I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Just 1/2
You can’t just rot on the shelf
Pick the shards from the shit,
Taking hit after hit after hit until the throws become your own and you’re living in a house that’s not a home,
unanimated like some masochistic drone
peering around corners in the gloom searching for that throbbing ache we know as hope waiting to bloom
as if some dark figure would appear and cure the loneliness you’ve held deep within you for year followed by year
Each night you endure the unsure torture
Whispers of lost loves in rapture entrapped her soul and you know it was you but the fears of more wrong choices manufactured these warped voices that didn’t whisper but screamed horrors you couldn’t have just dreamed up.
How could you just give up? Welcoming demise like your lifelong goal is microbial proliferation, hiding like some non sentient object with no hint of personification
But all you need is a poet to give you an expression and a thought and an impression that the world isn’t so bad
and in your escapes you run from revitalization.
And you hide. You run. You elope with your nightmares as if you emptied your dream catcher into your drink and you wonder why you can’t sleep at night.
This internal melee with only one mind and you’re bound to come out the victim falling behind
You’re checking the time as if you expect some company to pull you from your own grime,
but you remember you told her to never come back and you have sacrificed your peace of mind for some false comfort that fades into the pitch black
your mind can’t seem to let itself unwind
The truth is,
You’re lonely. And you’re blind.
