Fuck I'm on my own shit, I can own it
Fuck it's lonely, I'm so lonely
I don't know me
Wake up do the same shit
Fuck, I hate this
I tell people that I made it but I fake it
I get dressed and do my day shift
Wanna end it
God, I hate this, I hate this
I hate this, I hate this
Buy a bunch of shit that I dont need
Room is getting full but I'm empty
God, I'm on my knees, someone save me
Someone save me, someone save me
keshi, “Good day”
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Muddler
Thoughts all jumbled up again
It’s a mess, a messy darkness storming
Through your mind with all the words and
Thoughts so muddled, unreadable, again
Open eyes, but you cannot see
Closed them shut, but the swirling dark
Won’t give up a single coherent strain
No words, no light, no direction
Where to look, where to turn
When your thoughts are all
So badly jumbled up again
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Yellow
The last magic was white
And worked wonders
After a while
I miss it, I want it, I don’t
This one is sunflower yellow
And hasn’t done shit
Apart from making the sunflower
Yellow-white sun my enemy
I don’t want it, I want
The white magic back
Or any other as long as
It does work wonders again
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Steadily
Molten lava eating away at your innards
Slowly but steadily, disintegrating your bones, too
Thrashing against the inside of your skin
Making you stumble, heave, grit your teeth
Making you clench your fists and curse that traitor
Slowly but steadily killing you
Everything but softly, anything but fair
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Who Are
Who are you looking at
Who is that in your skin, walking, talking, touching
Touching others, feeling their heat or denying it
Who are you really looking at
Who is the one directing your body whilst drunk on liquid drugs
Whilst sky-high on all kinds of polluted air
Who is the one taking another smooth sip with your lips
Who are they looking at
Smiling, inviting, expecting, exhilarated, aroused
Who are they looking at
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Residual
Where are the stories
With so many, too many murmuring through the air, in front of our eyes
Are there still ones left unsaid, unsung, unwritten
Stories still hidden under whispers, burning to be heard clearly
Where are the stories
The hurting, the wretched, the tragic, the dark
The quietly lovely ones
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Phase 4
You hear the words but don’t comprehend their meaning
All their weight doesn’t get carried through your skin
It is simply lost right before your eyes
The black hole in your chest has become you
None of their humaneness gets reflected
No matter how much they throw in your direction
Your can’t even blankly reflect their emotions anymore
The black hole bloomed too big
Your innermost mirror, eviscerated, fully bloomed
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Fortnight
Every minute, that sickness twists your insides a little more
Which is a lie, a lot more
Gnarls and warps them with an uninvited sadism
As if it is the only thing you can ever always rely on
And it grins through your rising nausea
Which is a lie, it screams
That it is and always will be the only constant in your life
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New Things
Searching for something new
Always, time and again
There never is anything new under the sun
There’s nothing
And still, you pick and pull strange pieces together
For something akin to some thing new
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The Touch of a Thought
The touch of a thought
Whispering through your mind
Over your lips
Tingling whispers of
Something profoundly personal
Leaving from the secret depths
Of your ribcage
Crawling up, up
Clawing through your throat
Up, up, and feathering out
Over your thoughts before
Suddenly falling down onto your tongue
Whispering over your lips
Something you’d kept close, hidden
The thought of a touch
Whispering across your skin
Over your neck
Terrifyingly caressing touches of
Someone else, and your mind is
Clawing at your flesh
Digging deeper, deeper
Back into the secret depths
Of your hollow ribcage
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Ah, yes - the famous historic nipple twister of “female presenting” nipples.
Would “male presenting“ man-boobs with “male presenting” nipples not be sexual for any on-looker and thus deemed appropriate by tumblr, I wonder.
Or would those, too, have to be painted at least 500 years ago to be deemed appropriate for the public because “art”.
Everyone reblog this as much as possible over the next two weeks for good luck
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Poetic Justice
Just fly away, says the black bird
Just scare them away, says the white snake
Just eat them up, says the grey cat
But then it ponders, with its tail tip twitching
And adds with a grin, But not before playing with them
Twice as cruelly as they did you wrong
And then, it finishes, very pleased, and then
Just eat them up whole
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Well
It wells up inside your chest
Like a well’s water surface surging from the ground
With all the unknown dirt and grime, but also
Evanescent particles of minerals
That might strengthen your unalteredly white bones
After you’ve managed to climb out that well
After you’ve brushed off the dirt and grime
Will your skin glitter under the day
Your bones shine clean under your flesh
As if the ground had never drowned you
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If I was born as a blackthorn tree
I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you
Fuel the pyre of your enemies
Ain't it warmin' you, the world goin' up in flames?
Hozier, “NFWMB”
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Reprieve
It came over you like a silent wave
And its abyssal depth inexorably put you to sleep
Yet, strangely, inexplicably, for once, this time
Your lungs breathe easier when you wake up again
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Liquid Music
There’s something stirring uncomfortably, forebodingly under your ribs
Lurking, waiting, crouching in silent anticipation
But it doesn’t jump, not yet, not yet
And that’s almost, almost just as bad as the attack itself
There’s something crawling around your organs, under your skin
Lurking, waiting, laughing
It knows its turn will come
You know it, too
Too well
And so you guess and try, try, try
Finding a method to lessen its crawling through your veins
Clawing into your thoughts, claiming your attention by being
There’s a slowly, slowly, surely growing desperation
To find what’ll keep it down, keep it numb, keep it ignorable
Or at least non-threatening
Music, music, alcohol, more music, more alcohol
You’ve seen your fair share of needles, no more of those into your flesh
You’re disgusted by bad smells, no cigarettes on your lips and lungs
You can never be sure the pills will actually work after several weeks
Several weeks of more, of less tolerable adverse effects
(More insomnia, more hyposomnia, accelerated falling into dark pits...)
So you find
More music, more, and maybe just one more glass of that one drink you like
There’s something stirring uncomfortably, forebodingly under your ribs
You know it’s there, lurking, waiting
But with another sip of burning smootheness
Tingling tongue, simmering skin, numbed, non-hurting thoughts
You don’t find it all that threatening anymore
It’s the music, isn’t it, just the music you’re swaying to
So you drink in more of that music, more, who knew that
Music came in liquid form as well, well, all is well
You’re finally well, aren’t you, are you not, not, no you’re not, not well
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Phase 8
It pierces right through your solar plexus
And leaves you short of breath
Short of words
Short of functioning
So you can’t say that it hurts
Somewhere in your chest although nothing’s left
Because all that ever was
Suddenly escaped right into that alluring, repellent black hole
And took something important with
So you can’t say that you’re befallen by a homeless sadness
Or that your sadness is like
A sentient ocean trying to drown you
You can’t say that something in your chest aches
Cause you’re out of breath
Out of words
Out of
Order
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