Soul Writers

Often I get accused of being emotionally detached and unexpressive of my emotions by those close to me. This makes me feel more inhuman so I decided to start writing this with: "I feel....I feel...." I feel disgusted. By this I don't mean the type of disgust I get when ever I eat an onion or a garlic. It's not the type of disgust that goes away if I distract myself. I feel a disgust so brutal I want to shove my hand down my throat and puke everything in me. The food, the bile and my intestines. I feel angry. And not kinder garden angry when a boy sitting next to me in the dinning hall way snitched on me because I didn't finish my lunch. Or not the type of angry that ends with me throwing a tantrum when that bitch of a teacher made me sleep during the day even though I didn't want to. I feel a rage so volcanic and so acidic I can feel my insides liquefy. I no longer have pretty words to describe myself for you. There is an ugliness inside of me that feeds off the very fabric of my soul and shreds my hope in to nothingness. I feel oceans deep and mountain high. There are secrets underneath my skin that beg that I let them out. I cry a river and bleed in to oblivion. These are not mere words of escapade. These are honest truth, a confession I can only share writing down. I inhale hatred and breath out false promises. What is the relief from an obsessive mind? I feel ocean deep and mountain high. I welcome the pain that knows not of good bye. It qualifies me as a human being: this suffering I bare with a smile, this broken heart that riots like a lawless scavenger, this body I own with no will for tomorrow. Regardless, There is beauty in suffering, an expression behind every action that is meant to be hidden and suppressed, a burden so heavy it only tangles sympathy and vulnerability that might crawl out of the well of pity, an outlet and a way to breath. So yes, I feel until I can not. I feel everything and then none. I have a hurricane buried and a wave bottled up.I feel oceans deep and mountain high..... @anashtray

The Ruthless Ram Just had a thought with strings, definitely notched to the pit of the dark wells I call my solace. Thoughts of the ruthless ram, one that rampages through my well-curated life. This ram, he… uh I mean it; it breaks my entire defense then comes with full speed to brake me in half. It should be the last time I make these mistakes It WILL be the last time I make these mistakes. I think @ASimpleUserName

አንተን የሰጠኝ ከጄ መጽሐፉን ስትወስድብኝ የእጅህ ንዝረት ከደነዘዝኩበት የሃሳብ ሲዎል  አወጣኝ። ፊትህ ላይ የመገረም ወዝ ችፍ ብሏል ። ምን እዳስገረመህ እንጃ! "this book is an empty promise, የሌለውን አለ ሚልሽ፣ እራስሽን እንደአምላክ እንድትክቢ ሚያባብልሽ ነው..." ለሁለተኛ ጊዜ ፈገግ አልክ (እኔ ልሙት ያኔ ነው የፈገግታ ባሪያ ሆኜ የቀረሁት) ከመቼው ከንፈርህ አንገቴን አገኘው? ትንፋሽህ እንደ ወበቅ ይጋረፋል፣ ትንሽ አንገቴን ባንቀሳቅስ ... "if you want something real, you know where to find me, be sure that i can give you the real world" አንተ ስታወራ አለም ጸጥ ብሎ ያዳምጣል።አልሳምከኝም፣ መቼ ከአጠገቤ እንደተነሳህ ሁላ አላወቅም። ከዚያማ ዐይንህ ከዐይኔ መገጣጠም አበዛ፣ ጠዋት  ጠዋት የአንገት ሠላምታ አሰለመድከኝ፣ በተቀመጥኩበት እያለፍክ ጣቶቼን አገጬን ጉንጬን ፀጉሬን  በጣቶች  ዳሰስክ። መፈለግ ምን እንደሆነ አወኩኝ፡ አንተ ስታፈጥብኝ አለም ያየኝ መሰለኝ፣ አንተ ስትስቅልኝ :  ምድር ለኔ የሳቀች መሰለኝ።ብቸኝነቴን በአንተ ረሳሁኝ። ለመጀሪያ ጊዜ ሳኩኝ፡ ለወንድ ተሽኮረመምኩኝ። ከዚያዝ? ከዚያማ እራሴን አንተ አጠገብ አገኘሁ፡  with simple  የቤት ስራ ሰርተሃል ሰርተሻል? ጥያቄ  አፌን ፈታሁኝ፡ 'ያቺ እንጨት ልጅ?' 'እሷ እኮ ዝጋታም ናት አታወራም' እዳልተባልኩኝ እናቴ 'ምን እሷ እኮ ዝምተኛ ናት። ከኛጋም ብዙ አትጫወትም' ብላ ከዘመድ 'እረ ተጫወቺ' ንትርክ እንዳላስጣለቺኝ፡  አሁን  አንተጋ አይኔም፣ እግሬም፣ ግንባሬም  አፍ ሆነ። አንድ ሐሙስ፤ ሐሙስ የቀን ቅዱስ እኔን ያንተ አደረክ። ትዝ ይለኛል ገና በጠዋቱ ክላስ እራሱ ሳይጀመር  አጠገቤ መተህ " ክላስ ስንጨርስ  እቤት እንዳቴጂ! ለጥብቅ ጉዳይ እፈልግሻለው እሺ?!"  አይኖቼን በአይንህ እየፈለክ። አቤት የቀኑ እርዝመት!!  'ለምን ፈልጎኝ ይሆን' ብዬ አልተጨነኩም አይንህ 100 ጊዜ እንደ ዳዊት እየደገመልኝ ? ምን እንደተማርን እንኳ እንጃ  ብቻ አይደረስ ነገር ደረሰ። እጄን እየጎተትክ ከክላሶች ጀርባ  ወዳለ የፈራረሰ ግንብ፣ ትልልቅ ዛፎች  ጥላ ይሆናሉ ተብሎ ቢተከሉም የሲሚንቶ ፍርስራሽ  ያቀጨጫቸው፡ መናፈሻ ይሁን የሰይጣን መደበቂያ የሆነ ቦታ በአንተ እየተጎተትኩኝ ደረስኩ። By:@Etegemntewab PS:ተቀንጭቦ የተወሰደ

I remember the day vividly, A rebirth, a resurrection, A decade of inner turmoil, With futile attempts to silence the chaos, Until your words, a cleansing rain, washed away the past, I'm still alive because of them, They are my lifeline. Do you recall it as I do? Perhaps not, for to you, it was merely one Friday among countless forgotten Fridays. A decade hence, a promise made to stay alive. I navigated life's toughest moments, with your words as my compass. I recalled this in a mid-conversation with a confidante, Sharing tales of a close departed soul. "How could one choose to end it all?" they asked, "What of family? What of friends?" One cannot fathom it hence, Having never tasted life's sourness, The relentless ache for escape in search of solace. In the promise of an afterlife, in the echoes of the unseen. leads to a path untraveled by many. To you, I owe a debt measured in the breaths I now draw, in the moments I now cherish. Thank you, for i owe you a life. -L.S

-The quest for greatness- POV OF THE OBSESSED ARTIST: I have been wondering what it'd be like to shoot myself in my head lately. Just blow my brains out and die. To hear that clinking sound one last time, as the bullets enters the chamber before it goes "BOOM". Would it hurt? Would it feel like as if I am piercing my skull? I have been searching for ways to end my life for as long as I can remember. The thought has always been there; at the back of my mind just sitting. I consider it as a contingency plan. I consider it as a last resort solution. Every writer has a God suicide is mine. All the greats have done it. Those who I look up to all committed suicide at the end. Why should I hold back in my quest for greatness? Those who I idolized have blown their brains to pieces. Be it Hemingway or Cobain. Perhaps I should follow Plath's path, a soul sister that couldn't cope with life. Just go and shove my head in the oven after popping some pills. I never liked to cook anyways. Maybe they'd consider it an accident. Perhaps drown myself like Woolfe. My body aches the feel of the deep ocean on my skin. My lungs beg for it. Another baptism. All the greats have done it. They couldn't wait to be free of the thing that was once a source of their genius, their own mind was their curse. My generation is weak. We will be remembered in history for self harm and wanting to die. I stand with Hemingway. If you wanted to kill your self, you can. It's possible with out failing. Writing with ink and paper will no longer suffice. I write on my skin pouring the ink from my veins. Then I drain all the words that I failed to scribble. Every writer has a God, suicide is mine. And every God demands a sacrifice. Ergo I offer my flesh. I am spilling blood in hopes that some day I cut deeper. How perfect are these lines? How straight and aligned? How deep? Until I see the white? I draw and write. I paint and erase with shades of Crimson red. I do it for the art. For the prose and poetry. For the rhythm and symphony. I am the clown that won't take life seriously. I am leaving permanent marks on myself, a sort of evidence for my autobiography. Proof of my pain and misery. I will no longer seek hope. I no longer have a dream. I have found peace in this melancholy. Until I muster up the courage to free myself; get it over done with it, I will find ways of self destruction in the name of worship and hymn. In the name of a God that demands I pay the price of absolution with violence. @anashtray

Midnight Thoughts Its way passed midnight, you're wayyyy out of sight Still stuck in my mind, got my eyes open wide Got one leg dangling, am I in or am I out Should I break the silence, with a scream or a shout Maybe it's just my midnight thoughts, I'm trippin I chose to leave and close that door for a reason Couldn't handle all the ups and downs, needed a new chapter This book is getting a bit boring now, let me just take a peak after After all the best books are always the last Oh how pretty it looks from the present, the past Like we didn't have our lowest of lows when we stumble and fall Like our little stabs at each other, fights over texts and calls Or like the swipes at our insecurities were nothing but little jokes The cloud and rain of heinous words that could have caused strokes All that and what's left are only the good parts I could swear it was more than a dozen times you've healed my broken hearts Even when you were the one that caused half of them, even when you made me bleed You were always there for the clean ups, my soul you did always feed All I needed was a glance of a glimpse of you and my day was made Unlike now when I've forgotten your face, and all the memories fade You're just a midnight thought when I'm fatigued and need much rest Now just a fleeting memory, and no longer the quest By @leulyosef

In the end, who's to say who has truly lived? Life differes for you and i. I aspire for noble pursuits. Whereas you find blissful pleasures mundane existence. I dream for glimpse of unknown paradise. You find solace in this familiar routine. I chase the stars, you feel the sand. While you savor moments, I seek the sublime. You're a homebody, rooted in place, While I'm nomadic, seeking new euphoria. One seeks comfort, the other explores uncharted pleasure. I travel wanderer by heart every path life has to offer. You are tamed by your culture & upbringing, Anchored to your roots. Some sleepiness night the thought of all of us free unleashed to explore, It gives me stillness of heart. -L.S

There was a point in my life when I cared for things and people that didn't deserve it. And there was a point in my life I didn't care for the people who did. The thing is, we hurt people and people hurt us. That is part of life, that is part of the pain of being a human. It is not because they are horrible individuals or because you are, it is because we are human and that is what human beings do. Starting from our past history, people have always done what benefited them most - survival of the fittest. Life becomes a lot easier and bearable when you realize that fact. It will make it easier to forgive yourself and others. We have to stop putting this unfair expectation on others and on ourselves. The rare individuals who put others' needs before their own and who ask 'How would my actions affect others' are the jewels of nature. They are the exception and not the norm. Appreciate them, in case you are one of those few individuals appreciate yourself for it because you have evolved above human nature. But never ever expect others to be the same and never let others change you.

Finding peace.... These are the best years of my life. My skin has no wrinkles. My back doesn't hurt. My cells are not old. My brain functions fast. These are the best years of my life. I love life. I am what it means to be alive, so it seems. I am told all of these things but I stand to signify none of them. A writer at the soul with a mind that refuses to accept it. If I accept this, it means I might be happy. I am not sure of it but I mean there is a possiblity but for some one who is always restless and in denial it always ends in self sabotage. What do you mean I should live? I was taught to survive. I thought to be an adult is to find the solution to all the problems you can't fix because you were so little and helpless. You needed permission and guidance. I thought being an adult meant finding better luck or something. But no. My experience is showing to be rather inconvenient. When you are an adult you are alone while you are sinking deeper in to the confusion that comes with "life" and I am told not to waste my youth. "Oh I am sorry I am just new to this adulting thing. Care to give me more that until I grow used to it?" But wait you don't grow used to it. You grow old in it. Time escapes your grasp while you are in the middle of figuring things out. I speak for those of us that are late bloomers. I am getting dangerously bored with life. Is this how it's supposed to be? If I am not over working myself to brink of death, I don't know what to do. I start to think about life. I no longer feel it in me. Where is my soul? Why is my spirit covered in shame? Oh to be alive, to breath in air and thank your maker. To smile genuinely and get wrinkles of happiness on your cheeks with the passage of time. To being well, to being sane, to love, to hate, to forgive...... I am neither my youth nor do I feel alive. I am merely a passenger, a visitor in a prison build with my own consciousness and unfiltered thoughts. I am covered with the guilt of what could have been and dwelling in the past. I am a ghost, a hallow beast damned to cling to an ephemeral existence that only comes true at the heights of euphoria. I stay there searching for peace but the effects don't ever last. I still search for peace I was promised in my writings, in my prayers and in my relationships. Perhaps the peace I am dying to find is with in me but it's too foreign I am blind to it. It's too surreal I am scared to feel it. @anahstray