Midnight Writings

Way past the witching hour, the mind is still bouncing as the body fatigues. The coffee has run dry, and wave goodbye to insomnia as quietly it leaves. For time is upon me like a cat pouncing on a mouse, the yawns have produced a tear, outstretched arms reach for nothing of mine, the phsyical state is clear. A dream is calling like so many maternal seeking fawns, and yet I might stay awake, although slowly goes my sight, but this I do fake, the poet now sleeps. Goodnight.

You play your Playstation and I'll play my music.

o’dark thirty
october 2018

what happens at o’dark thirty
when midnight is hours past
and save for the light of a single lamp
the house is all dark and quiet
it's the time when you sit reading long into the night
and the words on each passing page fills your mind
with ideas images & thoughts that will last a lifetime
midnight- it may be the witching hour
but o’dark thirty- at least for matilda
is a time only dreamers know

on thin lines, feeling myself fading like a light going dim. fading like the night sky on a warm summer night, fading. feelings running through my mind as i lie awake thinking. thin lines strung about my brain thoughts so simple yet so complex every thought gets deeper and more detailed. fading like an old drawing hung on the wall, ink fading away as it ages similar to thoughts of the mind. memories fading as my mind ages years of information fading away as time goes on. fading as the days pass, fading as minutes pass, seconds even. fading as writings you write and forget about but eventually find again years later and regret pouring your heart out into the single piece of paper thinking one day someone will find it and feel sympathy. fading as my mind slips into comas of sleep not remembering the day. fading as one does as years age you, fading away like everything else in the world.

c and c and me and my life and my friends and my mum and dad and we're doing absolutely fine thank you very much

My parents moved here at the beginning of the year.

It's
very exciting but I feel like my whole life is changing... not only
does it mean an additional hour on the commute each day but we've also
bought a house - a perfect little cottage with a garden.

I want to live here - I want to get out

It has been more than million words of pain and hurt to describe how broken I was when he left.

And that was never close to the real pain I was suffering at that time. It was like, there was a gaping hole in my heart and I was sucked in. Waking up was the hardest because all the reality seemed so bleak and void and life was just a series of constant suffering. I  didn’t even want to wake up. What was the point of waking up knowing someone you loved and cherished will no longer be there for . Would no longer be that listening ear or your safe space . Yeah friends and family always try to make you feel better . Telling you that you are to good for him . He wasn’t worth it you can do better . But deep down you wonder why wasn’t I good enough what does she have that I don’t  why did he pick her over me ?   Questions we will never get the answers for or every real want to know 

It's sad people SEE LLC an think it's long live HE

but in REALITY a LLC is whats u NEED to start a COMPANY 

Get that generational wealth for your FAMILY

So ya can be FREE instead of making MONEY for a white man named STEVE

Now I know I'm young shit I'm ONLY twenty THREE

And I work for the white man but his name is TRAVIS

An I'm not EMBARRASSED to say I work 50 hour weeks most weeks cause that's the reason I don't stay at home with my PARENTS 

An although I don't live LAVISH like your favorite rappers an insta stars taking trips out to PARIS 

I can say this 16 a hour puts gas in my mini van an allows me to hit the store an get a hot SANDWICH 

so before ya speak down on those working HARD to provide for the ones dwelling in there HEART 

Remember every dog has its day and every race has its START

Peace

I still think of you every night while i lie in bed

I'm no good at writing poetry but I LOVE reading it. I hope all u poets have a wonderful day 💗 💛 

i want to be devoured, consumed

served on a silver platter like a pretty little birthday cake with a bow on top

then taken apart by calloused hands, observed and analyzed by cold, lifeless eyes that feel no sympathy for me

devoured by pointy teeth, mixing in with the aftertaste of whiskey and rum on their breath

somehow i know i'll end up as scraps on the floor of a slimy dimly lit building

hollow, spent, and with nothing left to give

but there'll be hands trying to take whatever they can, happy to eat from the floor as long as it means they get to have a taste

i always thought i'd be a willing participant, licking my blood of their fingers and begging for more of my own destruction

turns out im more of a witness, sitting there pliant, soft, ready to be molded into whatever their deepest, darkest desires are, until i'm no longer myself, no longer more than a combination of my mutilated parts, cut and reassembled again, but all wrong: my hands facing the wrong side, looking like someone who didn't know what a human was put it together with only their imagination to guide them

and when i read this out loud people will stare with a disgusted look in their eyes

but how can they be surprised when the girls they conditioned to love their own pain, to see parallels between a hand raised to punch them in the gut and a hand ready to pet them, soothing and tender and patronizing, develop a taste for their own blood ? 

My sunshine 

Cascading light burning my eyes,

I cannot look away. 

My love for you is a blue sky,

You’re my golden rays.

I have emulated the perfect mirage;

The beauty of your visage, resounding.

Your touch makes my heart sear.

Your tender voice in my ear, astounding.

Your skin on mine brings the sun to life,

Igniting flames of passion, forelonging.

Bodies woven, I muse to be your wife,

Thus comes inquiry dawning.

The sun setting in the soul’s window,

Vivid crimson dancing through my sky.

Watch with me under the old willow;

I want you by my side.

Viewing our past through broken glass,

Sentiments imperceivable.

Terrified of what’s yet to pass,

I know catching sunlight’s achievable.

When night falls and we burn no longer,

When my apprehension starts to roam..

Shine through the dark and somber,

Hold me tight til you guide me home.

And oh blazing sun, on the days you burn,

All I ask is that you keep me warm.

Because as the days and seasons turn,

Our journey must come to transform.

So let me be your moon tonight, 

Let me be the night to your day?

Be my confidant, keep every secret locked away. Tell me the things you’re scared to say. 

Shining sun, my only one,

Would you be my other half?

I know that if you shine your best we can make this last.

TW: Implied s*icide, alc*holism

Number Three by Onix

here is a story i was working on for a writing competition, but hit writers block before i could finish it. 

'   I thought that killing her off would've made me feel better. I thought that it would fill me with a sort of confidence, or newfound respect for myself, whether it be faux or not. Although it disgusts me to look at the words I had written, and I find myself humiliated by the fact that I had written them, I read them continuously, the feeling of despair I get while reading them being addicting.

---

   An ugly green shag carpet covers the floors of my bedroom, my office. In front of my desk is a Fleetwood Mac poster. I like to believe that it makes the room more comfortable; more like a home. Yet, the room hadn't been the issue. It hadn't been what I was writing. It hadn't been the noises, or anything, surrounding me. What had been driving me mad was myself. I had became my own madness.

---

   The dirty moss color of the carpet had seemingly followed me into my kitchen, as I begin to heat a meal for myself. I find myself attracted to the heat and fire of the old stovetop, the way a moth may be to a lightbulb. Though I tell that the enthusiasm I feel is fake, I find myself thrilled to have the chance of living the life I am now, and to have taken such a chance. 

---

   I hate the way I have made myself.

   I, myself have blended my own parallels between right and wrong. I've began to believe that abnormal scenarios are normal. All of my thinking has been flipped on its' head, and I no longer fit what I used to be; what I should be. I am not myself. 

---

   Sometimes I like to believe that somebody is making me feel the ways I do; that I'm not at fault for what I have became, that all that has happened to me is due to an external force. That the reason all I see is only an idea of a person, a concept of a person, whenever I see my own reflection is due to someone else's input on my life. Although, I had found that I had danced too close to the fire, and I had nobody to blame but myself. Nobody was there to have a chance of keeping me still, keeping me sane. 

---

   I begin to feel ill reading the words I had written only a few seconds before, the descriptions of dark red blood and weapons used to murder people beginning to churn my stomach. Seeing what I had written makes me feel worthless, like dirt. It makes me hate what I was, what I had became; what I had decided to do with my life.

---

   I have began to spurn my own emotions. Though I knew love was fleeting, I had found myself feeling no love towards anything I previously had. Anything I had once felt strongly about, whether it be positive or negative, I now feel nothing towards. My thoughts and feelings that were once active parts of myself, are now secluded from the world; secluded from society. Secluded from the only people who had ever once cared about me.'

there for me

in all of my dark lonely nights, when i felt dead inside,

you promised you'd be there for me

and you were there for me

but now i drink too much and my eyes cry floods,

you promised you'd be there for me,

but you weren't there for me

if you could go back in time when i thought we were fine,

would you still promise you'd be there for me

and then not be there for me?

now i'm starting to feel better and i'm writing you a letter,

you promised you'd be there for me,

but i don't want you there for me

EVERYDAY

(Written in 11/23/21)

Anything could happen everyday

Everyone has a story in their own way.

Everyday, the sun rises and then the moon

Everyday, time on the clock is ticking too

Everyday, the living come and go

Everyday, flowers bloom and grow

Everyday, birds sing their beautiful song

Everyday, the sky is almost blue all day long

Everyday has a new experience

Everyday, there are sounds or just silence

Everyday, we get to learn something brand new

Everyday, there's challenges that we go through

Everyday, we work and play

Everyday when the sun sets, we hit the hay

Everyday can also be a mystery

Everyday becomes history.

And the Earth spins just like a top

But it will never stop

Everyday, things around us change, but life still goes on.

br33zzz <3

Who am I – poem

Who ARE you?

Are you the way your mother scolds and screams at you when
you’ve

shattered the cookie jar?

It falling off of that shelf
that surpasses you but not your father.

Are you the over-seasoned,
burnt, and brittle food which she cooks.

You scowl at it while she serves it to you on a plate,

but you still gobble every bite.

Are you the knots your father leaves in your hair?

When tugging and pulling on the strands.

As you grow taller and taller and taller.

Soon YOU surpass the shelf and are now at your father’s
height.

You look down while skywards and see yourself.

Minuscule, innocent, dirty and scuffed knees from playing in
the dirt.

You look down, from your father’s height and see broken
glass surrounding

a child’s fragile skin. Skin that if you saw harmed,

would make you weep,

like angels in heaven watching you commit a sin.

You look down, from your
father’s height and see a mother. Whom

 through the pitch black smog of hard labor
cannot see the over-seasoned,

 burnt, and brittle food which she cooks.

You look down, from your
father’s height and see a little girl

 Who retreats to her room, clings to her pillow
and cries.

Her hair is kinky and rough,
filled with

texture and culture unlike
the other little girls at school.

 So, her father patiently combs through her
curls as she sits on the living room floor

And he will not leave until
her hair is fetching, delightful and charming like the other girls.

You look down, from your
father’s height and see

A father and a mother. Who
would go hungry giving every

 crumb on their plate to their daughter.

Whom would rip themselves
open, to get a gold necklace tangled around their heart

For their child if she thought
it was pretty.

To see her smile, to hear
her laughter, sews them back together again.

And fills their bellies with
nourishment.  

Wet

Wet like paint can't dry in the rain

Paint smudged over need a fresh coat

Artist with brush feels my pain

The canvas they see they loath

Still the canvas gets soaked in blood stains

One day will shine I hope

I sometimes wonder where you went after you were gone. It's only for
brief moments, when my mind is given the opportunity to roam freely. I
remember you in those final days as being as much machine as man, with
large metal boxes connected to your body by thick plastic tubes. It's a
clear distortion of what has really happened to you, but it feels more
real than the you that was there. You weren't you, you were the dead man
held together by steel.

I used to hate you for it, you know.
It was as close to hate as I had felt, but I don't know if that was
quite the right term. It was a sad anger. To engrave such a horrific
sight as my final memories of you was unforgivable. I know it wasn't
your fault. If I couldn't blame you, then who would shoulder my pain?

I do wonder where you are now. Is there a pleasant feeling as your body fades, each organ pumping one last time? Does your brain allow you that one gift? I doubt it. You must have been in so much pain. I wasn't even there. I never got to say goodbye.

I do hope we meet again, after my life has run its course. Will you be there for me? Am I good enough to end up wherever you are? It's hard to imagine so. But I hope more than anything that the first thing I hear as I close my eyes will be your voice.

I miss you.

I saw an angel in the lighting section of Home Depot 

I could tell-

Their dark, short-cropped hair and lined face and calloused hands were haloed 

Against the display of florecent lights behind them

And it burned my eyes, like in the weirder stories-

Ones they don't put forward in the nativity play

And they don't save in oil paint and stained glass-

Burned the way incense used to when I still served funerals 

And for a second that gray home-depot-exclusive dust seemed clean 

Seemed holy 

What’s wrong with me? What’s so bad about me? I know I'm not very pretty, I know I'm stupid, that I don’t understand most of what people are saying to me. I know better than anyone that I've been unwell since the day I was born. I know I'm weird, that everything about me is too intense, that everything moves too fast, and I push everything without meaning to. I wish I didn’t notice, but I do, and when I do notice, it's because I’ve already done it.

I know I’m not exceptional; I grew up knowing I was stupid, that I needed to count my fingers, and that I can’t understand a single instruction. I know I can’t be alone on the street because I don’t know how to be alone—I’d get lost, or the noise and light would make me break down. I don’t know how to follow directions, I don’t know how to talk to adults, and when they scold me or look at me with disdain, I don’t know how to tell them that I don’t know why they’re doing that.

I don’t know what love is, and I’ll never know. I know no one would truly want me. I said it, and I know it. I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart, and I’m not interesting. Even if I were, none of those things would make someone stay with me. I know my conversations are boring, I know I fall in love every third day, and I know I’m undesirable to most people. No one wants a crybaby or an ugly girl. But the truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a real hug or truly talked to someone. I always apologize because it’s the right thing to do—it’s right to assume I’ve fallen for him without even getting a green light, that he was just kind and that someone like him would never be with someone like me. Someone who doesn’t even know her own worth. But that’s the truth: no one would choose me just by looking at me, hearing my voice, or getting to know me.

go away 

I would ask him to get on his knees, and he would buckle into a jumble of bones, tripping on his limbs like a baby horse who hasn’t yet learned to walk. I ask him to extend one, slender arm, and I would pull back his sleeve to examine it carefully. I wrap my fingers around each bony finger and press his palm flat against mine, feeling the pulse and thump of his veins whistle beneath the flesh.

 I would shove my nails into his cuticles and push, as if that would be some form of retribution. As if I would understand him by feeling my way across his slim figure, for once immobile. Finding answers to my queries within the sallow configuration of his sunken chest and bumpy rib cage, like discovering ancient text. 

Respite is emblazoned somewhere between his hip bone and abdomen. Vanish hovers above the skin of his throat. The boy asks what I think this will solve, and I cannot answer him. I’m fixated on bedlam hidden on the back of his neck. Good luck inscribed on his eyelids. A softer violet above his standardly beating heart. The words overtake me and soon, I find, it is me on the floor, with the boy taking his turn examining me. The room smells like old menthol cigarettes and perfume, and his sunglasses are on.

 I can’t meet his eyes. I don’t think I want to. 

Vanish. Respite. Bedlam. 

Similarly, he finds wither, recess, and hospital. 

And then Go away. Followed by Sapphire. 

We lay against the floor together, toiled in legs and arms and hands and fingers, thinking we’ve read all each other has to offer. But we haven’t. And we never will. 

Halcyon is the only word we share.

So the boy and I, believing we had found what we were looking for, left the room and went our separate ways. I see him on the train the next day, and every day after that, ruminating from the next seat over what his skin told me only a few days ago. Bedlam. I begin to see it in the lenses of his onyx sunglasses, hidden within a lock of his hair. 

I catch his eye across the beach as we listen to the rolling crash of carbonated waves hitting the sand. Under the sunlight, he glows like nothing I have ever seen before, and for a few seconds, I forget everything he has done. He’s like a god blowing in the sea-salty wind. He leaves and I let him, watching the hems of his jeans brush against the white of his ankles, unfit for those legs, as he travels forthright into the water. Vanish.

Parts of him start to appear in others, beautifully. His nose. His stature. The errant length of his index finger. I search for them obsessively until I am drowning in kneecaps, browbones, and jawlines of men and women I don’t know nor have the desire to. My hair stings my eyes as I turn my head, expectant, toward a stranger because I thought they might have looked angry like he always did. 

He ruined me and I let it happen because I thought he might save me. Respite. I thought that maybe he was different, or special, in a way, because he stayed quiet. Because he expressed agonizing violence but never towards me. He was searching for a place, a feeling, a time, within me that I never held and could never offer. When he read me he was looking for parts of someone I was not.

Halcyon.

I headed down deeper because I thought I heard someone talk about his favourite book. 

Good Luck screamed at me from the suffocation pit. 

 20.09.23

18:00

"I" and the society of conformists. 

No matter how empty it was, it existed as a copy. Like those who breathe, eat, get up in the morning and do something. A momentary emptiness flashed through his thoughts, his heart subsided... And the "I" went deep underground to the rotten brains of the conformists.

just tell me you've never loved me

that every time you came to my house 

slept in my arms

played with my hair

and kisses me million times and whispered 

forever yours 

that you felt nothing 

give me the satisfaction of you being a shitty person

that never ever loved me

then you falling out of love

because that shows 

i had a play in your lost heart

Os melhores poemas surgem 

da dor de quem escreve

e no vazio angustiante

de quem vos-lê 

4 years

The person who taught me how to do a heart

Broke mine

Manipulated mine

And I was oblivious for 4 years…

4 is also the age we start to notice the world,

And I mean we as in me, at least I hope

4 years to realise that I wasn’t who I was

4 years to realise that I won’t be here for long and neither would everyone I loved

4 years to realise that heaven and hell don’t exist

4 years to realise that my skin was broken from everything I did

4 years of tripping, falling, slapping for entertainment

To make kids smile

Because my smile was taken

4 years to realise I hurt people as well as myself

4 years, I deepened my imagination

Everyday, I learned how to lie truthfully

To my parents, my friends, and to myself…

4 years to realise my favourite colour was who I am

At least, that what I think…

First it was blue, then blueish grey, then blue again, then blueish pink… 

Was it even a thing?

I pretended it did, because it would comfort me

Comfort… 

It has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?

I would comfort people all my life

Running out the classroom to check the bathrooms to find a broken heart

Only to get my heart broken

And to only realise how much my heart broke

4 years later

I cared for others, picking up their broken pieces

Only to bleed their blood

Their blood came before mine

And my broken pieces were covered in their own blood, not mine

4 years of being myself outside

And someone else inside

My friends saw me as the funny one

My family saw me as the teenager

Always in their room

On their phone

Doing nothing with their day

But, the only thing is, I am doing something with my day

Everyday, I think

Of stories to tell

To tell my story in someone else’s story

Because no one would notice, right?

No one noticed

I would ask my friends if they were ok, but nothing in return

They said “you can always talk to me”

But never “are you ok?”

I had to do the first step

I always did

To check on others

And for others to check on me

How was that fair?

Then, I got to be myself for a whole year

I was happy, I was free

I got to release my suppressed emotions

Until I realised it wouldn’t be forever

I eventually left my safe place

And I felt empty

I was probably depressed…

My true self sucked back into myself

My true self limited to only 7 hours a day, less even…

Then, someone I knew died

I only talked to her a few times

But I knew her

I reunited with her a few weeks before her untimely departure

Never realised it would be the last time I would see her… 

I went to say my goodbye

Holding a white rose tight to my chest

Only for her parents to stop me

And tell me 5 simple words

And like a ghost, haunting my dreams 

“She told us about you”

She told them about me…

I barely knew her…

I cried on the way home

Knowing that she thought about me, and took the time to talk about me with her parents

Grief was new to me back then

And I’m still holding their words on my shoulder

Hoping for someone to take it off

But no one seemed to notice

Expect one…

She didn’t dare to tell me what she thought of me recently

She said that I changed

I couldn’t believe it

But she was right

I did change

But everyone changes

So why would it be a problem?

I would later talk to her

A friend would come in the room we were in

And without thinking twice, I would say something mean but of course jokingly

Because that’s what I do, joke about everything

Just a simple “please leave, fuck you”

My usual jokes

Of course, light hearted

But she would just snap back at me and storm off

I felt the regret coming in

And for the first time in 4 years, I would hear something I only dreamed of

“Are you ok?”

I would simply say “no…”

Then the friend comes back in and we pretend it never happened

We still haven’t talked about it…

It’s been a few months now

Has she forgotten?

Or does she just not care?

I’m happy I have friends

But do they really care for me?

Because if they did, they would have said three simple words…

But never did

And that’s all I wish

I wish someone would ask me a simple question

I wish I could sleep without crying or thinking

I wish my brain would shut up

I wish I could just wake up in the way I want to be

I wish that I could make wishes true

Because my wish has been the same

For 4 years

So close yet so far, like the echo in my chest vibrating in silence. I want to see you, feel you, touch you. I feel lost without you, like an ephemeral dream that dissolves at dawn. Sometimes, in the taciturn silence of dawn, I think about you, about us.

I want to see you.

I love you with every fiber of my being, every perennial flash of my soul. What I feel is so great and immense, a deep and real feeling.

I want to see you.

You who keep me awake every night thinking about innocuous possibilities that burn in my chest, I want to live only with you, like a story created in my head that brings the truest feelings and dreams.

I want to see you.

I miss you in the details that no one notices, in the moments that no one understands. I'm afraid of losing you, like the gloomy wind that dissipates in the air, leaving only a lugubrious trail of longing.

I want to see you.

Your absence is like a fire burning in my gut, suffocating and corroding me. Tears stain my eyes, overflowing and flooding my heart and soul.

I want to see you.

You who are my safe haven and who anchors my heart.

I want to see you.

You who set my being on fire.

I want to see you.