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Ghosts

The most difficult part of life is learning to accept that some people are not who you thought they were. We create people that don’t even exist and we suffer undeniable losses when we discover that the person we created is nowhere to be found. Like ghosts they disappear. They leave with nothing but a glimmer. They become a past life. It’s heartbreaking to discover that ghosts of people can touch our lives more than actual people. That characters that are often fictional can touch us the most.

I created you. I made you mine. I needed you and I formed you into the person that I needed. I wanted a beautiful soul and I made it. I wanted someone who cared and I molded your words into a perfect symphony. I still dream about your ghost every night. You sit at the end of my bed to remind me that you’re gone. What hurts the most is that that is set in stone. Your ghost no longer wants me. It has fed off of my energy and then left me here to rot away, just like you did.

You refuse to see what you’ve done to me. Your ghost is an evil one, at best. You can’t even see through your clouded eyes to see how you’ve clouded mine. You’re a disgraceful waste of matter. You suck the energy out of every soul you come in contact with and you laugh. You get encouragement out of your games. Before you, I believed in good people, and now I’m not so sure. You’ve made me doubt myself, and that is something that no person should ever have to do.





Quilts

Each new day I sew a stitch into my soul. I patch the holes. I fix the torn seams. I make my worn down heart look like new. Though it will never look like a heart fresh from the womb, I think my patched up heart is beautiful. My heart tells a story. Like a quilt made from my wrinkled grandmother’s clawed hands, my heart’s every stitch contains love, pain, and perseverance. My life has not been hard, but it has not been easy. I am young, but I feel old. This heart feels like no other heart does. I feel the pain of others more than I feel my own. I love with the passion of a musician, feeling every note within the deepest depths of their soul. I care too much. I think too much. I love too much. All of these things have slowly torn my heart apart. All of these things are healing my heart. Life is a long journey. We swim rivers. We climb mountains. We get lost in valleys. We start fires that we don’t know how to put out. At the end of every day we die, only to wake again in the morning and do all of these things over again. That’s the beauty of life. Every day is an adventure. Every day provides a new sun and every night a new moon. This life tears us all apart, but we all learn to patch ourselves up. A think a quilt is a beautiful thing. It is imperfect. It is uncoordinated. It is made by human hands that no nothing but mistakes. The stitches are never correct, and the fabric rips easily. A quilt is a lot like a human. Almost exactly like a human. We make mistake after mistake, but we keep on going. We rip, but we can always be fixed. We give ourselves to someone, only to often be unappreciated for our imperfect beauty. However, humans last for years and generations, much like quilts. We pass ourselves on from person to person. We learn to adapt to new situations. Isn’t this beautiful? I am healing. I am looking past my dark, and seeing light. I see the beauty in my imperfections like I never have before. This world is dark, and it rips our nimble seams with such ease. With every seam we sew back together, we grew stronger. We were stronger than when we started. It seems so often that the end product of a worn quilt is significantly more beautiful than when it began. A human with patches is more beautiful than a human that has seams that have never been broken. A human with fresh seams is so much more vulnerable than one that has fixed their seams over and over again.





like me

All I asked was for your hand You take mine and break it off like it’s glass You’re no friend of mine You go ahead and act like you’re fine Take your pills and drink your drinks Yeah, that’ll make the pain go away But one day you’ll wake up far away from here From running from all of your hidden fear It’s sad how much you hide who you really are No one knows you at all Sit in your room all alone and cry Soak up the tears by getting high I hate you I despise you I wish you could feel like me I wish you would cut yourself open just to watch yourself bleed





At night, I fly.

At night, I dream I can fly. I dream that these arms take me far away from here. I dream they take me away from the enslavement of money. Away from the enslavement of time. Away from the enslavement of society. My arms aren’t weighed down by these clothes that so often determine who I am. My feet aren’t pulled down by your constant and unmoving gravity. My lungs remember to breathe the air that I so often despise. The air that has been polluted by memory and pain. My muscles are no longer sore from being pushed to move directions that I don’t want to go. I am free. I can soar to the clouds. I can see the stars. I can feel the sun. I am free.

                To be a bird must be nice. They can fly, without worrying about crossing borders or money. They can sing, without having to worry about someone thinking they are off pitch or strange. They are strong, their bodies made of the most careful construction of muscle and bone. They don’t have to experience the pain of love; they only worry about reproducing the strongest and most fit offspring. It must be beautiful to be a bird. It must be beautiful to be free. It must be beautiful to see the world, without being limited by money and obligations.

                I have the utmost appreciation for nature. Nature is pure, even when touched by human hands and human greed. From the beginning of time, nature has known no society. Nature only knows and does what the earth tells it to do. Animals don’t know that they will one day die, and that is a riveting thought. They live their lives only as they want. And when touched by humans, they can love purely and unconditionally. What beauty might humans exhibit if we weren’t cursed with these minds that have been given to us? Perhaps we could love without deceit. Perhaps money wouldn’t exist. Perhaps religion wouldn’t exist. Perhaps war wouldn’t exist. We wouldn’t be suffering from global warming. We wouldn’t be suffering from mass debt in our governments. Suicide wouldn’t occur, because we, like others animals, wouldn’t know that we could die. Isn’t this a beautiful thought? Maybe ignorance is bliss.

                I long to be a bird. I long to fly. I long to not be bound by money and societal expectations. I want to see the world without restrictions. I want to spread my wings and make a long journey to China. I want to live in nature. What would life be like if society didn’t control our every thought? If we didn’t live half of our lives being slaves to money by going to school and achieving a degree. This is all for society, whether we accept it or not. Birds have no thoughts of society. They are free. They are strong. They are not afraid.  

                I am a dreamer. I long to fly.





mmmhmm.

Metaphors and illusions

Are all that you have given me.

You can’t even believe a goddamn word

That has trickled from your mouth like gasoline.

You throw your words in my face

With the carelessness of a pyro

In a forest full of trees.

 

Catch me on fire with your tongue.

Watch me die out

While you dance and sing.

Watch me turn to ash

As you strum your strings.  

The body of your guitar

Is the only body you can touch with ease.

 

I catch fire like rubber in water.

I bleed kerosene and vodka.

Your words mean nothing

To a person that can spit words like venom.

My words are not full of idioms or similies.

Take these words and burn like me

Burn in silence, violent like the red sea.