-Thirty-something enigma with a wide spectrum of interests.
-Heavily anchored in poetry.
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The Rat Race. The Grind. The nine-to-five. Whatever you want to call it, mine lacks passion. Mine lacks meaning. Mine is a cycle-
By BrettNotGreg11 months ago in Poets
I often find myself perfectly balanced on a thin imaginary line - afraid of the chaos that may ensue if the weight does not remain evenly distributed.
Sleep? Not enough. Rest? Forget it. Body- Feeling rough. Brain- Dependent. - Eyes shut. Alarm sounds. Wake up. Do the rounds.
Another past life shed into existence… Bearing striking similarities to the ones before. My new skin is tender and fragile.
There will be no scribbles. No lines, no X's. No filter, no backspace. Much like random paint splatters on a canvas- -every word written with intention.
By BrettNotGreg12 months ago in Poets
Does there exist a more significant emotion? Undefinable, unexplainable, different for everyone. The want to experience, followed by the need to share.
I often have the fleeting thought: “A quick visit couldn’t hurt”. I quickly remember that I am wrong, thankfully before any further damage is done.
By BrettNotGregabout a year ago in Poets
Carefully collecting in the corners of the shelves piles the dust- -exclusively existing as a reminder of abandonment. This is accompanied by a raging silence-
The very existence of tomorrow fills my chest with fear. I have no explanation or reasoning behind this feeling. Today, I remained stagnant - I did not want anyone asking about the tears.
Have that conversation with yourself. Recharge those batteries. Take that walk. Turn that phone on silent. Do nothing. Sleep in.
Ever woke up with immense despair caused by the realization that, while you were sleeping, your subconscious created something so special, so serene, so satisfying…
Ducking and shielding your head until the storm ends. Just like that, it is over, the moment is dead. We needed an eye to calm things down…
