Talking about writer's block and Bukowski yesterday made me remember this. This is a reworked version of a "poem" I had earlier posted on my "other" account. Some of you may have read it. Edit: @writersnetwork it's been long Thank you for the repost ♥️ #benecc
Aura in the room was filled with darkness And my mind was Full of cowardice There was none than My voice Hastily, it was telling That I have no choice I don't have any courage To escape My cowardice engulfed me In the duskiness drape
Be an agitator For yourself Lit the sparkplug By yourself Let others feel shelter Under yourself Trigger your inner self To know yourself Out shower the omnipotent In yourself Be the most bestest Version of yourself
I pare the pale leather lurking behind or 'neath the sole of shoe kneading a knack for a mended mullock to get a gaze of owl owning the labyrinth of laces felt a foofaraw one rope in other rope tightening tactic, polished posterior and toe cap —
vacuum venders or passersby paint the shoe's so(u)le dipped in dirt and doubts meeting muses or poet's poignant persona propounding the inked irises which churned and now chomping the skin of sole,
it somewhere triggers and tussle my thoughts I weave walnut wooden wool in their insoles I collect crisp feathers and feelings from their footsteps and they be all smiles like a screaming syllable or a poem paving a hiraeth of heavenly he(art).
"What do you know about bipolar disorder?” I almost say, What do you know about it? But I make myself breathe and smile. My voice sounds flat and even. Maybe a little bored, even though my mind and body are on alert. “Some people call it manic depression. It’s a brain disorder that causes extreme shifts in mood and energy. It runs in families, but it can be treated.” I continue to breathe, even if I’m not smiling anymore, but here is what is happening: my brain and my heart are pounding out different rhythms; my hands are turning cold and the back of my neck is turning hot; my throat has gone completely dry. The thing I know about bipolar disorder is that it’s a label. Even though I'm sleeping again, everything still feels a little rickety, like I'm here but not quite here, like I'm just a stand-in for my real self, like someone could just reach over and pinch me and I'd deflate. I thought I was feeling better, but I don't know anymore. As my brain wants to kill your soul. I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history. Because with every day that goes by, my heart is hurting, I think the road has end. I feel myself becoming more and more invisible...
//Take my mind And take my pain Like an empty bottle takes the rain And heal, heal, heal, heal And take my past And take my sense Like an empty sail takes the wind And heal, heal, heal, heal And tell me somethings last//