I'm trying to make a difference in this world. I'm trying to keep philosophy alive. I'm trying to influence your mind all the while mine is traveling an a billion directions at once.
I believe a little insanity is a good thing.
I'm inspired by life and I'm inspired by brains and nature and love and happiness and obsessiveness and anything else that's in this universe and outside of it. I think too much. I write compulsively. I don't want society to stop reading. I don't want society to stop creating. I want to contribute to this planet's literature that is so often hidden under media, pop culture, and other things that won't really matter in fifty years.
These are my thoughts, and I can't control them. I can't control the words that flow out of my brain and through my body.
This is word vomit. And I'm not cleaning it up.
of you
You try to produce something beautiful, but all that comes out is sadness.
You try to regain your sanity, but you’re being choked by your madness.
Wind tangles your hair in a nest of unmanageable fury.
The leaves that are swirling intermingle with your worry.
So shut your pretty little eyes to the world you’re hiding from.
Pretty little darling, your thoughts are a smoking gun.
Your thoughts are a smoking gun and it’s aiming at your head.
If emotions are your trigger, then you’re already dead.
Your worst enemy is always only going to be yourself.
You wander through your thoughts realizing you’re already in hell.
The person that’ll kill you is only going to be you.
Other people can’t touch you the way that you do.
Other people can’t bruise you the way that you do.
They can’t make you bleed like your precious scars prove.
You can’t run away from someone if they share your own soul.
You can only smile about one part until your remember the whole
Part of you is crumbling slowly while simultaneously getting mended.
When the depths inside of you are losing, some parts are getting defended.
This rumination is going to be the end of you if you make it,
But your genetic makeup with your biological depression isn’t a curse, so fake it.
And you know firsthand that it’s so easy to blame everyone else.
But your worst enemy is still only going to be yourself.
It’s so easy, sunshine, to claim others as the Satan of your Hell.
And you know, you know, you fucking know that you’re not well.
You can blame the man you love who treats you like shit,
You can blame your mother’s depression saying you inherited it,
You can blame the acts of roommates, or professors, or acquaintances,
You can blame the guys you sleep with or the girls you make out with.
You can blame all these external forces, but your suicide is internal.
Your mind’s fucked up, sunshine, but remember your soul is eternal.
So while the wind tangles your thoughts in an unmanageable fury,
And the leaves that are swirling intermingle with your worry,
Just open your pretty little eyes to the world you’re hiding from.
Pretty little darling, the wind brings the storm, but can also reveal the sun.
