Heart pounding,

mind reeling.

I'm feeling the cycle start to repeat,

the sinking feeling of my head sounding off the alarms.

Like I'm losing my fucking mind.

There's something in the details,

something that keeps holding me back.

I know I meant a lot more to the rest,

the feelings I feel aren't the best.

Like a guilt that won't lay itself to rest.

Awful feelings, churning paralyzing waves through my body.

Taking out my waking moments as a corpse on stilts.

"Look at her walk, the marionette teetering at crumbs."

I watch her dance, watch me dance, like a puppet being led around aimlessly.

Fucking crippling when I feel this way, so hurt but so used to staying away.

Nothing more than a cripple,

cripple on strings, stilts, something—

Something propping me up, making me stop.

Making me run.

Making me sink into the black, fruitless as it is.

Walk. Walk little puppet. Don't run.

There's nowhere in the black different than where you have begun.

I was running, feet slapping on hot pavement.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere,

where addicts go to die in peace.

There was a trifle of complacency,

the public rife with the foulest of all its kind.

The tri-state area, the place of pealing skin and melting minds.

I ran, ran long till the pavement went cold,

till the nineteenth hour of circular wheels hit snowed roads.

And suddenly, I wasn't hurdling myself into the future,

counting birthdays like a prisoner counts days in confinement.

Thirteen candles unlucky.

Sixteen candles, two too late.

Nearly nineteen, my fear long turned hate.

And then gone.

Gone like the wish blown out, so long ago.

Genies were wished on like

candles blown breath upon.

A decade shot on by,

birthdays no longer counted like wishes on stars for sweet good byes.

Nearly thirty, forgetting what birthdays felt like.

Like confessions in a booth, of dark wishes dreamed upon.

Gods, birthdays aren't what I wish upon.

Days. Days are what I wish upon. Dream up on.

Fucking birthdays were my count down.

The count to my death or rebirth,

the time to my final hour or eternal escape.

Happy birthday, motherfucker.

I guess I lived for eternity, like I never thought.

There was the dark of the cool desert night,

moonlight peeling off layers of night, making lava rocks shine an iridescent black.

Owls hoot in the distance, as my fingers slap keys.

My fingers hardly light.

At first, there was the fear, the fear of rejection.

Nobody was praying for me, no one genuine.

The only ones around were the ones preying on me.

Disgusting leeches, trying to drag me down.

Their hands clamoring for my living body, if money could be earned if I was dead, I'm sure they would have.

And there she was.

Like heaven kissed morning breath on the sandy hill peeks I would stare at from my window.

I couldn't see her face, but the person beyond the screen was the thing that took me away.

The day of the week, the nickname that started it all.

Thursday.

My new favorite day, the day before Friday, when my mood would settle in and I'd let loose the demons that churned within.

Long forgotten, hatred still brewing.

My mind was evanescent like I wasn't living there, like I was in the memory of a life soon to pass, but the moments with her were all I had.

Every time I'd bite my tongue, hoping to put teeth on through,

there'd be the memory of peace when we would talk.

Not really 'talk' but more write, write of people and days we weren't living,

watching worlds rise and fall. Watching emotions explored that I hadn't felt, things I couldn't understand.

I would choke on the words, the words I couldn't feel.

Yet, it wasn't so bad. Not when I knew we were both there together, the Gods of our world. The creators. And the things I wanted to say, I swallowed like the bile that churned in my stomach as my brain switched on the new contact. The relay flicking in direction like the plunge of the keys, each tap of the switch, another synapse firing away.

God, she took me away.

She took me away.

Dry your salted tears my sweet simple dear,

Tell constables when death is at behest.

Aching bones stand limber under long years.

Cold eyes know there is no jest in your breast.

Life's foulest fell from foot to dirt cradles,

Bury them deep so none wake from slumber.

What bounty left, may only be tabled.

Those living are weak and easy plunder.

Sacred, wicked hands alike steal treasure.

Crows caw on iron wrought fences in mass.

Their greed knows no particular measure.

Plots of land, fresh to bodies grow no grass.

Only fifthly beggars, wanton letters.

Chained to despots with coined perverse pleasure.

There's a man,

not tall, nothing robust.

He's nothing you'd see out of a magazine,

in fact... He's probably the boy your parents said to be mindful of.

The example.

Nothing criminal.

Just hopelessly trying to be romantic.

The corner cutter, the man who's morals are a little... semantic.

Loveable rosy cheeks,

tiny eyes

and a smile spread across pressed lips despite his tender care to hide his frustrations.

A small man,

but a man he tries to be nonetheless.

Nothing brave, nothing you would expect to be the shining star of 'Fatherhood'

but humorous in his endeavors.

I can do nothing but love him for trying nonetheless.

He is my father, though I am often at odds.

He tries his best, not to be on my worsening thoughts.

He will not argue with me,

though his opinion hardly changes. He will not back down.

But he will be silent for the sake of me, to be close.

Silly old bear.

Still, I cannot be angry with a man who cannot help his own will.

He who falls prey to his own haste and wanton relationship dreams and endeavors.

I love him. I love him still.

Silly old bear.

He has no legs to stand, no, none at all.

He calls for me to be near, to keep him close to ear.

To be my confidant, though I think he already fears that we may not.

Never being quite here nor there together.

Standing far apart, estranged and at times, maybe not.

My arms push further.

I may chuckle, may laugh at how frustrated he gets.

I love his honesty so, though I know.

I know the ways to go about things,

how the way things will go.

He makes guesses, stabs in the wrong direction and I feel less hot.

Less angry with him for the times he was not:

Not there, not here, not where I needed him to be.

Scared, afraid, and running far from her like I ended up doing but I not in fear, but in worry for what I might be.

What monster I might have dreamed to see.

What I might do if the dream becomes reality.

Still.

Silly. Silly old bear.

I love my father dearest, whether we are here or there.

Those among others might see the introvert,

the hopeless woman stuck in her head who banters on about extroversion.

The sunken hope, the cost of the fallacy of her broken needs.

Interlaced in the works of others;

The hopes others might follow through and she might be bespoken for when they fail to do.

Cradling empty tears,

for the fears are very much, much more real.

She sinks into her slump, as if the reality is not near.

Drowning out the voices,

the Godded hurray's,

the 'fate will have its ways'

and 'impossibilities are fallacies' somewhere along the way.

She didn't say that.

She didn't want to hear that.

None of it.

None of it at all.

Damn it. Damn the fucking faithful for their words,

it's as if they speak that she hasn't any sense at all.

Words fall flat,

their temperatures mild.

It's like swimming in the kiddie pool,

but her endeavors are not so mild.

The cruelty of being let down,

the anger that makes her spell bound.

Cursed to fling the hated remarks,

the remarks that make her regret being herself.

Of putting herself in such a precarious element.

Of relying on someone not herself.

And fingers knead creased brows.

Tell me, tell me how.

Tell me how I cannot become bitter,

Jaded at the world so till I lift on up my expectations and shove them off.

Hackles raised, the shackles will finally fucking fall off.

How I tell the world to 'F off'?

Suddenly there's disgusted remarks and faces.

Like they can't believe I traded places

With the hopeful, jubilicious woman who turned problems into resolutions,

And born solutions from pulverized unworkable tribulations.

Tell her.

Tell her again, how shallow she's been.

Tell her again, the impossibilities are fallacies

And the fates are written in the galaxies.

And watch her, watch her turn.

Smile, smoldering burn.

Mirthless eyes, where embers churn.

She is among others,

But she is alone.

For the ones she feels warmth from,

Are far from home.

The blood may speak

So it may take her Will as meek,

But she is done.

Done and will no longer speak.

For here, she believes herself the freak.

Bile comes up,

hard retching.

Fool's cries,

begging not to let me

hurl the contents up.

My stomach so swole.

Empty my bowels out,

what's now empty was full.

The bile is out,

cursed black things falling out.

Sniffled curses,

whimpered cries.

The blackened sludge seems to speak

"die, die, die"

I have returned back to the Earth,

what humans grant to me.

I have returned back to the Earth,

as my body was meant to be.

Holy in one.

One in all,

my mind is no longer seeking the Great Fall.

Wretched thing,

cursed words.

Keep your nasty little birds.

Curl those fingers in on tight,

bare knuckle fists is the only acceptance I'll take tonight.

So before you hurl,

those accursed words.

You better hit me first,

before flipping me the bird.

They say there's something in the water.

They always say that.

Cynics. I know, right?

Maybe I am one too.

Who knows?

I think it's highly probable.

There is this thing,

where people hide behind screens to mask their duping delight.

Where they mask their unchecked, unhealed trauma and turn to users without faces so they might... Appease their inner anger? Their disgust and balk and chase at people with their fingers.

And so they seek to be on the upper end of things.

"You're wrong."

"I don't know where you heard that from."

"Then you're poor educated..."

And so on and so forth, but there is no tact behind such words.

Blatant and in your face? Yes.

But what purpose does it serve?

People like to degrade and demean others all the time.

They all do it at one point or another.

Nice words, slivered with poison.

Poison drenched in black.

What's the point if the opinion isn't yours?

Why not just go on the attack?

And then people take breaks.

I take breaks.

Because honestly, who wants to be around that shit?

I certainly fucking don't.

And I seclude myself from the vitriol.

Because honestly, who likes drinking laced coffee?

If I wanted to poison myself, I'd do so willingly.

And I think.

I'm fucking done giving my opinion.

People just love taking the piss.

Taking the ever loving piss out of things.

Nothing better to do.

And I go on.

I slip away.

Shut down and turn away.

Fucking done with it.

It's the platform.

It's the medium.

No, it's the fucking people.

The people choose to be this way.

They choose to make the forum that way.

They choose it and no Community Standard is going to fix that.

___________________________________________________________________

Author Notes: Not my favorite, but a lot of people seemed to like it. Interesting how some of my more wretched feelings that I post about seem to garner more attention. Maybe it's more relatable, or maybe there's something in the air that makes us all on the same frequency to where it seems we all are either in process or in the end of process of feeling rather annoyed and defeated. I'm not really sure, all I know is that there's a high probability the reason this one was liked, which I absolutely wish I retitled, vibed with more people. Anyway, enjoy. -D.F.

Pfft, oh!

Oh god damn,

you think that this world that it thinks it's a sham.

Everybody takes a part of me, thinking that they wouldn't think twice at the thought of me.

But they think of themselves, like they think what they ought to be.

Modeled and twisted,

these lips are the rhymes of the world that ain't gifted.

Working minds, working time. Ha!

What is that? More than the rift of a crime!

I couldn't be damned if they think their worth more than mine.

And you know, there's something inside of me.

Anger built up, like the curse speaks in spite of me.

I take in and I take, but the hands at my ends draw in fists with each breath that I take.

Leveled with seething- the besmirched generation just takes as they fake like a guest that ain't leaving.

Oh!

There's no ethic! No, no longer like the first generational plotter.

The cries and the pleas, they will shake the air. No. No harder, working to hoard as they steal life like Gods or-

Yes, god damn, the silence is what it will, shake all the land.

Take all the time, with the muck and the grime.

There is no society when the ones who scream when they die.

So, oh, oh god damn, there's something to think when I think I'm worth a damn.

Something so pitiful, ungrateful inside of me.

Am I really that special?

I think not, I just got this speak that's inside of me.

Me?

I'm just the customer.

The one who asked for the regular.

What is the point if the regular is below level, mediocrity the new sense of self and the base of my service and-

-sigh-

I just wanted the minimum, enough to be on my way but we've run out of lithium.

The battery is dying, the work ethic riding the wave of the generational influences and I'm tired of crying so...

So take what you want, give less than. I'll stunt. Just show up for you, no more special than two of the fucks you can't give for anyone else in your life.

Generational gap.

Ha.

Fuckers are all the same, they don't give a damn.

It's just what, that's the thing, fucking all just a sham.

Licks of black hair fallen over sun-kissed shoulders.

Eyes so red, a demon seemed to evoke its words from them.

Fangs as sharp as canines, like a dog that might have been raised by the wilds.

This is the nine-tails,

a delicate, rabid yet uniquely wild animal.

Seen in her element,

she is the epitome of beauty.

Coiled under pressure, under the expectations of society and she is regarded no more than a woman befitting a straight jacket.

These are things that must not be tainted,

must be left to the freedom of nature so they may coil and spin through thicket and tweed like the whispers of the wind.

Flames dance with them,

their bodies like fire.

And if you stare into their eyes long enough, you'll see the flames reflect back from them.

She is the yang, the yin - a brother much older and calmer - to his mild tempest.

She is the fury ignited,

the woman scorned as wrath.

Yet, all in the same, she desires to be loved.

Free, yet loved.

In the aching cold of the night,

when the Wolf Creek plays tricks on the ears.

You may hear her.

You may hear her cries in the night, fox fire dancing behind her as she swirls through the forest, leaving only a glimmer of her tails.

For the only thing to sooth her is Aoi.

The other yin to her.

The blue.

The calm.

Her rest to her storm.

And so, when the yin comes back to the yang,

there are no yips or cries within the forest tonight.

There are none on other nights.

She is whole.

At peace.

And one once more.