Submissions by luciddreamscollide
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I am guided by synchromysticism.
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
5th Apr 2013 1:23am
5th Apr 2013 1:23am
Another Journal Entry
April 1st, 2 am
PTSD Symphonies
Lately I've been feeling like a ghost again. That hollowed out feeling, or lack of. And it's only been happening at night this time. It made me think of all the times I'd pretend for my friends while trying desperately to never let it show, never let it show, that my body would lose all it's feeling. Slipping out of rooms every now and then, off to the bathroom, a bulimic's place of worship, humanity's shit covered tomb. Trying at the futile systematic task to shove my soul back in it's body again.
I catch my reflection in...
PTSD Symphonies
Lately I've been feeling like a ghost again. That hollowed out feeling, or lack of. And it's only been happening at night this time. It made me think of all the times I'd pretend for my friends while trying desperately to never let it show, never let it show, that my body would lose all it's feeling. Slipping out of rooms every now and then, off to the bathroom, a bulimic's place of worship, humanity's shit covered tomb. Trying at the futile systematic task to shove my soul back in it's body again.
I catch my reflection in...
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MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
5th Apr 2013 1:11am
5th Apr 2013 1:11am
More journal excerpts
March 20th,2013
I hope you know you're probably the reason if I ever become cold.
I'm starting to realize you're just like everybody else. Too many people think they know everything. You remind me of the silent walls of a therapist's office, searching for tiny holes to rack my brain. A scream is heard from the waiting room, and her parents rush in. A scared girl, a laughing therapist, amused by his own game, tricking her that he had 4 fingers instead of 5. "It was just a game", he laughed as he explained. I couldn't help but realize to this day this image clinged to my...
I hope you know you're probably the reason if I ever become cold.
I'm starting to realize you're just like everybody else. Too many people think they know everything. You remind me of the silent walls of a therapist's office, searching for tiny holes to rack my brain. A scream is heard from the waiting room, and her parents rush in. A scared girl, a laughing therapist, amused by his own game, tricking her that he had 4 fingers instead of 5. "It was just a game", he laughed as he explained. I couldn't help but realize to this day this image clinged to my...
580 reads
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NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
1st Mar 2013 10:13pm
1st Mar 2013 10:13pm
Excerpt from my journal
I think it is strange how we are all dying but only milliseconds away from living.
It is a human travesty that this strangeness can be so intoxicating
but yet so suffocating.
When did I become the sensitive and petulant type?
They say the average woman who consumes up to five cups of coffee a day
is less prone to be depressed than those who don't.
What a lie that is.
Regardless of the numerous emptied cups that sit on my dresser, the endorphins don't seem to take shape.
It is a human travesty that this strangeness can be so intoxicating
but yet so suffocating.
When did I become the sensitive and petulant type?
They say the average woman who consumes up to five cups of coffee a day
is less prone to be depressed than those who don't.
What a lie that is.
Regardless of the numerous emptied cups that sit on my dresser, the endorphins don't seem to take shape.
696 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
1st Mar 2013 10:09pm
1st Mar 2013 10:09pm
Acatalepsy
If the past is prologue, why do we live in the walls of it's structures?
A backwards ascension.
Gazing at a painted picture, I think of childhood.
What is it were we taught at birth?
A backwards ascension.
Gazing at a painted picture, I think of childhood.
What is it were we taught at birth?
606 reads
1 Comment
DARK POEM
Published
1st Mar 2013 10:33am
1st Mar 2013 10:33am
Hysteria
A paralyzing undercurrent of parting sensorys,
simple yet, incoherent to the blood that spills curdling your name,
Etched into stone, remarkable words of crimson red, pooled into beads of sweat and running down tree branch veins.
Delusioned dreams I call prophecies, seductively rearranged, from every guilty angle I will try to wash the image of you out from my visions.
Twisted with sin that drips, tantalizing my sallow skin,
In symmetry to these broken hips, I will not let you in.
And as I sway and as I stagger, you pull me under like an anesthetic slumber,...
simple yet, incoherent to the blood that spills curdling your name,
Etched into stone, remarkable words of crimson red, pooled into beads of sweat and running down tree branch veins.
Delusioned dreams I call prophecies, seductively rearranged, from every guilty angle I will try to wash the image of you out from my visions.
Twisted with sin that drips, tantalizing my sallow skin,
In symmetry to these broken hips, I will not let you in.
And as I sway and as I stagger, you pull me under like an anesthetic slumber,...
712 reads
0 Comments
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