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311
this coffee will fix me another coffee can fix me maybe next coffee will fix me. Breaks the mug*
311
do you think i can pull off a "can we still be friends?" with my therapist after we break up? No?
311
Repost from ughhh
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311
And you are full of dripping dreams, but I always like to water dreams until they spill and soak whatever they are standing on
311
i wasn't gonna smoke today,
or three years ago, to be precisely honest;
but i walked past home and couldn't find my way back.
and they say i have the most sensitive pair of human bones
beating in my chest, but i thought it wasn't possible anymore
to make me feel sore in the core.
anyways, it sucks to stay grounded when you haven't even reached home.
and most of my friendships end under shadows of boys;
tiny little men holding the smallest of swords.
and it's hateful, hurtful to the pits of hell and more
to have something so beautiful replaced by nothing more
than a mediocre loser whose corpse is back on our shore
in year twenty thirty-four.
i'm less forgiving these days and i don't care enough to know why.
the door's open for departure, whenever anyone wants.
i will miss and i will piss off the neighbors crying alongside
the screaming bitemark unresolved
on the skin of our plastic walls.
i yell at the stable bees to leave the horse alone
'cause i've got a meeting with the pigs, around two thirty-four.
i do care what i lose, though i am desensitized to gore,
and if you think about killing me,
there's a pill for that on the floor.
i've got drugs and i've got money
enough to buy more
to celebrate the loss of something i once actually adored.
i will keep on writing letters, shutting the same damn doors.
oh, and by the way, love,
nothing you can think of
surprises me, anymore.
so, here you go.
it's all my youth and trust and even a little more.
i'm giving it all away, a garage sale on block thirty-four.
meet me there to pick up the pieces i'm bored
of. after all, you might be needing them more.
311
Walking on brittle leaves that crackle like old bones beneath your feet evokes a strange, trembling sensation, yet you feel a hollow gladness at your existence—a fragile flicker of being in the vast, indifferent void and you stump on it some more as if leaving a mark that you were here— the sun glares down like a cruel overseer and cars crawl past like ghosts, their endless hum a dirge for your restless mind, you sip pain and smile at strangers stare long enough and make them think "have we met before?", you keep the curve on your lips as well as the bitter sweetness scratching your throat; the grass whispers secrets to the wind–i would rather be at home— where darkness becomes a mother’s lullaby and you dream of giving your shattered love to another broken vessel, adrift and raw, as your atoms clash with the dull, suffocating air in a violent collision that births nothing but silence, you remember you are still dangling on the edge of your bed those four walls closing in like a coffin–i dont wanna fall back into my mattress– breathing stale despair into your lungs you get out without your keys; the road outside and the mountains looming like ancient judges mock your fragile attempts at meaning, making you feel so small beneath their crushing enormity as you fight to rise and break the surface of this drowning life to gasp for breath, but the water drags you down with merciless hands; sometimes the clouds soften and tricks you into thinking you like candies but its only on this part of the town,the little pastry shop near your house becomes the only place you could take a detour too, a fleeting promise, while sometimes the walk home with music in your ears feels like a fragile rebellion, a whispered prayer; yet the cold water on your skin spells out the harsh and relentless truth—the language of a world that never wanted you—as you learn the moon’s cruel dance of empty cups that never fill and black and white bleeding into gray, where silver linings lie like shards beneath your pillow, cutting you awake in the night; here lies the half-solved puzzle, the book unopened on the table, a teaspoon of belief and a slice of integrity served on a cracked plate taunting your hunger for meaning, as the story woven into your flesh long ago becomes unreadable, compelling you to pull at its threads-I would rather make a sweater out of it-
