“It was the time between the lights when colours undergo their intensification and purples and golds burn in window panes like the beat of an excitable heart… the beauty of this world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder…”
I’ve just been reading Virginia Woolf’s ‘A Room of Ones Own’, and my thoughts and body feel like they’re merging together. Thoughts cram up inside my head like ribbons stuffed in a box which when you open jump out like snakes. Thoughts are hard to translate without marring the beauty you felt them with, but Virginia’s poetic revolution in her sentences make me feel so horney and smart in how she does not lose but just blooms and blooms.
The mind is such a multiple and moving and hilariously tragic thing which craves eternal love and less adverts. I really don’t understand why being nerdy and flexing those brain cells is seen as hassle/un-sexy/ too provocative LET YOUR IMAGINATIONS FLOURISH THERE ARE SO MANY REALITIES WE CAN TAP INTO!!!!!!!
so long as your thoughts aren’t bigot-ishly gross and vomit inducing mind farts, the world needs more rooms for one to have for one’s self !!!!!!
Today’s poem show’s my depressed emotional state when this creative side fueling each moment I live is hidden behind fear and self-loathing tunnel vision- let the light in galdem and mandem, and everyone in between- don’t forget what gives you wings xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox
There may come a day when cooking comes easy,
when sinking into the driver’s seat does not inspire crash fear.
My skull will rise from the washing up
and weep, crumble bitterly into pale-blonde ashes for
the people who might have mattered.
Already I feel cataracts of violet smother evening playgrounds.
Already my old diaries seem like graffitied toilet walls,
scrawled with names I am beginning to forget the sounds of.
These turtle-dove hands are comfortable in silence,
with the trailed cemetery of mugs steaming the path to my extinction.
After all, I have never liked oysters. I can’t enjoy the
lustre like others can. The taste jars in my throat.
After all, I have been playing hard to get for 19 years-
who cares if I keep my bottle-cap moon for another, 1, 2, 10?
They already told me Father Christmas isn’t real.
This heart of mice bones may never stop searching the Sahara
for something worth drinking champagne for.
Teeth still can’t speak my name: Perhaps we want too much.
God is a person hiding
in the thick-libraries of planets just like us.