I draw you
I paint you
I watch you
I study you
I describe you
I portray you
I kiss you
I touch you
I fuck you
I love you
and I still
find it hard
to believe
you’re real.
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
Make no mistakes, I am what you make me.
mister-selfdestruct © 2011-2013 All rights reserved.
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Tags | poetry |
Anonymous asked: Your writing makes me sad. I just want to give you someone to fall in love with.
I am in love. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but love isn’t the answer that romantics would have you believe. Sometimes love itself is painful. Every love has conditions and boundaries and wounds that are far beyond your control. I’m glad you feel something from what I have to post here.
27 notes |
Peace.
It’s that time of night where I’m not awake and can not sleep. When my breath is strong enough of rum to put a hole in a wall, and I’m slumped over my keyboard, typing in line after incoherent line of lamentations and sad loves. Twenty beginnings to twenty poems, none of which will piece together anything you and I would care to read, none of which will ever be finished. Words can’t be taken back, and so they sit inside me and poison my already tired thoughts. They fester like a wound that has taken to pus, and lancing and cleaning and leeching is all for nought. I’m still awake, I’m still alone, and there could be a thousand mouths and hands upon me and none of them would make me whole. None of them would counter the silence standing eternal and patient inside my chest. I’m troubled, and yet the trouble is always the same. It has no particular name, nor face, nor serpent’s forked tongue. I have always sensed this pain, this echoing cavern in which my heart resides, with a thousand scars all singing their chaotic opera at the same time. I fear sleep, I fear waking up, I fear my dread and dread the fear. I want things to be simple. I want to sleep and smile and love.
Sometimes I want my words to be suffocated. Sometimes I want clear and defined statements.
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and ask what is wrong with me.
Tortured could be considered romantic, but pathetic to me. I don’t want to be restless and heartbroken and ill of mind and stomach. I don’t want to wake with knots in my stomach and aching muscles that cannot be stretched.
I want to breathe deep, and be at ease. I will sleep, and tomorrow, there will be twenty different beginnings that will never know an ending.
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
28 notes |
Artworks by Mira Ruido
"I blow my load over the status quo."
— Josh Homme
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
21 notes |
Peace vs Love
9 notes |
Tags | looking for something new |
Remember back when people wrote on Tumblr just to write? No features. No cliques. No nothing. Just words. Imagine what it’d be like if all that went away. If there weren’t any merits other than the simple hearts left by your readers. Makes me wonder who’d stay.
Take me back.
Just words.
IKEA Punk
Still.
We lost ourselves, in that space between being a child and being old enough to understand why we no longer can be. There’s a deep pool inside each of us, and at the bottom lies all the things that happened in our lives when we were neither here nor there, neither young nor old. I’d like to concede that age is the defining truth of that gap in our emotional development, but we both know that’s a lie. We were vulnerable, and we absorbed every echo of a feeling, every vibration on our heart strings, like spiders just waiting for the webs to be felled by a force of fate or nature, or a person we could not contain. Swatted aside, and forced to rebuild the bridge between the sapling and the weathered tree whose roots reach deep into the black earth, set still and silent in their unchanging.
We waded out into that deep pool and opened our arms, pushing pieces and memories and dreams down under the surface. Dark, cold, they lie breathlessly in a place we can no longer reach. Before our roots had settled, before we first saw that we would not be malleable for long, before we knew that the pool would make us rot, we often stood waist deep. We’d hold hands, and kiss, and touch each other, and when we were done with all those things, we drowned them too. Lovers eyes, so pretty under the water. Now, they won’t see what they should have. They keep company with the bruises from a bully, your dreams of being a writer, with the disappointment of yourself, your failures to those you didn’t love the way you should have, and the guilt that seems to swell that mere pool, into a lake.
We held their heads underneath the water and we let our mourning rain down on drowning pieces of ourselves, salting wounds we didn’t even know we had. We filled that fucking hole in with dirt and let the water soak right through it. We ran as our hair turned into roots that pulled us down to the ground, starting to cement our jealousies, greeds and insecurities, unable to stop them growing rampantly away from sunlight, driving deep into that same earth we hated so badly to find those endless chasms where we left ourselves. We drink deep, and we wonder why the past hurts our mouths when we struggle to talk about how deep pain can well up.
We were invincible, and now we can’t be. We know that we’re dying, and so time is something we no longer count among our possessions. Between our young and our old has no face, no name, no recognisable features. Just damage. It takes a long time for the pain to reach it now, we process it, handle it better.
When I close my eyes, all I see now are my waterlogged eyes staring back at me.
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
Tags | prose |
Who Needs A Drink At 8:17 a.m.
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me I want to dictate
the power of suicide compels me a hate speech
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me dedicated to the turmoil
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me of nine to five grudges
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me my paycheck mocks my ability
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me to be original
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me if I were Jesus and
the power of suicide compels me came back, I would watch
the power of suicide compels me me back
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me some mornings
the power of suicide compels me my feet bleed
the power of suicide compels me from the shards
the power of suicide compels me of a shattered mind
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me I was going to be a hero
the power of suicide compels me in the punch line
the power of suicide compels me of some ill fated
the power of suicide compels me joke
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me please forgive my words
the power of suicide compels me i haven’t been feeling
the power of suicide compels me like myself
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me they say every dog has its day
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me but I’ve been to the pound
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me this is just me
the power of suicide compels me trying to gain the respect
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me of no one
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me this is just another
the power of suicide compels me white existentialist
the power of suicide compels me crisis
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
the power of suicide compels me
Cruelty and The Beast.
Every time you look at me
with those soft and broken
pieces of your hazel glass
that behold me helplessly
in their shattered brilliance
that reflect me in cold tones
as easily as they remember
the warmth of your past
the fires that once burnt
the insides of your thighs
with tears of happiness
from those simple gestures
but I never find your back
as pretty as your smile
I crave the electricity
of your naked fingertips
but I’m alone in the dark
when your eyes wander
how can you love me
if you don’t think I’m beautiful?
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
76 notes |
Tags | poetry |
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