a mess of unfinished thoughts

 stuck in time,,,,,              stuck in age? experience - my- my bane no- my purpose. my heart burns at the thought of being left behind   the last to experience is the one to lose, the one to mock, the one to-                                                        shame. shame, shame, shame - shame if i do and yet shame if i don't. open gaping mouths shocked with the words that just came out of mine a confession of sorts? why should i not call it what it is - a shame, why must i be so,,,, inexperienced? why must i reiterate over and over      why must i focus over and over  on the many (accomplishments, proud moments, blushing cheeks, lipstick stains)                      experiences [affair, adventure]  I have been deprive...

I am filled with wrath at the world,  Furious at its inability to behave, furious at the suffering, furious at the equality that it promises but never gives.  I am filled with desperation at the thought of the next generation, growing up in a world,  Where they might still be considered inferior if they are anything but a white male.  Where there isn't enough water, enough land, enough trees to the point where over these, we might smash the fragile peace we have thus achieved.  The world where a kid fighting for nature does a better job than the legislature but she made a meme because "What does she know? She's just a teenager."     And yet, I am shown its competition.  A world of peace, retaliation and beauty.  Smiling at the world's attempts of rebuilding, marvelling at the complexity that exists before me.  Thousands of people who come together, to fight for what's right, fight for the better.  Fire may be fought with fire, ...

When I say I am my own true muse I mean I will always have thoughts and feelings  That overwhelms me completely, Taking my mind by whirlwind. I mean I will always be wishing, hoping and aching for something Longing after it enough to write about it. When I say I am my own true muse, I don't mean me as an average person I glorify, I mean me as an interesting person I degrade. My tears are the perfect paint for my canvas. And they will always make a better painting than my serotonin. When I say I am my own true muse, I mean My life defines my pen. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

 Love is an annotated book Love is an annotated book.  A physical copy of a tale That means so much to you That, withered and worn down,  It contains your thoughts and feelings,  Your sarcastic remarks.  Love is highlighted lines  That described you so well,  You just had to let it be known to the world.  Phrases that tasted like heaven in your mouth,  Words you found prettier than flowers.  Love is in folded cat ears of pages,  Old bookmarks, or favorite parts.  Twisted and folded edges, to remind you where you left off,  To entice you to continue.  Love is the wrinkled, yellowed cover Of a novel, you read over and over Your name scribbled on the inside.  Something you let fill your heart, so much so that you had to put your mark on it.  Love is a book you annotated. 

humanity astounds me, it does. the very strong, raw urge to create is so overwhelming that it sometimes consumes me  to the point of no return breathless and gasping I am pushed against tidal waves so rugged I have no choice but to submit to their tug or be pulled apart in them and I know for a fact that I am not alone in the sea because every piece of content my eyes have the luck to chance upon is a product of these very waves these artists leave me screaming. their exquisite painful ways of breaking their souls into  heartbreakingly tiny pieces and shaping, forming, s c u l p t i n g  them  into pure artifice, is beautiful and so alarmingly intuitive  that it is a piece of the soul, a fight against those waves of whatever created us.

when I read and listen when I watch and analyze the media that makes me........... s p i r a l I can't help but envy these beautiful girls who are not beautiful because of how they look but are beautiful because of how they think. how they speak. beautiful because of the way the neurons fire in their brain. I am bitter about the fact that I wasn't blessed with the ability to make people  f e e l. I want to so desperately be someone who vocalizes inner monologues in a way that makes it seem like they were woven into thoughts by angels.  And while it may seem like vain grumbling to you - she and I are not the same. While her thoughts ruminate in   peoples brains and hearts, I am still sitting here trying words to see if they fit, googling synonyms. How I wish  I was one of those girls who leave a mark on you the second a word comes out of their mouth. One of those girls who bewitch you. Capture you with the way their mind works.

desolation flows out from me leaking as if blood from a wound, rainwater from a broken roof. and I let it. I help it.  pushing it out, using it to paint the surroundings red. red as in rose, not as in murder. I use the tears - water to soften the clay that I mould.  an artwork with tear stains that people say were on purpose. yet, I strangle my best masterpieces, my most beautiful babies before they ever see light. Maintaining the illusion that this poet is just a storyteller. Not the recount of a victim's story, not an autobiography, all this is, is fiction. Not something to be embarrassed about, an accidental paint stroke on an otherwise perfect portrait. A song not on beat, abrasive and brash to the ears. I cover the leaks, blaming the paint, the clay, the roses. The pristine facade cracking, I accuse the deteriorating state of the paint,  trying to hide the actual culprit - this poet.   

 I often find myself waiting at stations  for trains I didn't know were coming just for one to come rushing by, barely enough time to reach it before it runs away at twice the speed. my most frequent trains require me to hang on for dear life while I jump from cabin to cabin to find a seat before the speed knocks me down. the trains are always packed and yet those people seem fine everyone but me is calmly drinking hot tea while I can barely hold on to my glasses.  all I ask for this birthday is a train station with speed breakers. 

 Music made her feel feel what? you ask anything and everything, all at once she says anything and everything all at once. sometimes pure unbridled joy takes hold a powerful beat, stirring something deep within her heart and soul anything and everything all at once.  it brought her to tears, pulling on heartstrings, deepening sorrow, planting a despondent, melancholy ache anything and everything all at once it was a warm caress, embracing her, soothing her tears calming her down, tranquility and peace anything and everything all at once. alternatively, she went feral stomping feet, shaking head, going wild not caring, feeling free of burden anything and everything all at once. longing nostalgia sympathy all these feelings come running as soon as she hears music anything and everything all at once. 

//TW// // Mentions of abuse, beatings// Trophy wives, Bruises under their eyes Cake their faces with Layers of foundation To keep in the lies or keep out the questions? 9-5, they breathe relief A "Honey, I'm home!" Bringing memories back Of overly cautious steps Maybe memories was the wrong word, when all she felt was fear. He yells at her in the car To act normal and behave like a wife Holding the potluck dish, she shakes And readies herself to meet the rest Society's reckoning, a life or death affair. He grabs her waist as She tries not to flinch away Everyone fawns over their "perfect relationship" Without paying attention to the eyes that cry for help. She doesn't know which she hates more, the looks of awe or the beatings. He treats me well! She says, cowering inside Because a reputation is surely worse Than the bandages awaiting home What price would you rather pay, the hospital bill, or a reputation?

//TW// //intrusive thoughts, dark imagery// there are thoughts I don't want forcing their way up and out making everything else go dark as they steal the spotlight Its all I can focus on while my demon cackles with glee having successfully diverted my mind to these horrifying things in the midst of all this, my actual thoughts - my ideas, my notions begin to suffocate in the background slowly choked to their grave I shake my head, to get rid of this metaphorical stage but it persists, the spotlight gets brighter. I begin to hear the strangles sounds of the side characters and i reach out - to help, for help but I am bound. paralyzed, forced to watch frightened but mesmerised and unable to look away subconsciously I push myself and shake my head even harder sending a chill down my spine. the final shake shatters the spotlight forcing the lights back on the place is a mess, the side characters still choking and I run to save them Some slowly, agonisingly fade away just out of reach. ...