, for letting these wounds fester and black and rot for so long, until they have become nothing but a mockery of what used to be my heart. A mockery of the love I felt, of how deeply I cared, until all that was left was an empty husk and nothing to show for it.

I lost my sanity along with my heart, and a thousand other things along the way that I cannot bear to name. It is too painful, and will take far too long to admit all that I have lost and given up on.

Perhaps the largest thing I have given up on is myself. Perhaps you see it, how I become quiet and gaze into the distance, my eyes unfocused and unwilling to blink should I catch a glimpse of you.

But I do not tell you any of this. Maybe I am afraid that you will not look at me the same, that you will turn away, disgusted at what I have become, what I have allowed myself to become. You will balk, and pale, and tell me that I do not deserve you.

But that is alright. I will learn to live with it, as I have with every tragedy that has befallen me. For all my life I have never been enough, and I most likely do not deserve you or your untainted love.

No matter how much I may strive for it, I will never be enough. It is futile, as am I, as is my life, my very existence.

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#91

Overgrown vines shroud the mansion, dark and the colour of emerald. The plants which were once cherished and welcomed, which bore fruit and flowers alike, which were pruned so they may never grow thorns. Always docile, always tamed, never to be interacted with, only watched upon by the hundreds of eyes that traveled from afar to the see famed vines. They creep up the house, like jade hands, squirming and writhing to get the most of the already weak sunlight, have now become suffocating, depriving this home from all the light. 

Shrouding the house in eternal darkness, the windows are concealed, the glass shattering, trapping all those who reside within. The noose tightens, being wound tighter and tighter with each passing minute. Their screams echo, pleas and prayers going unheard as their voices too, are drowned out the way the daylight was.

And I cannot help but remember how your hands did the same. 

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#90

I have always been envious of tightrope walkers, the way they can walk for hours without stumbling or faltering, the way the audience applauds them, appreciates them. But maybe their journey is made easier by the fact that they have no weight to bear. They do not experience the weight of my guilt, the weight of my decisions, the weight of my goodbyes. The weight of exhaustion as it gnaws on my bones, relentless and unfaltering, always there, always watching. I am jealous. There is no other word. For even if I do appreciate them, I am still jealous of the fact that they can balance and juggle and make it all look so effortless.

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#89

A/N: I used a random word generator because I couldn't think of anything to write. This poem is inspired by the word panic.

Manic thoughts, fever dream,

My soul is buried and cannot be seen

Buried so deep under the stress

Of life and all that does distress.

It fills me with woe and makes me worry

Why everything is so and is this blurry.

As I fight to stand and survive,

My body reacts and tells me to thrive

My limbs shake with exhaustion and fear

A tide of emotions I cannot bear to be near

They swirl around in my mind,

A blizzard of thoughts, my heart goes blind.

Reminds me of what I have lost,

My sanity, my will, my everlasting frost.

It coats my heart, fills me with a void,

One so deep and impossible to avoid.

It numbs me to the core,

And yet I want more.

More of this emptiness and this hollow,

For otherwise the truth I cannot swallow.

Fog is normal, clarity is not,

My body asks to be left to rot.

It aches with every rasping breath I take,

But I must survive, if only for my sake.

Feelings are foreign, as is my mind,

All I want is to simply unwind.

Rest and warmth I terribly crave,

But I have not the strength to be brave.

Whispers fill my head as I begin to descend,

Into madness, and despair, my life will upend.

I am filled with lies, with sorrow, and with deceit,

All so terrible and yet so sweet.

Whom should I listen to, if any at all?

Help me please, for if not I will fall.

Like an angel does lose its wings,

Cast from heaven, it’s melancholy sing,

Full of despair, and the need to belong

It promises revenge, on all those who wronged.

Wronged it’s soul, jilted it’s heart,

It tries its best to not fall apart.

Someone who has climbed so high,

Can fall nowhere but down, experience nought but sly

The manipulation that does fill this world,

Full of glass promises that shatter every word.

Each fragment finds its way through my skin,

The promise of something that never could have been.

The more I try to hide it, the quicker it erupts,

Like a volcano of pain as I watch from above.

It bubbles over, overflowing with each word,

That has been hurled at me as I was outmanoeuvred.

A ballad of fear, a symphony of pain,

My soul aches with an intensity it cannot feign

A rotting corpse, a lifeless husk,

What is life, if nothing but a mask?

One we don every day, 

To conceal our greatest fears, we say.

A reason surely must exist,

For why we hide, and disappear and resist

Why we do not show our whole hand,

Why we follow each individual command.

Are we our own people or a creature of evil,

Crafted out of something difficult and medieval?

Something so old and yet impossible to avoid,

That calling one has as they are cloyed

With a plethora of kindness, an excess of riches

The scent of honey sickens and chokes all our wishes.

Suffocates them and so they die

Until we are left with nothing but a lie.

Lies fed to us about how we must be,

How we must act what we should see

Every ounce of our being so tightly controlled,

Even death will feel like a welcome hole.

Now like the moon, my life does wane,

Like the Earth’s deepest plain.

But it will not resurface, will not grow

Not as the moon or the whitest snow.

Not as nature as it falls and rises,

With every passing year, I am wrapped in vices.

Vices crafted by my mind,

They hold me hostage and they do bind. 

Bind me to my sorrow, my grief, my despair

I cannot come up, if even for air.

I am a lost cause and will disappear soon,

Do not bother saving me, for there is no room.

No room in my heart, not even for grief

I will say a goodbye, no matter how fleeting or brief.

I cannot bear to hurt anymore,

So let me go, and leave me forevermore.

Leave me to rot and leave me to die,

I cannot stand the thought of lies.

Coating my tongue, as have thorns

Making me bleed like a thousand storms.

Storms in my blood, my very heart,

Are all that keep me going, no matter how hard.

Yet even those are not enough,

As I scream once more, my voice so rough.

Rough and raw as it screamed

For help or something in between

A saviour or someone to aid,

But I know I will not come up again.

masterlist

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#88

I am the sun, and you are paper. I am afraid I shall burn you, that I am too much, too soon, all at once. That I will hurt you, that you are not ready, that you will balk, and refuse to see me for who I am. What I am. 

You will run, and flee, and never look back, and I will be left all alone, alone as I started, yet even more so now that you have departed, your radiant soul with it. 

For it is not a matter of if, but rather when. When you will leave me as I stay here, trying to give you the pieces of my broken heart that I hope so desperately you will be able to put back together. I give them to you, even as there are far more than I can carry, too many for me to hold, too sharp, too jagged. They cut my arms, and my blood seeps into my heart. But it does not matter. It has already become so tainted with bloodshed and ash, become charred ruins and a husk, a mockery of what it used to be. I will not be able to tell the difference.

But I wonder if you will. I wonder if you will take me for who I am, without fleeing. But my soul knows the answer. You will not. You will run, and I will stay here, having collapsed from sheer exhaustion and the overwhelming pain of heartbreak as I try to piece my heart together after you have once more torn it to shreds.

You are not the first person I have lost, and I am willing to bet my life on the fact that you shall not be the last. I seem to have an innate talent to lose those closest to me. Those who are most important, most covered, most cherished. I will lose you and then mourn you. Even as you are alive and well I will mourn you. And it hurts so terribly to hurt about something that has not even happened. And yet that is how my heart is. It borrows grief from the future, stealing it, for it is anxiety that keeps my brain going and the thought of you that fuels my already broken heart.

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