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SarahYesterday Offline
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I wrote- it hurts, it burns- Is it beauty? - January 22nd 2010, 07:26 AM

I never write. I'm afraid of failing. Before I can write other peoples' stories, I feel I must determine my own- My own soul, my own voice. But most artists are troubled, traumatized by their deficiencies; anemic of love and lust. Is this beauty in it's bare body? Is there elegance in this pain?
What am I asking for?
I'm troubled and pushed, hospital bracelet on one wrist, nervous hives up the other. I want to know if even in my disgust for myself, can other people find pleasure? Is it worth it to continue on, knowing that every day spent fighting to redeem myself does well for others?
I'm an only child. I never had anyone to talk to. Even when I write my feelings, I feel best when I share them- it makes me feel like my burdens are less, more manageable.

this is my book. this is my head. I binge + puked today. As soon as I got home it was like a bomb went off- a sleeper bomb. Being alone I SNAPPED. Is it from being alone, starving, before? It must be- what I felt wasn't natural. It was a wave of built up anxieties. Food really IS my comfort. I love puking. A fist down my own throat tickling my gag with butterfly fingers is so empowering. Instant. Relief. Mamma mia.
I can't sleep. I can never sleep I am going to crack. I'm really not cut out for this world. My skin is too fair.
I pick at my fraying skin like it will break to reveal a new relief. Shed for what I really am. Everything about me doesn't seem right. My movements are wrong, my voice, my gravity. I want to be light as a feather and float in and out of windows, of lives of love- dust. positively dust. This would be bliss.
No pain, no bite of life, frostbite of hut, filth of failure, fear of sound not my own. Just dust.
Is this poetry? My words are beautiful to my ear, but every one resounds with a catalyst of dimension within me. How can I look passed myself- the most important person of the world, the only person of the world, and produce beauty.
I'm ahead of myself.
This is my book. This is my head. No more thoughts, just words. Idle hands are that of the devil. I will write scriptures instead.
Noises everywhere. I hear a plan or a convey of trucks. Or a wind storm? (Curtains drawn) It's stopped. Clicks of heaters keeps me awake and afraid. Afraid of nothing. I am not lucky enough to die of consequence. My death will be a maneuver. Silence mocking. Long. Suffocating. Click Click Click. The heat is on. Music scares me. Too many emotions. Harnessed emotions. Like watching a snake hunt; Or a mouse be hunted? The latter, in retrospect. Emotions are the Biblical snakes of man. The irrationality that convinced us to eat the apple.
Blood, shit, spit, snot, oozes, juices, smells, bites, rips, tares, breaks, burns, lips, picks, prods, pulls, pinches- I love it all. Behind my doors I act it all.
   
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Steph-O
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Re: I wrote- it hurts, it burns- Is it beauty? - January 22nd 2010, 11:48 AM

this is so moving... I feel as if you dragged me inside your head and showed me the darkest places. You have so much talent... write a book!!!... I want to hear more!

"Emotions are the Biblical snakes of man. The irrationality that convinced us to eat the apple." <<<<<<Amazing!!!!

The talent is just dripping from your words, I hope you realize that.


Like a diet of the mind, I just choose not to indulge certain appetites; like my appetite for patterns; perhaps my appetite to imagine and to dream. - A Beautiful Mind

I met Steven October 3rd, 2008. We've been practically inseperable ever since. ♥
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Re: I wrote- it hurts, it burns- Is it beauty? - January 22nd 2010, 02:35 PM

I thought writing down my feelings would help
but now I'm just lost
inable to be alone, inable to be with others
writing my feelings made me wallow deeper than before
what can I do?
people like me
in theory I like people
but it's too stressful to be around them
I just want to go in to a corner and disappear in the kindgom of my head, hiding under a blanket hood, never living my bed
I'm trying really hard to look on the brighter side, till I can at least get medication again... but jeeze... starting from the ground up... how do you do it?
   
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Steph-O
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Re: I wrote- it hurts, it burns- Is it beauty? - January 22nd 2010, 04:42 PM

the way that i get through my thoughts is through finding the shreds of hope... sometimes they are few and far between... sometimes there is nothing i can do but distract myself... analize the things that used to make me happy, find where the magic was and do them... sometimes i feel separated from my body now like my conciousness is limited to inside my head and i am not looking at the world for what it is... but then i close my eyes and envision a tree or a word... sometimes i get in the bathtub close my eyes and just feel the heat... ... then when i open my eyes im back in the present again... and i can focus in what im doing clearly for a time... like i can see my body again... its hard to explain, but maybe this can help you because i struggle with so much worry... of a failed life, of emptiness despite my effort, loneliness... and i really could identify with your poem... hope i could help


Like a diet of the mind, I just choose not to indulge certain appetites; like my appetite for patterns; perhaps my appetite to imagine and to dream. - A Beautiful Mind

I met Steven October 3rd, 2008. We've been practically inseperable ever since. ♥
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