Slow bubbles bursting
Pyjamas stained with toothpaste
Unshaven legs still
Slow bubbles bursting
Pyjamas stained with toothpaste
Unshaven legs still
Bad writing is better than no writing, that’s what some people say however they have never read my bad writing obviously. As I type with my awkward slow hands, fingers struggling to hit the correct keys and making mistakes that I know I should ignore yet cannot help to go back and correct..The ‘ in the that’s..the capital in the I, does it really actually matter in the grand scheme of things. I decide that to me that it does, as I begin to hit the backspace key and correct the mistakes so that I no longer have to look at the little squiggles under my words (not that I actually look at my screen whilst typing which is kind of my problem). I could of course just save all those red zigzags up until the end and then auto correct it all yet there is something about them just being there..hovering…waiting…tutting with disdain that my typing is actually this bad…and so too my writing.
It’s the constant flow that is the important thing they say. That constant notion of typing..just something anything. Some random rubbish that pops into your head as you sit listening to the tip tip tap, annoying your own ears with the repetition of sounds and the soft thud of the L key as you hit it and then have to wait for it to …erm what’s the opposite of compress again?.. so you wait for the key to pop back up yet instead it lingers, held down against its will due to repeated drops of coke, trickles from wine spillages and full on torrents of cordial being knocked over and over again. I make a note to be more careful with drinks in future yet it never happens..I just can’t help it, I’m clumsy.
I think I was just born clumsy, I’d like to say that I came out kicking and screaming and was clumsy enough to kick someone in the face which would have made a great entrance story. However I cannot lie, my clumsiness was only my own issue, having gotten so tangled inside that I arrived into the world with a cord wrapped around my neck, no screaming, no kicking but silent..silent and blue.
Maybe this accounts for both my love and hatred of silence.
Do you ever get the need to just want complete silence, to block out the world and all its annoyances. To get rid of the tapping and clicking, rattling and humming. To do away with the noises of society, the buzz of the lamp post, the clink of the gate, the constant droning of the heater or the washing machine or whatever it is that the upstairs flat dweller has that makes my teeth want to grind against one another. Of course not everyone can hear these things, not everyone notices the slow shifting of the world, the low undulations of life whirring in a constant circle..whirling in my head. And if you cannot hear them you will most likely point out that I am hearing things or have tinnitus or some such infliction because you can hear nothing but the sound of silence.
I would love that, to not hear these sounds that echo in my brain and drag down my thoughts to the paranoia of a basset hound awaiting an intruder. I would love to be able not to hear the flicker of the lights as the computer churns and the whistle from the monitor that can drive me crazy if I don’t catch it early enough.
I would love that silence…until I get it.
Then as soon as the silence comes and no noise can be heard, I am unsettled still. For in complete silence there still exists a slow thud of heartbeat, the soft murmur of being, that something which is overpowering and constant that coats my hearing and needles it’s way… into my soul.
Then I know that I am done for.
With walls closing tight
Ever inching inwards
Compresses our breath
As we rally against the inevitable
Limbs, joints, pressed tight into corners
Flesh pushed hard into plaster
Fighting to keep the space
Refusing to accept the confines
Unwilling to see the cell
For what it really is
A glass box of our own construction
Hidden by darkness
Lips lost by stealthy selfie
I want you so much
It doesn’t matter does it?
If my feet are tired and I can no longer dance
It couldn’t matter, could it?
That we no longer waltz together on the moors whilst the moon yawns down upon us
It wouldn’t matter, would it?
If my bones are pressed deep into the dirt at the foot of your bed, cold and damp in August
It shouldn’t matter, should it?
That we lost our souls that day the rain came, when we buried each other up to our necks in lust
It didn’t matter, did it?
It never did
Some extra exposure for buried poems
The invisible wall of consciousness
Fantasy collides with reality
The first steps towards actuality
The future now appearing ominous
That sudden change of her self-confidence
Questioning the lack of morality
Doubting his real partiality
Her thoughts becoming hesitant, cautious
She starts to pour the remnants of her soul
Into the glass which earlier fuelled her
Her heart pleading pure addiction for him
Unable to muster her self-control
The mind claims lust a clear abuser
Body conforming to every whim
Glassy eyes devoured by time
Sweet caress to you align
For years I have sat in silence
Whilst moss enveloped my soul
Tread carefully across my old limbs
My little feathered invaders
For tonight I am only sleeping
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.
For the briefest of times she was happy
For the larger amount she was sad
With him, feeling overtly sappy
Or alone in her bed feeling bad
Upon meeting its candy and fireworks
When they part only dullness and doom
If they added the total of their perks
Would it still cover over the gloom
Together the time seems too hasty
Apart, the sand trickles so slow
The kisses from him were so tasty
The absence from him, far too low
The smell of fresh paint
Cold, clean walls ready for wear
Only surface change
In the material and spiritual realm
A soul telling your mind what your heart bleeds for.
They exist. I can taste it.
she writes stuff sometimes.
Text in ya face
Live Your Philosophies
A writing blog by H.R.R. Gorman
Blurring the lines between poetry and prose
Songs of Sirens and Stars
The musings left behind by my mind...
Short Stories and Poems - Mostly dark ones!
Pain goes in, love comes out.
He started Writing, The paper started speaking...
I CAN'T CONTROL EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE, BUT I CAN CONTROL WHAT I PUT IN MY BODY.😎🍓🍍🍇🍑🍐🍉🍈🍏🍊🍋🍅🍎🍌🍠🍢🍥
The blog is dedicated to the people which care about their goals, dreams , actions including the ones that have paused , slow down or even stopped moving forward.
Writing About Life
#joke #lol #haha #funny #hilarious
Random Blether Spilling From my Brain
Kinky, pansensual, switchy, femme, trying to breathe
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A blog about midlife, travel, adventure - and all things in between
This & That Including What Ails
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Creativity Is The Key
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!
Poems, Literature, Articles, Musings & Quotes Collection - By Vishal Dutia
Make Some History
Life , death and everything in between
Let me finger you to your dreams...
"The work will teach you how to do it." - "Le travail va vous apprendre à le faire." 09-23-18 ..... I am temporarily on hiatus, attending to matters of health and well being. I will return as soon as possible.
Carpe Diem; It's my peculiarity.
Ghanta kuch nahi
Poetry from Walsall and Black Country poet Richard Archer since 2011
We struggle, we win
An exploration of writing and reading
poems, flash fiction and photographs