Sometimes I write
Feb. 10th, 2011 08:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rachg82I'm going nutbars waiting for Bones to start, so I decided to write. Sometimes I get self-conscious about my personal writerly stuff though, particularly when I don't have any non-creative RL crap to go along with it as an excuse for posting (and it's not fanfic), so that's why I'm disabling comments. It's not that I don't want to let people comment--it's more so to prevent me from *caring* if people comment. I'm too sensitive & neurotic right now to be rational about it. Make sense?
I just want to get in the habit of letting myself write/feel things when they come up without caring about the response, in other words. Think of it as a practicey-slash-cathartic thing, but I'm still letting it be public 'cause that's just how I roll.
Black masks circling;
they appear without warning.
Metaphors as excuses
to cover up the truth.
My home is a graveyard.
(Ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
The heart still beats.
Numbers counting--down, down, down.
My pants don't fit.
My stomach burns.
It's the least I could do.
Rise & shine, it's a new day.
The blinds are shut; the sun steals through.
You'll go outside tomorrow,
tomorrow.
Your skin is pale.
You are a liar.
You are a stranger.
Cold marble & sand,
you are carved & collapsing.
(Talking in the second person, this is not a good sign)
Trust is untrustworthy.
There are no checks & balances.
Life is all askew.
Hours pass by minute by minute, second by second.
There is no answer,
only theories.
Dropping, fading, changing, moving.
I don't know where I am going.
I am scared.
Lying down, I forget why I should stand.
There is only so much to eat for.
Will there be no one left?
A smile on my face,
it still matters.
Right?
These are the things we tell ourselves.
Sometimes they're true.
Sometimes…
There is nothing left to be said.
It never made sense anyway.
You were never made
to fit.
You will always be reaching.
---
I just want to get in the habit of letting myself write/feel things when they come up without caring about the response, in other words. Think of it as a practicey-slash-cathartic thing, but I'm still letting it be public 'cause that's just how I roll.
Black masks circling;
they appear without warning.
Metaphors as excuses
to cover up the truth.
My home is a graveyard.
(Ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
The heart still beats.
Numbers counting--down, down, down.
My pants don't fit.
My stomach burns.
It's the least I could do.
Rise & shine, it's a new day.
The blinds are shut; the sun steals through.
You'll go outside tomorrow,
tomorrow.
Your skin is pale.
You are a liar.
You are a stranger.
Cold marble & sand,
you are carved & collapsing.
(Talking in the second person, this is not a good sign)
Trust is untrustworthy.
There are no checks & balances.
Life is all askew.
Hours pass by minute by minute, second by second.
There is no answer,
only theories.
Dropping, fading, changing, moving.
I don't know where I am going.
I am scared.
Lying down, I forget why I should stand.
There is only so much to eat for.
Will there be no one left?
A smile on my face,
it still matters.
Right?
These are the things we tell ourselves.
Sometimes they're true.
Sometimes…
There is nothing left to be said.
It never made sense anyway.
You were never made
to fit.
You will always be reaching.
---
