INSTAGRAM ~ @rubybluethebeatpoet
“Which day is it?” This day of days? Like it matters.I sometimes try to make all the days the samein my head,I plan them out then I get bored.How boringto make allthe days the same, they could neverbe the sameand they could never happen again.This day isnot like the others.This day with meas me now in it,will never come again.Thank God for that.©rubybluethebeatpoet
as the night demands nothing of you,and the promise of tomorrowis fresh and new,for the mind to start cooking up more things to do.I laugh as I slink off slowly to bed,these things to docan get done when I’m dead.
Things to dothings to do,never-ending things to do.Chores and boresand dreams of whores, who never worry about things to do.They’re just used and abused.Funny how this mind wanders when there’s so manythings to do.So I sit and I sitwhile the hours go by, I watch the birdsand the trees,I sit and I sigh.I wait untilthe day turns to night,
Why I Smoke
I smoke because I like it, I smoke I don’t fight it,I smoke I’m a writer,and that’s what we do.I smoke because they hate it,I smoke just to fake it,I smoke to show I have no worries about what others think of what I do.I smoke now I’m a rebel,I smoke cos I’m the Devil, I smoke with a coffee, then relax and have a poo.I smoke to bury secrets,I smoke as anger creeps out, I suck a cigaretteso the grief in my lungshas something to hold on to.©rubybluethebeatpoet
Break My Heart
My heart is made of love but I covered her well, frozen in a breeze blockfrom Danté’s hell.My heart is made of love, try cracking her shell,the shell is diamond ice;stones take time to melt.I dare you to break my heart,hammer and chip away, you’ll only break the glass, that keeps my love at bay.Choose your weapon, tongue, sword or pen, keep breaking my heart please...until she opens.©rubybluethebeatpoet
I feel like crying all day today and I don’t even really care why.I feel like cryingbut I make breakfast instead, I want no talking or laughing; just cry.My gut feels hollow,tears drown as I swalloweach mouthful of dark sweetened oats.I feel like cryingand I know that I’m lying when I sayI can just let myself cry.When my tears start to well,I turn food into helland my face stays terribly dry.God damn it I’m human, I say to the oven,as the chips burn near the pie.I’m pretty surethat’s how I get fat,I eatwhen I really need to cry.©rubybluethebeatpoet
Then I found outthere is no “they.”Shit.I hate myself,I’m not nice, I rape myself.Fucked with gold lining...Power.No one took my power away,I buried it because I thought They...©rubybluethebeatpoet
I don’t feel right, can’t even write,They tell me I’m beautiful with smiling eyes, They tell me they love me,my heart starts to freeze,I wanna kick their stupid faces intil they can’t fucking breathe.They raped me,took all my power away,Is it still rape if I say it’s ok,to rape me? My programming made me that way.
They say I’m nice,I’m not nice,I hate nice,hate them, hate their controlling eyes,power hungry,I’m food supply.They connect to my centre,my battery life, suck me dryhold me down so I can’t fly,forgotten how, stuck in a loop, brainwashed and boring,worse than that, I feel death coming.
Past is now present, presently in past,emotional mechanics sail by quantum raft, back to a girl who didn’t know how to laugh or cry, shaking senseless in confines of dark.Dive straight through the trauma, closed little heart, hold her and show her advanced counterpart, excavate memories, collect fractured parts,fuse them with love, a lost time travelling art.Philautia miracles blind bright like the moon, travel as high waves of Omega attuned, discover soft comfort, rock on Rumi’s pontoon, essence etched of my soul,“the light enters through the wound.”©rubyvisaria