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my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.
The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.
I see the most remarkable minds crippl
your song reminds me of swimmingslipping into the cool cerulean blue
unwrapping myself in this u n d e r w a t e r world
until I am mentally naked
beneath the liquid ceiling
my mask m e l t s away
sugar and spices and everything niceness
and all my pretendings drift apart, dissolve
I swallow the sound, and it swallows me whole. The church bells are echoing in my head, their clangs in my heart, shaking me, reaching into my thoughts and rendering me speechless. Your Lolita, your Rosita, a Maria. I want to be all of them for you. The idea frightens me, and the cold fingers of fear clamp around the beating organ beneath my breasts and squeeze, and again all words leave me. Years of ingrained love of tradition and devotion to conservatism beat against my brow, and the threat of discovery and migraines plague my mind. Moths pester me, tickling the walls of my stomach; and coals burn slowly beneath, Hell's Gate, II, simmering. I apply my cherry chapstick with shaking hands, tossing furtive glances towards my family, paranoid that I'll be discovered fraternizing with another potential lover yet again.
And discovery, this time, would prove fatal, lethal, to my stuttering heart, that bird named Moses dying in its birdcage, my ribcage.
Dear , Dear $@&&$@,
I am disgusted by my longing for you. It revolts me, repulses me. My craving for someone to openly feel affection for me transforms me into a twisted, hideous beast; a manipulative, whiny bitch; and a petty, simpering airhead. I despise myself. I detest what I've mutated into, this sick creature. You could have loved me once, but these rusted knives of sentences, covered in my blood and vomit, have warned you away. Beware: Keep fleeing.
For I long to be your little snowflake girl, your petite American muse. I want to bask in your so-white smiles, bathe in your dark and wild eyes. I adore your funny Anwar nose and your Ralph Lauren cologne. I want to be present, cheering you on, when you graduate in fifty days. I want to be standing there when you celebrate your doctor-ship, when you're holding your med school diploma in a de
no, pleaseI think, despite all the objections against love that I so boastfully proclaim, what I crave most is for someone to steal away my gaze, hold me softly by the shoulders, silence me, and tell me quite seriously that they love me.
oceanThe Ocean's tides flow and ebb like the moon's,
Waxing and waning, never sleeping, no,
Thinking they can tame her, foolish buffoons,
Tried to control her, she dealt the death blow.
Drowning in her fury, unwise sailors,
Thought they could rule her, break her, chain her,
Murdered with a vengeance, curse'd horrors,
Their corpses lost, no killer much crueler.
Volatile, barbaric in nature,
Deceptively sweet, secretly sour,
Seemingly benign, not one may conquer,
Poise'd to pounce, waiting to devour.
Violent, unrestrained creature this,
None can resist her luring, deadly kiss.
our world, in sunshineThe most beautiful thing I've ever seen is the world in sunshine.
On December mornings, I sit on the porch and blow on my swirling cup of coffee, watching as a ray of light falls from the skies. It reflects off the windows and scatters rainbows across the grey sidewalks in shattered colors.
A garbage truck drives by. The grimy orange fades away as the sun strips away its layers of dirt. The orange becomes a dazzling shade of tangerine, blinding in its brilliance. Only a moment in the spotlight––but it is a moment more of glory and wonder, with only the flowers to witness and the trees to retell.
Not three minutes later, a young girl walks past, bouncy in step, her golden curls bright and her red coat glowing. The sun catches her in its embrace, dropping brightness upon her small figure, and though no one is watching, she smiles proudly.
There is a splendor here that cannot be denied. The charm of the universe and the loveliness we all possess is so often hidden in the dark,
The Madman Created the Strange Valley of the Stars The Madman Created the Strange Valley of the Stars
Philosophy and literature have always concerned themselves with the idea of the Madman. This is not the Madman who haunts our imaginations with ghosts and demons – this is the Madman who is willing to express his or her Truth. On our behalf, the Madman has suffered due to our unwillingness to give the Madman a voice. So the Madman gives his or her voice to the world. Whether this is through song, everyday life, martial arts, or literature, it is often the case that society is not concerned with this spiritual life-giver. So the Madman must, in some way, exceed the Self. The Madman is a Fool… but a fool for our sake. We call the Madman a Fool because we do not understand this obsession with the Non-Self (that which is beyond personality).
So, the Madman has a task. The Madman is not just a “mental illness” but a voice for it – in order to
The IronyI would rather suffer on my own than suffer with other people around me. Because, really, what do I have to suffer about? Nothing.
There are people out there who are doing so much worse than me and it makes me feel guilty. Pathetic. Selfish. It makes me feel a genuine hatred towards myself. Because I still cry and feel sorry for myself. I still want to die.
There are people who don’t understand. Who never get the feeling of just wanting to die. But you know what it is, right? It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain.
And that’s what stop’s me. That’s the ironic thing.
That the fact that there is something wrong with me makes me not want to kill myself.
ChangeI had curly, nearly blond hair when I was a baby. My mother says I used to pull on it to make it straight because I hated how it bounced.
So I had a bob when I was little because I couldn't stand still long enough for anything longer to be brushed; it had got darker by then. That way it didn't get caught in branches when I climbed trees with my cousin and our neighbour, or get caught by the boys we used to fight with every summer and become weakness. There was a lady on TV who had a similar style, she was strong and beautiful so I cut my hair like her later.
By school, I had long hair. Messy as anything and I didn't even think of it much. I left it like that because I was upset I wasn't girly enough. I didn't have a high pitched voice like the girls on TV nor did I go for the dress before the jeans, I didn't laugh at the things I should and I didn't fit into the bow-tied box of 'girl'. So I grew my hair.
Towards the end I would braid it every night to tame it and make it cu
Are you a boy or a girl?Mama stood frozen, staring down that the cherubic little redhead, his words still ringing in her ears. "Are you a boy or a girl?" The other redhead, the little one's brother, blushed and hastily touched the boy's shoulder. "Ao-chan, that was mean." Finally shaking off the shock of the child's keen perception, Mama gave a shaky laugh. "It's quite alright, Hayes-sama. May I answer him?" She smiled at the confused expression Ace shot her before he nodded and let go of his brother.
She knelt and took the little boy's hands in hers, running her thumbs in gentle circles over the backs of his hands. "I know it's a little confusing, since I have a boy's body and have to wear boy clothes to work, but I'm actually a girl. I'm not the only girl like this, either. Do you know what the word transgender means?" She waited for the boy to shake his head no before brushing back his bangs. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Ace's eyes widen slightly before he nodded his encouragement. "It means tha
unanchorageWhen I write,
I slip into a damp nothingness, vaguely
and shuffling through a smoggy coma,
shedding the individuality
anchoring me to
It's an abandon of the consensual mind that
an escape in to the symmetrical mess of this planet.
I am not my own,
it is only here where I find
buried inbetween my lungs,
and my heart.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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