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I'll rub yours..but please dun rub mine

Thanks redface

I don't do alot of poetry but I do write prose, and some song lyrics, I will post some here.

I call this one "Numb" or "Fear of suicide"

I find myself staring at nothing, grateful for the emptyness that my blank stare brings me. One small step away from the depression waiting to tear it's way through the thin barrier my anger has built around it. I wait for somthing more, somthing real, the realization that the world continues to move around me, but I don't care, I simply wait until my absence is noticed and the need to function simply for the benefit of others rips me from that twisted sense of peace found in the lack of function which is my conciousness. My hands shake with the minimal effort of trying to live rather than survive. And I wonder at how it is possible for the simplest of pain to elude the greater picture of my tortured spirit. My mind is numbed by hurt, my soul wracked by guilt and the offensive crimes I commit againt my psyche, and as my life is slammed to a halt by the momentary awakening of shame within myself, I wonder how much thinner the line between freedom and damnation really is...

Why?

This next one I did while sitting in my room and thinking about how stagnant my life was at the moment.

I can never name anything, but so far I have been calling this one Formless.


"I sit in a room devoid of form.
The only shapes are those of the shadows cast upon the wall by the minor glow of a dieing electric bulb.
My neck resting against the dull edge of my windowsill.
Secure in a deluded sense of comfort.
Half of a cigarette held between two fingers glows not from the effort I put into the few drags I have taken, but from the passing of air over the cherry as I sporadically flick the filter.
My nervous tick, the constant and unnoticed release of energy overpowering the weak hold the nicotine has over my "addiction".
My voice begins to strain, because I don't make enough time for breathing the stale air that floats in a room already permeated by the smell of smoke, dust, and old sweat.
I am too busy singing in a cracked and throaty voice to music that only I can still hear.
I am lost in the memory of emotions the music had brought me in a former lifetime of a drug-altered reality, and the feeling this patch of hair on my chin makes as it tickles against my lower lip with every new shape my mouth forms."

That's beautiful...I don't even know what to say.. cry

That's really interesting Skad, it definately sends a certain message. The format you used with the alternating one sentance and one word is kind of confusing. But I like it overall.

A little more prose. This was written in a very lonely time.

Fingertips splay over the cold empty space on the pillow beside me.
Once again I catch myself sinking into that empty space I attempt to occupy with thoughts of what could be.
I can't help but wonder why I always bring things back to this.
The emptyness overpowers what should be the blissfull end to chaos and I clench my eyes shut in the hope that maybe I will awaken to somthing more.
That all the pain is just preperation.
A conditioning of myself to take eternity with someone, and place it upon the highest pedestal I can build, never to let it fall or be replaced by anything false or trivial.
And as my thoughts begin to wander, I find that a new warmth wells up within me.
The fantasy of romance and joy brought on by the joining of heart and soul with someone who will return my obsession with the others simple happiness replaces the cold darkness of my dejected state.
But only for a moment, because when the truth of the dream is revealed to me by my painfull grip on what is real, I can no longer live in a false state of happiness and delusional bliss.
My only choise is to rise up and face the day again with all that I am willing to offer it.


As you may have noticed, I have a tendancy to write in long, run on sentances. I just find that I can capture the emotion being felt better if I don't concern myself with proper sentance structure. Because if you think about it, when your feeling somthing. You are not feeling it in nice little organized snippets.

More prose. I really don't do much of anythign else. I got alot of crap because I used to post my writing as poetry, but people would say its prose. Well prose is poetry without metrical structure. So it's still poetry.

"Terror"

My thoughts are clouded.
I find myself slipping again into a blurry state of conciousness.
My eyes, unfocused, gaze at nothing and see the entirety of it.
My balance starts to lurch.
I cannot force myself to stand still.
Tears of sorrow lacking the regret of failure bend the light that shines into my dialated pupils and instill in me a sense of longing for the sanity I know I can never reclaim.
I don't have the discipline, the strength of will, or the clarity to save myself from the clutching horror of this sinking I feel my body experience.
My mind races for answers this world has kept hidden from me.
This isn't right.
I long to cry out for the help which I know no one can give but for the comfort their futile attempts will bring.
This isn't wrong.
I know my strength is the only thing to rely on but I know as well that it will fail on it's own.
This just is.
I am my own worst enemy.