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Confession time you say?

Confession 1: I am sick. I don’t know when it got bad again but suddenly I am sick. This is not okay. I am not okay

Confession 2: the binged are just another part of the disorder. I can’t stop eating anymore then I can start some days

Confession 3: I am safe now. But the thoughts are getting louder. Things are getting bad. I don’t know how long it’ll be okay for…

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I wander in my sleep, sink into indigo mist, and open my eyes to peer through the underside of a glass-bottom boat into the world below.

A women in an apricot desert trudges along the ocean floor, one child clasped to her chest and the other lagging behind her— in front of her only more emptiness, only the gaping maw of greed, cruelty, and indifference.

I am the spectator, present but ultimately unaffected, and as the boat rocks back and forth, the second child falls further and further behind.

The woman, the mother, the refugee, hesitates for a moment that stretches out into a small eternity, umber eyes darting between the child clutched to her chest and the one calling out to her.

She turns, places one beaten and bruised foot in front of the other, and walks on into the blazing sun that is sloshing blood-red at the edges of this twisted reality.

The boat capsizes, and as I tumble into a star cluster, I turn the choice over and over in my mind until I am dizzy with it.

I wake up curled on my side, one hand stretched out across the length of my bed, as if reaching out— for what or who, I can not remember.

[ 07.08.2020 ]

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If you look back in history, you will see

Hundreds of people,

Their Bones and ashes creating mountains and sea,

Not just warriors and kings, but peasants and those whose lives were dull

And No matter how mediocore or great you life is,

One day you will join them,

In the great pile of bones, skulls and ashes,

And Not even the holiest songs nor relics can save you, from the thing many have feard,

From the thing called death.


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 Zoe Ferraris, from Kingdom of Strangers
They let the sound wash over them as they stood staring, happy and frightened, blinded by the glittering lights.
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whenever my mouth gets tired

words bend like vibrant electric paintings

that shock you at your fingertips.

i peel the feelings from my brain

peel my mind like a bittersweet orange!

isn’t this gorgeous!

you get to see me at my very lowest point

crawling in the soil of the earth with my vulnerability, a girl that is a snake.

naked in the painter’s eye and a poet’s dream.

soft baby in the eyes of some, but a devil in others.

lately i feel so confined in my body

had lies birth a universe in the home

of my ribcage

teeth got sticky from sugary tropical juice pouches like summer

lately i feel like i don’t know why we exist

but i let you linger inside me like my intestines

i used to wonder why i couldn’t live on the moon and drink fresh azure waters from its craters.

i used to wonder why my soul never got intertwined with another

and why i’m always dreaming of a boy whom i call apollo and that i have a loving family with him

i’m such a fool to think i would get an answer!

i turn to the cards of the universe but none of them satisfy my curiosity

but hey brain! sky! universe! i have a question!

why am i the one falling apart?


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i met the love of my life in a dream.

we ate fresh baked bread on a floral bridge

that was over a running azure lake that had all kinds of water creatures below the surface, and i told him he was the one for me. “aime-moi” i said before we were in front of the eiffel tower. he kissed me with his pineapple juice lips and i got drunk off the feeling. his words were almost as enchanting as the scenery and the moment, i told him “estoy enamorado de ti!” and that’s when he disappeared in a cloud of peach hue smoke.

so please, loverboy

if you’re reading

let’s go back


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Tell me,

how does one earn the right to be loved, because I’ve been looking for the answer in every diet I can find only to come up short handed and hungry. Does love hide in the lies of beauty? In the whispers of insecurities and doubts that haunt my own reflection. 

Is it because I myself am not beautiful or handsome or good looking? Is love only attracted to those who are aesthetically pleasing? To those whose faces cover the magazines that fill others with envy?

My mother used to tell me that love was a sacred thing, that it was as natural as breathing. But lately I keep finding myself gasping for air whenever I think about people leaving. 

Is it some lack on my part that fails to convince them to stay? 

Tell me, am I not worth staying for?

And I know,

I know that you can’t force others to love you. That the heart want’s what the heart wants but sometimes it’s hard to see why their hearts would ever love me in the first place.

And time has shown again and again that I am just a space for people to rest but never to stay. 

- And it’s not that I think I’m worthless, but on days like this I feel like love has no use for someone like me.

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Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
We secretly hate paradise. Our yearnings are like those of the poor wretch who hopes for the countryside in heaven. Indeed, it’s not abstract ecstasies or marvels of the absolute that can enchant a feeling soul; it’s homesteads and hillsides, green islands in blue seas, wooded paths and restful hours spent on ancestral farms, even if we’ve never had these things. If there’s no land in heaven, then better there were no heaven.
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i always say it’s the last letter when it’s not, but this is my last letter to you
sometimes i want to read your words again. read how your letter started, even though i remember it said that two years didn’t seem so long for everything that we went through. i remember what you called an interactive kiss in the middle of the letter, i remember being in your bed and crying because i was so happy but i don’t remember how your lips felt. you could’ve been a poet if you wanted to, but you were always too invested in your games and in kissing me. oddly enough, we never finished that game together and it truly pains my heart. i wonder if you’ll ever find somebody to play with like we did, even so i’ve moved on but there are odors, games, dates, places, words that i will never be able to touch again. i don’t remember them correctly, but i know i’ll recognize them. even if the years pass, i truly want the best for you. i hope you can finish that game
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The problematic dream

When i close my eyes and go to my dream…

I meet him again

He was alone

He looked at me

Then hug me,

Saying ‘i love you’ to me

And kiss me a long time

And when i open my eyes and realized

I knew he never do it

It’s very impossible

Now, i don’t care about him

And numb for him

Because he is already someone else to me

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honestly im burnt out from writing and that’s okay. I’ve been pondering evil people lately and I don’t even know what to say or write about them. We’re all evil but i mean sociopathic people…They really oppose God so much either consiously or subconsiously. I know our evil part of our psyche comes from our fallen nature when adam and eve sinned. But If i could have one wish, it would be to live one day in life where I’m in the state that adam and eve were in before they sinned. Lately I’ve been reading John MIlton, and his poetry is absoultely beautiful. expressing God’s divinity and humanites fallen tendencies. I’m slowly approaching my niche in writing. Im slowly coming to know who i am as a writer….it’s  a subtle feelng and not some distinc category


*That subtle Feeling:

That subtle feeling

comes and goes

to guide you, 

when writing poetry, and prose

Though it’s not poetry,

It’s not prose,

It’s simply writing

A unique expression of what must be divine

Or at least the part of our brains,

that expresses divine

That subtle feeling,

perhaps deep down,

keeps us alive

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No way I let this angel go

If you’re reading this, I’m truly sorry.

I cheated, I did.

I know I said I would never do it to you

I repeated it even after I slipped up.

I’m sorry for what I did & what I’ve done.

Still crosses my mind as to why

When I had such a beautiful & bright soul riding with me.

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This is called “The Fairy Tale.” Too late to talk, too sleepy to outrage. 


Every night, the prince has the kingdom reenact the night the princess (though she was not the princess at the time) ran away from the ball. It is the only way all of this works. There would be no kingdom without the reenactment. If even one object in the reenactment is out of place, the entire kingdom fails. The kingdom is dependent on the recurring reenactment. The prince cannot perform “the physical act of love” without the reenactment. The princess feels utterly trapped without the reenactment. The reenactment allows for various possibilities to exist in a future that is perpetually on the horizon. So much depends upon the reenactment that it is hard to say what life was like before the reenactment. Nothing was true because there was no reenactment. The kingdom was poor in imagination before the reenactment. The moral of the reenactment is to start your life, have focus, do things over and over again.    

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