words-poetry-brain-rot

[words-poetry-brain-rot]

{Quotes and paintings:Anne Carson/mitski/ fleabag/ dave eggers/Sylvia path/holly warburton /L.M dorsey/Pablo neruda / uk}

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Poetry is a state of mind

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I want to create, I want to produce,

Make beauty exist, disappointment reduce,

I feel so trapped, in feelings, in life,

I can't spur production, reduction or strife,

When I'm happy I'm too busy, when I'm down I'm too depressed,

Altogether honestly I'm feeling rather stressed.

Poetry's a one-two, such simplistic patterns there,

Drawing's just a tragedy, like how does one draw hair?

A lack of creativity, inspiration's in the shitter,

This inability contributes to making me feel bitter

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I hate the way I get disappointed about something never mine,

I didn't even want it, it was a thought to pass the time.

I was not attached to the specifics, it was just there to fill a space,

But now it's missing and I'm feeling out of place,

Some psychoanalysation, would lead you to the theory,

That deep in my subconscious I am plagued with inner weary,

Unconscious wish fulfilment, from my suppression it is wrought,

But my desires aren't fulfilled and so my mind is out of sorts.

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It's that end of a journal feeling,

The pages petering off to nothing,

Scraping the barrel of the unknown in your brain,

We will get there and onto bigger things,

It's interesting how these lines bound by spirals become your home,

Here I am and here is me,

Without you what am I, and what have I to show?

Every moment over as quick as it begun,

Yet here you lay, a remnant of what once was and what's to become

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I'm feeling so low energy

I don't know what to do

Day by day just passing by

And I'm stuck here in this glue

No progress, movement, motivation

Productivity who is she?

I go to sleep for fourteen hours

Then chase it up with three

The weight behind my eyes is crushing

Brain a stagnant waste

Can't comprehend that things are happening

At such a rapid pace

Desperately seeking active change

Passively making none

Just dreaming in the morning breeze

Peeling an orange in the sun

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They ask if I have any hard feelings.

But for you?

For you I have nothing but soft ones.

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Submitting to the heart tangles the mind,

My naivety back then grows more embarrassing with time,

I was stuck in the mud, with you running from my bed,

I was a stick in the mud, I was never in your head.

Between your legs maybe, played like a fool,

At my own game too, but I didn't know that rule.

And then I saw you everyday, stuck in conversation,

Too proud to say, you occupied my mind-

Everywhere I was absent in yours.

Even now still hanging around, I'm ashamed to admit,

I was hurt.

[words-poetry-brain-rot]

{Words by José Olivarez from Citizen Illegal /@fatimaamerbilal , from even flesh eaters don't want me.}

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My heart is sinking,

My lungs are drinking,

up the smoke,

that I soak,

their capacity in.

I choke,

on the hollow,

feeling in my throat,

My heart,

starts quaking,

My body might be shaking,

For all I know,

My brain decides to go,

Off this plane,

Don't show,

feelings as they grow,

Contain,

the pain,

The earth rotates again.

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The Thanatologist

Death to the astronomer

Earth to the psych

Space to the geologist

With brains and the like

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Taylor Jenkins Reid, Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

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Memories from the notes app

What am I experiencing, if not a car pulling away at 1:30am, the chill of the breeze through your wide window. I wanna be remembered, I wanna be adored. Sell your fingers, sell your soul. Mosqito humming, or is it the pipes? Pumping water through the walls, falling from your shower as you stand wet. Dripping. Lusting. Lamenting a past you no longer want, but don't want to forget. Noises of happiness that you once had, through the walls of this now spare room. Paper thin, seeping into the bed.

Bliss and laughter, a drunken ex, beauty and sweetness, chaos and storm. 2 worlds that should never meet, creating moments of connection, panging and peace.

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Swallow your beating leaping heart

Coming up your throat like last nights dinner

Pressing on your diaphragm like a foot to the chest

You'd like that, wouldn't you?

Bite my thigh and kiss my neck

Stick your fingers through my chest (a gentle squeeze at best)

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Is my poetic tongue ripped out?

Art lost from my words

Sounds jangled and opposed

I must find my voice again