Sometimes, this feels really really hard. Constant decision making is such a drag. I feel like I'm flying a plane with no aviation training, no license, no peanuts for my flight. I'm running on empty half the time trying to convince myself that guidelines are boring anyway. I'll figure out this adult stuff myself. Isn't not knowing the best part? My hands shake from my fifth cup of coffee as I think this.
By Soul4 years ago in Psyche
So here's the thing about being an artist: your mind can never settle. The sprouts rise up through the concrete of this world constantly. "Look a new leaf" and you just HAVE to turn it, or the strongest variant of frustration will overtake your fragile body.
I want to be seen but no, not like that. I don't want your eyes scanning me for potholes on pavement, for the sun on a cloudy day, for dents on your bumper. I want to be invisibly seen, or maybe I just want to be felt. Felt like potholes on pavement, making you bite your lip and curse. I want to be felt like the sun making a guest appearance on a cloud day; brightening up the gray in your life but only long enough to be appreciated. Things that stick around too long tend to become neglected. And I want to be those dents on your bumper you're too broke to fix; reminding you that the pain leaves scars. But you can always fix them, when you get the energy.
*Disclaimer* I am a poet before I am a writer. And although those two things seem synonymous I don't believe they are. These posts will very rarely be in a blog-style format. But something more poetic where I can sprinkle metaphors onto the equinox of my words.
I decided to post my entire poetry books here as a little exclusive for those who happen to find my profile. If you'd still like to support me, I'll link the Amazon link. Thank you for sharing space with me.
I decided to post my entire poetry books here as a little exclusive for those who happen to find my profile. This is a poetry book exploring the healing of the inner child and the impact a wounded inner child has on every aspect of life. If you'd still like to support me, I'll link the Amazon link. Thank you for sharing space with me.
By Soul4 years ago in Poets
Unfulfillment hammers another nail in your coffin as your eyes, like the sea, ebb and flow over the hands of the clock. Don't you know that time only haunts you if you keep waiting for its passing? That with each fluctuation of your unsettled tides, the hours are the only constant thing? That the clock is watching you watch it, watch your life go by, watch your thoughts wander around the entrapment of your boxed in mind. What if you made time a living thing so it could not haunt you anymore? So you could not awaken startled at dawn by the ghoulish whispers of tick-tocking. If time is alive, time is nurtured; time can grow and expand, as can your perception of time itself.
The past lives I’ve lived didn’t settle to easily. Not the one’s on this terrain, but the ones buried in my chakras. The ones I decided to make a memory out of instead of a fossil, recounting the origin of them and the death of them countless times. As a memory, my mind can forget when it is convenient. It will not stay with me forever.
I think, therefore I am, my thoughts, a cluster of the cosmos, me, a cluster of the universe, my belly, just a slant of gravity tilting over at the slightest touch, spewing butterflies and hard truths.
I'm starting to feel like some wild beast is trying to rip open my chest. I don't belong here. What if I just went wild? Returned back to my animalistic roots and extinguished all the fires of uncivilized behavior that has been burning in my chest for so long?
