im not sure

but i suddenly want to die
more than i've ever wanted to die in my life.

i want to say i can't take it anymore and mean it.
i don't like this world today.
i want to cry.

why am i not crying?
why do i feel so overwhelmed?
why do i feel like i can't breathe? like i'm having a panic attack?
like all that sounds appealing is splitting my head open with a baseball bad?
oh god. oh god. oh god.
oh god.

i can't breathe.

by the way

it bothers me when i think people have taken my ideas.

but i swear i didn't take yours.
i think we have really really similar minds.
and reading your thoughts
being the same as mine

gave me the opportunity to look outside of myself for a second
and it made me question more.

thank you very much miss.
thank you.

werdvamit

Could I get better? Could I get better if I really wanted too? I read what you had to say and it sounded like you pulled your words out of my very own head, and it was scary. Because it made me realize; what if I don’t want to learn how to be happy, because then, all of the questions, and ideas will stop? Is that why I’m afraid of being happy? Because ignorance is bliss? Wait a minute though; I know being content is something I really long for on the other hand though. Because I can’t take wanting to kill myself. I can’t take feeling so dead. Is my subconscious stopping me? Is this all my fault? Even more so than I thought before? If there’s one unproductive feeling in the world, it’s the feeling of self loathing. But no matter what I do, I can’t help but be bitter towards myself, because I’m at the center of all that’s stupid, and wrong, and illegitimate, and wasteful. I’m not sad about it. Or maybe I am. Who knows. All I know, is that all I can really feel towards myself is sheer anger and hate.
It’s like
I can’t cope with things that displease me.
And I can’t get to what makes me happy enough.
So I feel empty
And I want something to fill that
Like a special skill or ability or intelligence
But I feel guilty
Because I shouldn’t want anything
I shouldn’t care what other’s think because no one means anything.
And I should be happy just existing.
But then I think
Well I need something to be driven by. But then I get angry. Because nothing does drive me. And I don’t want to have to be driven. Because…well I don’t know why. SO THEN I just start to think like, “why do I think I should be better than everyone else”
Everything has to be cosmic for me. And I get mad at myself if it’s not automatically.
But then forcing myself feels like I’m trying to impress myself, and it’s so damn disgusting, because we’re all so tiny, and precious, and lucky to be able to comprehend, and I shouldn’t need anything extra to impress myself because I’ll never be impressive enough to suit myself, just like no one else will be impressive enough to suit me.
Then I start thinking that maybe I’m just arrogant.
But I can’t stand thinking that because if I do, then I have to hate myself even more.
I should follow my morals.
I want to be the wise woman who can know all the good, and the bad,
Yet still remain happy. Or resigned.
Why do I want that? Why do I want that? Is it all because of my ego? I hate it. I hate myself. Don’t tell me I have depth.
I don’t because I want it.
Don’t tell me I’m an old soul. I don’t because I want one.
Don’t tell me I’m mature beyond my years or that I’m better than the kids my age.
I’m not because I want to be and I’m just like them, because it bothers me to think that I am. I don’t want to be a human. I can’t keep running around this track in my head. I’ll double over. I’ll pass out.
I feel like Santa Clause is a grandfather I used to know, who died in a tragic car accident. I feel like I knew him personally. Like I’d given him hugs. Like I’d had telepathic conversations with him. Like he’d been able to comfort me through magic, and a gentle gaze. Like he’d been the only kind man I even met in my life. Like he was god, and I think if I had to believe in a god, I would believe in the image and likeness of Santa Clause because he was so caring, and selfless, and intelligent, but happy, and wise all at the same time. He could give you understanding with just one look. Like he possessed celestial knowledge of everything that is, was, never was, always will be and more. Like he could comprehend the incomprehensible. Like he had eyes in to the dimensions floating around like slabs of black stretchers, colliding in to each other every once in a while, to explode in to what we little molecules have come know as the big bang. We are so small. So small. So small. It’s dizzying. We are in time and time always was because existence just is and it’s beautiful that I can’t understand where I am. I feel like I should be doing more with this gift. More with this gift of comprehension and thoughts and ideas. I feel like I am wasting it with every moment that I think about myself. But that’s the thing I just can’t help but be succumbed too; human nature. We were made to think about ourselves. But we were also given options as to how much we do so, and I want to surpass the boundaries of human nature. I want to be thrown in to the passages of other dimensions, and I want to never see another human being ever again; I just want to float out there and do all that I possibly can to learn so I can appreciate even more with the things I’ve been given to admire existence with. It’s the only way I feel like I could be fulfilled.

-----------------------------------------

On another note:
The reason I don’t like talking to you, is because I don’t enjoy being psychoanalyzed. Because it make me feel uncomfortable, like I’m being talked down too, like I’m being taught a life lesson, because you think you’re much further ahead of me, and like you’ve already experienced all the thoughts I’ve experienced. It’s toxic to me. It’s like fucking poison, because you play on my insecurities, maybe because you have the same insecurities as me. But I don’t like it. I don’t mean this metaphorically; sometimes I physically want to squeeze myself through the molecules or the atoms in the air, because I think it would feel like an almost prickling smooth sensation, like running your hand through two rollers. The kind they used back in the old days to squeeze water out of clothing. It really bothered [what you said to me] me that you told me that I needed to stop trying so hard. But you don’t understand that that’s what I’ve been struggling with this whole time. Hating, and fighting against my inexplicable and born-in-to sense that I am never good enough. Because logically, I know how stupid the idea is. Logically, I know that I’m fine. But there’s a little part of my brain, the subconscious part, that keeps me lodged there in that black or white thinking, and all you’re doing when you talk down to me is making me feel worse that I’m not smart enough, or good enough to break free of that part of my brain so I can just live. But more than anything, if I allow myself to be completely and totally honest for a second, you make me feel angry, because you hurt the pride that I hate possessing. You make me feel arrogant, and stuck up, and I don’t like feeling like that because it’s part of what I hate about myself. You make me want to scoff at you, and turn up my nose, and to dismissively wave my hand, whilst muttering “poo poo” like Madeline. I don’t like feeling like that because I know it’s unfounded, and that I’m not smarter than anybody. Hell, maybe you are smarter than me. But my human nature kicks in, and doesn’t want to believe that. It isn’t you that I dislike. I dislike how I get what I’m around you.

kloY

my skin feels like an egg shell
liable to crack if i so much as move wrong
sensitive, rough, covered in tiny bumps, and i'm pail
because ive lost all my blood

my organs are all yolk
milky, and pulpy, and detached from the walls of my body
my diseased organs turned to mush
and yellowed by my jaundiced fingers
scraping against the walls of my throat
caught in a Well of saliva and mucus.



this is not me.
this is not me.
i'm not the one
who can dictate my actions.

i am the recessive gene.
and i am not the same as me.

i'm split
like my grandmother's feet
split like string cheese and gymnasts.
and i am trapped within one egg shell.
i'm the white
but if you look
you'll find
the yolk's what you'll see.

lɐıʇuǝpıɟuoɔ ʎʇıɔ

Paul Winfield and
Stacy Keach have been smirking their stories in my ears since i got home


or at least
since i collapsed on to this Flintstones couch
made of stone that's been pressing against my spinal cord.

i don't like the prosthetic sense of security you give me.
because it fades and i feel like i've literally turned in to this disgusting dirty porch turned room
where my brother once bled, and healed.

i feel like the devil is in this room. It's hollow. It's dark. It's stale. It's cold.
And sound doesn't echo in anything but my head;
Everything is so loud.
And I'm melting in to myself
but my skin is too sticky,
and i'm too week to pull my superglued ass up off of this stupid chair.

it's so sad
but i'm just waiting for the weekend so i can give up on trying.
i realized today that i've been in the SAME goddamn since this whole thing began.

i feel so shallow when i'm not talking about the universe.
i feel so shallow when i'm not thinking about existence.
i feel so shallow when i'm thinking about myself
or a room that i sit in
i feel so shallow and scared when people tell me i'm an old soul
because that's just too good to be true
so i'm just waiting for the day
that everybody wakes up
and realizes that they're wrong.
that i'm shallow.
and that's so scary.

imagine a little girl
longing to be a superstar.
she has pink neon green sunglasses, and golden hair, and she's in a black leotard
prancing around with a scarf tied around her waste as a skirt.

she's constantly trying not to want to be a thing
constantly trying to escape human nature.
costantly trying to take care of every body else in the world, just because it makes her so sad to see somebody down.
constantly seeking happiness for others
without beliefs
or disbeliefs
trying to figure out her morals
longing for intelligence
and wisdom

but hating the fact that she longs for anything like that at all.

Tell her you see her that way.
But if she doesn't believe it
it'll terrify her
because she never knows if it'll last.

Listen to how naive i sound. Listen to how much of a baby I am. A child I am. A pathetic little human I am, placing judgement on human's like I know
if I have any right to do so or not.

It's safest to assume I don't.

This is why I end up angry with myself
I don't want to judge.
Myself or anybody.
I don't want to want to be a thing.
I don't want any morals pertaining to those things
or morals that involve those things.
but I can't sort my head out enough.

it's just not possible.
at least not as of yet.

The Problem Is

I do step outside of myself for more than ten minutes.
I do pass the boundaries, and my mind it too broad to be healthy.

If you knew anything at all
maybe you'd realize that none of this is because I give a shit about my body.
None of this is because I'm shallow, or even vain, or unintellectual.

It's all because everything is so goddamn beautiful.
And I'm trapped within the walls of repetition
and within the walls of forced society made garbage
when all i really want to do
is run away
so i can lay in the hugest fucking sunny field you've ever seen.

On Saturday
I layed beneath a willow tree and cried
because it was so beautiful, it practically melted my heart.

I self destruct because I go crazy
trying to get to those places
where I can just escape without having somebody down my throat or up my ass. I feel empty without it all. I have been given a gift with sight, and scent, and audio, and taste, and when none of it is being stimulated, because the places I am forced to be are so ignorant to the genuine naturalistic beauties of life, I have to stimulte myself. I'm a walking fucking metaphor. Maybe I'm psychotic, and maybe it's crazy. But it's the only thing that'll fill that goddamn empty spot in me, you stupid bitch. And I don't get rid of everything because I want control. I get rid of it, because it's the one thing I can do. I can get rid of all of the thoughts of entrapment in my head, because when IT all comes out, all of my thoughts come out too, and I feel better. You talk about things like they're facts, and the thing is, nothing is fact.If you lived my life, maybe you'd understand how much guilt I go through every mother fucking day. Guilt that I can't just stop worrying. Guilt that I'm not constantly greatful that I can do nothing other than SEE. Guilt that I'm not happy just knowing that I can comprehend. Because believe you me, every single day, it astounds me, and I smile, because I don't know how I got to be so lucky. Guilty that I even dislike myself because it's selfish. But it goes back to what you said. You can't care about anybody else as much as you care about yourself.

Even though I think I should be above it (which I also feel guilty about), I'm not. And since I can't see all the beauty of the world; since I'm trapped inside my house and sheilded from the outdoors
I need to find a purpose elsewhere. But I don't have anything to be proud of.
I want to be the beauty in the world that I can't see
because I'm not allowed to just escape, and lay in my yard underneath the sun.

Don't you dare talk about this like you understand any of it.
You don't understand me.
I don't understand you.
Human beings can never understand each other.

You place judgement.
And you have no right too.
I don't think about things on a worldly scale stupid.
I think of them
on a fucking existential scale.
And that's part of what fuels the hate I have for myself.

BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHY I CAN'T BE JUST HAPPY TO EXIST.

Maybe my mother's right. Maybe I need fucking lithium.
I never want to talk to you again.
I hate how you write like you're wise, or epic.
The difference between you and me
is that I can't know if I can ever know a thing.
I know that significance, and "shoulds" could be relative, and impossible
and that all of this logic, and your logic, and everyone's logic, maybe or may not mean nothing.

Understanding the known size of the unizerse alone, which is only a mere fraction of the size of existence
helps me to realize
that in scale to me, I am tiny.
But that doesn't make me feel sad. It makes me feel fucking lucky.

If I've said it once
i've said it a million fucking times.
I have it in my head
that EVER thinking about myself is wrong.

Even though I understand it's human nature
I just don't want to be naive
or to somehow gain the idea
that I am more important than anybody else.
Because I'm not.

Even you.
Even though, I think I might hate you more than any other girl that ever lived to see the light of day.
Because you belittle me, and talk down to me like you're enlightened on a plain that I am not.
No one is more enlightened than anybody else though.
Or maybe they are.
But assumptions make an ass out of you and me.

For the first time

the lies didn't fall between the drying, bloody cracks in your lips.
You told me,
and it hit me like a bulls eye, so for a moment,
all I did was stare in to some bright concoction of burning gas, not quite a galaxy away.
They said you shouldn't be there
to hear my uncensored lyrical profanities
but I did it for you
so you were no longer misguided
yet in the end you cast a shadow of sorrow on my body
immersing me in guilt
already thick enough to immobilize me.

i pulled the soot from ever corner of my body
scraping with a nail at my bones, and underneath my skin
to clean the lies away
and I placed them in a Dixie Cup, for you to analyze,
thinking maybe
you could possibly handle it.

thinking maybe
you didn't have a choice.

but i broke you a little bit more.
because as time goes on
you can't hold your charge
and now
i'm covered in black wool
and there's puke in your mouth
so you can scrape off a part of your cheek and examine it under a microscope
to see if somehow you passed
that little bit of blackened wool to me
that seems to be destroying me.

manic?
lithium?
i never knew those words were even in your vocabulary.
and i saw you die a little bit,
slouch down a little bit,
lose your color a little bit,
close your eyes a little bit
as they evaporated from your head, and rained down in my atmosphere.
i'm sorry you're so sorrowful.
and i'm sorry that it's all my fault.

Dear Zooey, Dear Big Brother

Tonight, my muscles melted within my body.
I know its crazy.
But it happened.
I was laying there, all glassy eyed
void of thought and emotion
and before i knew it
my hair had turned to saran or kanekalon
and my fingers stuck together like when i played around with super glue.

it ripped my skin back then
but now,
I'm lying in the back of a plastic corvette.

Before a flutter of my eyelashes, I'd be breathing with the lungs I had.

Oh, I remember! I had organs!
and i heaved up vomit on to my toes!
trying to get to sleep
even though it lingered on me like hot sausage in Saint Petersburg
where they danced in the snow
with red hair and glitter that made me realize that all i needed to be alive
was things that hit my eyes
in a way that spread my corneas enough to transfer motion
from my retinas
back to my brain,
and down to my throat, until it finally touched my heart enough to make me jolt and crack a grin.

its been three days now Matron
three days in a row that i splintered by hands with acid as they scraped against
the dentures made of wood propelling us along.
three days
and you're giving up on me
fighting me
pinning me down with your pitchfork
until you think i'm good and dead;

oh there's just one thing you weren't expecting though
see i play pretend quite frequently

and i always return
as you oscillate between indifference, hatred
and worry

yeah, i can read your cells like mona lisa's
and your emotions in percentages.
well, those worry lines don't lie, cause in between them
there's a sea of sweat
and in it
i am drowing.

oh, you can't hide your anticipation
as to what will happen next.

To Whom It May Concern

YOU ARE NOT IMPORTANT.

how can we get so upset over things in our lives when all of it
is so
fucking
trivial?

Dear Mrs. Feline,
Don't tell me you're depressed.
Don't tell me things are getting bad.
You're pathetic, and you're lying to yourself
and you should be ashamed
because there are people out there
with real fucking problems
who can't HELP feeling depressed
yet there you are
practically FORCING yourself.
ALL YOU WANT IS ATTENTION.
THAT'S ALL ANYBODY WANTS AND I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY.

I mean christ
if you need to feel important
which i don't understand either
at least go to yourself for it
and don't rely on others
who will only treat you unimportant
because they feel the exact same way as you.

That's right
what you're feeling? IT'S NOT UNIQUE.
ANY OF IT.
It's just what 34540 other people are feeling in the state you live in alone.

TAKE A STEP OUTSIDE YOUR FUCKING SELF
THEN MAYBE
YOU'LL HAVE A LEGIT REASON TO HATE YOURSELF
AS OPPOSED
TO JUST HATING YOURSELF FOR STUPID SILLY PETTY LITTLE NAIVE TEENAGE REASONS.

If you're a human being
you're a simpleton by nature for Christs sake.
because your main focus
is one little fucking cell
in the entirety of existence;
YOURSELF.

that means you're overly concerned with something that means nothing in the grand scheme of things
except to you.
eat a fucking red mushroom.
grow a few feet.
you're still tiny.


HELLO
I AM A HYPOCRITE...?
At least I can recognize it.

I decided today
that if I had my way
I would move to a planet
on which one side was always dark
so I could drive around in the bed of a pickup truck
laying down
staring at the sky moving above me
and watching the orange street lamps
cast shadows on the ladder racks.

Don't listen to me

really. i mean it, just don't.
it's all bullshit.
and incoherent.
and lacks any sort of cohesive order
and i don't even know if what I'm saying
really quite matches what is going on inside of my head.

i really like hitch hikers guide to the galaxy.
if you wiki it
and read all of the quotes
maybe you'll know why and be able to understand.
because i could try to tell you why
but it would be pointless.

right now, i'm feeling very mindful.
like my senses are are giving me the ability to notice every single little thing that my senses can pick up.
and i like it.
because there's no questioning the things outside of me.

no questioning if i'm perceiving that the purple pencil sitting on this desk is really purple.
no questioning if i'm perceiving the table i sit at as cool
or if
the i'm perceiving sky outside as having clouds.
i need a world of no questions today.