You’re too late
for our broken hearts.
You’re too late
for our broken hearts.
(Excerpt from a notebook) On the topic of writing, Bukowski says: If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. There’s no other way, and there never was. I think what he means is that your writing has to be a surprise, even to yourself. Too many people see writing as a form of thinking, when in reality it’s the complete opposite, a mirrored version or maybe a distant relative to it. When you write, when you really write, you do not need to fear the blank page, because it’s not you who are going to fill it, but your words. Sometimes I’m all up in my head, and I only write such things I’ve already thought about. But what then is the point of writing at all? Is it only documentation? I believe, and believe strongly, that the power lies in not knowing how your sentence will end. I believe, and believe strongly, that we have labyrinths in us just waiting to be discovered, but if you always know and see everything, you just walk along a winding path. You miss all the ways you could have gone. True writing is about something like that.
From the times I couldn’t undo
couldn’t stand up again.
From the times I couldn’t win
but only say
one of us will grow tired
and it won’t be me.
From endless days
of searching back:
I love you,
said as easy as breathing.
somewhere in the dark corners of my phone:
Everything you make me throw up I swallow right back down again, the wisps of sweet poison to the bitter taste of my fingernails, I swallow it down again. Grasping hands clinging to asphalt and tissue and all the atoms they cannot see, second hand looking and eyes eyes eyes on me. I swallow it right back down again (please) I swallow it right back down again.
The days when the world was new, sky bright and beginnings chasing endings, roadside writing and barefoot jumping where we shouldn’t
They turned auburn and sultry, sweet like smoke and pretty like stitches and open wounds and fire (Then all things died before they grew again (All but people is circular))
(What happened to the days) They didn’t change. But the lines in you face are there to stay and as long as you say you always have now you’re lying the way our hearts teach us from the very first day (about immortality and life)
In the infinite expanse of time, the sun will rise as brightly the day you die as it does now. May your bruises leak sunshine and your heart be sore from memories of move
The Lazarus trees will never teach you how
Days don’t grow old the way bodies do.
You are not strange or normal or different or anything else that is not a description of you but a comparison to something and anyone and anything else. Do not get stuck in yourself believing that you are you and the world is the world, but remember that you are you and someone else is someone else, and the world is just a temporary home for a bunch of people at least as screwed up as you are (because God help me, do we need help). We’re not meant to do this alone so find someone who can pull pieces from the darkness and show you the light of being a part of this terrifying place, even though that means knowing that no one actually is. We’re outstanding, a species consisting of individuals existing within their own heads. Generation after generation, all believing they’re as alone in their thoughts and opinions and feelings as we think we are. Just be. And know that someone else is too.
(find someone in the sea of faces)
I’m a drug addict, but instead of atoms you’ll find feelings injected in my veins, and I crave them. Crave them when I feel way to empty, and the longing after them might paradoxically be the strongest of them. I want to define them, ground them, put them down on pages and scream them out in words. Paint my skin with their colour and patterns and let the water in the watercolour paintings of them run down the walls. I’ve never considered myself a happy person, because I have this. Because when I’m far away from God I’m drowning. My heart can find no peace and so I climb the walls and tear at my skin and curse the laziness that just makes me want to sleep when my brain is to high to find any rest. I used to think I was controlled by my thoughts because I’m always thinking too much, but what I’m thinking about is now and always depending on what I’m feeling, with no rationality or logic to remind me that sadness or joy is temporary. I’m an addict because my feelings control me way to much and I love them.