If Straight Were the Minority
Then so many people would still be alive
or it would be the same
it is hard to tell with humans
so let us instead build a future
where we don't have to ask
There's not enough hours in a day, to be me
Not enough hours so be who I want to be
Working long hours,
late shifts, early days,
not enough time to help them all
not enough time to even just call
not enough hours to say it's all okay
not enough time to smile and laugh,
not enough hours to waste a day,
not enough time to be a kid,
not enough hours for sweet nothings,
not enough time to calm down-
I think it's time I make time
Becoming the villian
I had became the villian, you may be wondering why? Here is why, villians are misunderstood. We do good things but not all the time. I had lost my best friend and my brother. At that moment in time I had pissed off all the wrong people so I was called the villian. But like every other villian I am misunderstood no one knew or ever cared what was happening. They were so quick to say, "Oh, she is the villian." But in reality I had lost my best friend and was angry at the world. So being the villian of my story always stuck. But no one ever wants to get the villians side of the story. So no one knew anything. No one bothered to listen. No one bothered to hear me out. No one bothered to see all the good I had done before. All they could think about was the bad angry villian.
There was a single darkness
The symbol it was
Held by my own hands
Pierced my neck
I totally remember
Now in hell
I see devil
Around the corner
Pleading with me
I understand though
He just doesn't want to get hurt
"DON'T BE AFRAID! I won't hurt you!
OH! DON'T CRY little devil! Mtsmm.. ehiiii,.. "
How I remember
Depth of depths
Me it was
I think I remember it all
"WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?"
AIN'T NO MORE DEVIL
YOU WANT HIS CORPSE?......
Oh! Come and see!
HE TOUGHT BEGGING WAS ENOUGH!"
.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .
she walks on the edge of the water
longing to once again belong to its frigid depths
staring up that the sky that edges on darkness
a home of hers
one of many
she cries for reasons that are sad and not
drowning in the fabric of elaborate dresses and cloaks
hiding her face with crumpled hands
she is made of paper but she will last forever
she wants to be a butterly but relates more to a moth
fragile and dull
a heart of stone and a soul of glass
eyes clouded with visions
of places that are above and below
young, sad wench
hatred I never meant
how could you treat me so?
but I know
something you couldn’t
I know you wouldn’t
but it still gives me chills
you crawl to me against my will
devised smiles and regret
you won’t let me forget
forget the shaking
forget the aching
the thousands wasted on us
each session I discuss
ways to rid of you, your eyes, your face
this new hell I have to embrace
but there you sit, existence tottering
and I can finally look in your eyes
without mine watering.
questioning time xoxo
girl sees rainbows in motor oil. no one sees rainbows in the girl.
she is a dilation, a negation, of her anatomy. girl kisses the webbing
between her fingers, pretending to meet the lips of the faceless entity
of female. girl wields a two-pronged caduceus, walking the tightrope
of identity. she clips her nails too short and relishes in the striking brine
of it all. the metamorphosing heart of this girl reverberates, molten, in
her chest in the presence of men. the crease of her lips softens, folding
upward, dragging lip tint into her cheeks in the presence of women. girl
fluctuates. girl hydrates, sucking on paper straws like ambrosia, swooning
when she sees the girl working the drive-thru. girl doesn’t know if she is
jealous or smitten. she sketches a charcoal drawing of herself as atlas, holding
up the sky as iris takes her sweet time deciding whether to prism. girl is
weak against a slab of stone, but strong enough to keep going. a titan, yet
i'll see you at the end of the river-
we traverse in our tiny boats
bobbing on a sea of moonlights and stars
nearly drowning in the foam of waterfalls
and getting slashed by rocks-
but we were immune,
because when the current slows-
there is light
and the end is not the end
but the beginning
of a whole new world.
This does mention Depression and Anxiety. May be linked to Dysphoria? I don't know I'm trying to figure myself out. Other than that, have fun.
I write music. Like, feverently listening to the greats of the genre, and cramming on music theory that relates. Maybe it's a waste of paper, but I don't know. It's fun. When depression takes over, it's just kind of, there. When my depression takes hold of me, it's easier to write. It's hard to play, but I can viusalise, and hear in my head what I want it to sound like. It's just, easy, I guess.
A flat major, 160, 4/4. Arpeggios, and scales. Fingers gliding across the keys, blissful melodies, and harmonies, to match. A musical mask, to alleviate a burning sadness caught in my throat. G#, B#, D#, F#, G#^7 I. Moonlight Sonata.
Power chords Laced with elegance. This can't be captured through distortion, can it?
Scratching pencils to paper. Runs that would normally be impossible are written and played to perfection. I can't play them. Tears cloud my vision. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. AGAIN. STOP FUCKING THIS UP.
That's better. B#, G, B#, (D, F, G run), D. B# dominant seventh, first inversion. B#^7 I. Running through the chord, moving to the next chord. Blood, sweat and tears, soaking into my covering. This can't be touched by fluids, don't let it get touched it's fine, good.
Pure panic, an idea. Write it down G major. It's stupid. Scratch it off. Rewrite it. That sounds good on guitar. Improvise. Try vocals, realise that you are an instrumentalist for a reason. D minor. Fuck.
This doesn't work. Consumed by emotion, write more. Sleep on it, and decide I like it. I add brass to it. Write more to it, and have a fully established piece. next day you hate it and scrap everything about it, and all of the papers you wrote about it get shredded and recycled.
Regret it. Try and rewrite it and hate the newer version. Rinse and repeat.
Fuck, I love writing music. Emotions just fuel my anxiety, and that fuels my need to write music. So that's that. Time to write some more, 23:10, let's goooo
i hide in a shell
of small expectations
it protects me
from the reality
when i feel brave
i peek out
just to let people know i'm there
but once i'm seen
i sneak back in
i hide in a broken shell
of small expectations
light seeps through
my eyes memorized
by what lies beyond
a burden i don't want to bear
the fear of disappointment
of not living up
to great expectations
i hide in my transparent shell
of small expectations