Noah Adam Busby
Bio
The inner visions/delusions of a schizophrenic individual. Don’t get hung up on the reality of it all, we aren’t here to get it.
Insta: @delusionsindisarray
Twitter: TBD
Stories (8)
Filter by community
Buzz
I’ve imagined this scenario in multiple lives, the latest one cold and metal, other times fleshy and warm, cold and wet, bloody and humid, etcetera and etcetera. All throughout the same scenario played out similarly, exactly the same sometimes. We sit in a chair, and buzz about our problems, buzz buzz buzz, we buzz, buzz, buzz. Buzz. We begin to rot along with the world as the walk by, all we can do is buzz, no words, just buzz on about our problems and emotions. Maybe some brave and kind soul gives us a listen, but ultimately, buzzing. Buzzing until our eyes slowly drop out of our skull, hanging on by fleshy, stringy meat. Teeth black and yellow, with greed stained on our tongue, but we still, buzz, until our jaw falls off and into our lap. Atleast, that is the foreseeable future, until we can learn that we should not buzz, but instead whistle with the free birds, whistle to our heart’s content.
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Poets
Moths
It smells… wet. My senses overload immediately when awoken, filled to the brim with wet, dense air. From the position we lay in it can easily be seen that we are in a field, this feels normal, normal as normal can be I suppose. The long stalks of wheat border my vision, jutting toward the dull overcast sky, as if they were reaching for a god that was not there. Why would you say that? Why would they reach in such a way, if the only result is to be used for harvest, do they not know they assure their own demise? If they do, then they are content with their fate, why not, then, are you? I sit up with haste, hands support my upper body and sink abit into the moist ground, I look at my right hand and see it is covered in fresh blood. Why is it there is always blood on my hands? What have I done? You know what you’ve done….
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Humans
Flying
She’s still hanging there... the house has been run down for years, yet she still hangs there. The old piano we used to love, sits against a rotting wall, adjacent to the room…. I stand there, looking at the moldy, wooden bench; memories we shared there, songs we sang there, quiet nights we cried there…. We didn’t cry enough…. I gently step towards the once beloved bench, my feet squishing the sickly green ground beneath them, almost grasping my shoes, as if it meant to never let me go after each step…. I wipe the seat off gingerly, and slowly pull it across the soft and wet floor. Muffled as it slides atop the aged wooden boards, I stop about a foot away from the pedals, take a step around and in front of it, my other leg follows, and I slowly bend to take a seat. As I do so, I notice a small fly has found itself stuck in a puddle of water, twitching and seizing, unable to free itself… I thought about helping it... or leaving it to drown... but instead, I calmly crouched down, and with my right index finger gently pushed it, like a button. Like a light, it’s life, gone from this earth… I then went to my knees and began to sob, wishing I had saved it, it had more time I could have helped it but instead I took the easy way out I thought I did it a favor but she just couldn’t see that I had no choice….. Suddenly I’m staring at my hands. They’re drenched with blood, dripping onto the floor, my tears dropping into my hands. The fly is gone.
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Poets
We Remember
We walk through a field made of broken glass, savoring each step as we subject our lonely feet to the razor shards ejecting sporadically out of the dead ground. The sky we walk under is grey, and gives no distraction for us to enjoy, ultimately our time here is infinite, only known to the endless gnawing untold confessions, jaws of thousands of teeth mauling the antiseptic soaked rags that drape our body.
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Poets
The Glass Case
It’s cold on the skin. The glass of the case that holds me retains a certain cool disposition. I feel grounded in this floating box, I feel unfocused in this tiny case, I. Feel it. Closing in on me. Getting harder to breathe, wincing at the immense pain wrought upon my skin and lungs, as if I were being lit up from the inside out.
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Poets
Visions
We lay in the grass. A cool spring night, there are no clouds in the sky, only stars and the moon. We wrestle the thoughts in our head, staring at the void of meaningless beauty. Who am I? Where am I? Why am I “we”? What’s the point? Why do we struggle? Why am I still here?.... I sit up and look forward, my nose feeling a strange chill, I see my feet ahead me and legs attached to them. I hate it. I hate what I see. Why am I still here.
By Noah Adam Busby4 years ago in Fiction
