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Behind the Wall in Poetry: A Compilation by Indi

A coffee shop for those who like to discuss art, music, books, movies, TV, each other's own works, and existential angst.
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Individuality-ness
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Behind the Wall in Poetry: A Compilation by Indi

Postby Individuality-ness » Fri Aug 17, 2012 11:02 am

I am Indi, wielder of the newspaper, resident of Eternal, and writer of free verse poetry.

One of the things that I do for fun (besides posting on NationStates) is to write poems. I've been writing poems since I was a young child, and for a while, I've been thinking of sharing what I write here. Hereafter, this thread was born.

My poems tend to be quite long, so I'm putting them in spoilers. So without further ado, let us begin.

In case this was not clear, I'm open to comments, suggestions, whatever. Post away!

WARNING: some of the subject material in certain poems may be depressing. They will be marked accordingly.
Read them at your own risk!


First off, a poem I wrote for a school assignment. Fall 2008.
Candy Bar Writings: Around the Corner

Around the corner,
There was a man, with his face illuminated by a flashlight,
Looking over the steering wheel as he drove on the wet asphalt
Covered in white, pure, newly fallen snow.
As I walked toward him, at midnight, heading home from work, I stop and stare.

Across the road from where I stood
There was a homeless, little old lady, standing there in a dark alley,
With a grocery bag, filled with cans, bottles, trash,
And despite the pain that I could see on her face, she kept staring at me,
And I think that she wondered what I was doing there, in her territory.

When I looked at the man inside the car
I see darkness shrouded him within, as the night wore on,
And the little old lady, in her alleyway
Just trying to stay alive with trash in her bag,
I thought that maybe, something was going to happen.

And something did happen.
As I thought that something was going to happen,
The man in the car stopped, got out, and walked over to the woman.
He asked, “Would you like to go over to my place and stay the night?”
She said, “Yes, thank you!”

He kept speaking to her, and she to him.
I don’t think that they know that I’m standing here.
But then he stopped speaking. So does her.
He illuminated the flashlight on her face, and says six words.
“I think that I met you...”

She said back to him in reply.
“Well, of course you did. I know you too.”
He stuttered, “How?”
He looked confused, and seemed scared of the answer.
Then, I noticed that the flashlight showed that tears were on her eyes.

“Brother, don’t you remember me?
I helped you when you were little, and you loved me best.
I always wondered how you turned out when I left you.
Well, tell me, how is mom, is she well?
And has she forgiven me for my sudden departure?”

“Sarah! Now I remember.
You were so good to me when I was young.
I cried so much when you left us, and mama grieved for five years.
Mama forgave you, she forgave you years ago.
She still lives, but now she is sick, she always wondered how you were as well.”

“I thought that you would never remember me.
Or maybe we would never cross paths again in this lifetime.
Brother, I missed you so, and now look at me!
I seem so old, and you seem so young, and we are barely five years apart.
Tell me, what did you achieve when I was gone?”

“Sarah, I did many things for mama to be proud of.
When I was in high school, I was the star athlete, the model student.
I got accepted at Harvard, with a full scholarship. Everyone was proud.
I became a medical doctor, and now I have three kids and a wife.
I wanted you to be there, as the matron of honor, but you were gone.

“And I wanted to show that I had succeeded in what I could.
But by then you were gone, and I couldn’t find you anywhere,
Not in the phone book, not when I tried a service to find your whereabouts.
Mama tried to hire a private detective, but he couldn’t find you.
Enough about me, how about you?”

Well, I was stunned to hear these words.
I wondered what their lives were like.
Why did she go? What happened to them?
I cannot believe I am trampling on this beautiful moment!
But soon, I heard her reply:

“Well, after I left, I wandered around,
Doing what I could to get food or cash, and trying to stay safe.
The argument with ma was horrible, and I wanted to apologize.
But every time I tried to send a letter, it comes back to my box unopened.
I always wondered if you had done what you promised me long ago.

“Remember that promise? The one we said when we were 10 and 5.
If one of us left, the other would do things that the missing one could not.
Well, I guess that you did, and I wonder if I had done the right thing, to leave.
That pretty much says what I had done,
And I fear that it’s too late to save my soul.”

“No, it is not.
Come with me and we’ll talk.
Everyone will be so glad to meet their long-lost-now-found family member!”
And as I watched,
He led her to the car, and they drove off, in the cold night.

Well, I thought of the incident for years.
And now I know something about it.
I think that they were fated to meet again, so faithful they were,
Brother and sister, family members.
And I think that that was a proof of true, unbroken love.

Love, in the end, prevails over all.
This family’s broken ties are mended again,
And hopefully, this cycle won’t end.
And now, I hope that I can understand who, what, where, and why.
This story will now come to an end...

Another school assignment. If you read Night, you might recognize this scene. Spring 2010.
Snow Run

Marching without faltering in the ice cold wind,
Darkness is all around me.
Occasional shots, an explosion in the night
Firing on people who are too slow,
Firing on the people who wanted a rest.
We are mechanically running without a care
Even when the other people around me are falling,
Falling down dead for a second’s worth of rest,
A second’s worth of rest that lasts for all eternity.
No one is willing to stop, so we keep running,
Thinking about our own survival first.
“A few more yards,” I thought. The idea of
Death
Surrounding me stuck to me,
Close enough to touch.
I don’t want to run anymore.
Rest would be wonderful,
As long as I don’t have to feel
My aches and pains anymore,
Or the cold.
But before I do it, I look to my side.
Father.
Father running out of breath,
But forever running, and not stopping.
I can’t die.
If I did, where would my father go?
We are each other’s support.
I keep going, running.
My limbs are numb with cold,
We are famished and our throats are parched,
Legs moving mechanically
Without us.
An endless road.

Next off, musing over friendships and accepting the past. Spring 2012.
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
Fragments

Little girl, seven years old.
First grader innocent, naïve, sweet,
Unknowing what the future will hold but can already imagine
Someday holding the fruits of labor.
Making a few friends and happily playing freeze tag
Under the willow trees.

The best friend.
Time of meeting: unknown.
Location: elementary school.
Both of them are on the same page.
Instant symbiosis.

Nevertheless, you can’t say everything, even to your best friend.
Some things must stay hidden or be scrutinized by those unable to understand.

Teenage girl, seventeen years old.
Full of hopes, dreams, aspirations,
Belief in a future that is shining bright—it’s
A light in the distance
Working hard to achieve them before it’s time for college applications.

The past shall haunt you forever.

Spring of 2005.
A meeting between you, teacher, a counselor.
Diagnosis received, handouts and pamphlets given.
Just a game to the eleven year old.
Explanations are given for the
Inability to speak.
Nothing to laugh about.

Preteen girl, twelve years old.
In transition
Between the child of yesterday and the young adult of tomorrow.
Left alone to deal with her problems.
The pinnacle of immaturity is at hand.
Could anything break the illusion of hope?

4 November 2006
Innocence lost—
All it takes is a few tears,
A clothes hanger,
Threats of suicide
Utter humiliation in front of the man at the door
Translating what could not—should not—can never be said
To a mother who refuses to listen.
Allegations—that’s all it was.
Allegations of child abuse.
Photographs, a stick,
Descriptions, questions,
A web of deceit.
Locking yourself in the bathroom doesn’t solve problems.
They say speaking up helps everyone in the long run—
They lie.

Four years later.
Memory suppression works only so far—
A note written in pencil on the table in the middle of the night.
“Never forget, never forget.”

Learning acceptance takes a long time.
Young adult, eighteen years old.
Self confidence depleted
Energy for life renewed, depleted, renewed again
For the light at the end of the tunnel is so close, and yet
So far away—
Too far to reach.
Transition between dependency and independence.

Writing personal statements—rewriting the past.
Rewriting to make you look better than before.
Is it a lie?
Keep typing, not thinking,
Let the words flow out and tell your life story.
All twisted and welded to mar what the truth is.

Reviving memories long hidden.
You know the truth, but they don’t. But who cares?
A year of revelations and surprises are in store between two best friends.

Waiting for a ride home late at night.
The topic of disabilities comes up to the table.
We beat around the bush a little, before eventually coming close to the truth.
Hints are dropped, but nothing said as confirmation.

IMing time.
“How does one do personal statements? It’s so difficult!”
“I’ll help you out. Want to see some samples?”
“Yes, please.”
Open the word file,
Ctrl + C
Ctrl + V
Read the contents,
Comment as if nothing has happened.

A conversation held on the way home one evening
Consists of events from the past.
Be honest now—it is no good to lie.
It’s time to release the memory stored within and free it.
Share it with the world,
Or at the very least your best friend.
Sharing the experiences makes it more real.
Turns out he knows what I knew already,
Having faced something similar himself when it comes to allegations.

There is no shame in telling the truth now.
The time is ticking and is running short.
Deadlines are approaching fast,
So make what you have,
Hope for the best,
Accept the past for what it is.
You can’t rewind the past—
You can’t fast forward to the future—
You can’t pause the present—
There is only play.

Forever and always.

The following was written while an argument was going on downstairs. Summer 2012.
Home

Home is where the heart yearns to be.
Home is a haven,
A place to rest and to recharge.
It’s idealized in books,
In literature,
In idiom,
In song.
It is made heavenly by paintings,
Described in glorious terms by psychologists,
Artists,
Teachers,
Doctors—
People of authority.

Home is toxic.

Toxicity oozes out of the walls.
White they are, seemly pure,
But covered with dirt,
With dust,
With crayons and graphite from many years past,
With scars from all the tacks and holes and whatnot,
With marks from who knows where.
They will never come off,
No matter how much scrubbing one does.

Toxicity floats on the air.
Like microbes, it is too small to see,
But it makes one ill to the pit of the stomach to hear it—
Words,
Transmitted by vibration, by waves,
Infused with unadulterated anger and eternal frustrations.
Listening to the toxicity makes one ill
And drives people to find a way to drown it out,
Lest it overcomes your sensibilities,
Destroys the joy that may have resided within,
And strangles the façade of innocence,
Of peace,
Of self-assurance,
Of self-worth.

What does one do when home is a prison,
A poison that seeks to destroy your inner soul?

Does that person just take it?
Or do they seek a way out?

Home here is toxic, requires hazmat suits.
Beware.

An observation about photographs leads to a musing. Summer 2012.
Photographs

A photograph.
They say that pictures can say a thousand words.

Look at the photograph. The subject: a girl.

The eyes—
Squinting in the bright sun shining in the eyes,
The smile is affected by the squint,
Causing it to distort the lips and revealing gum.
Teeth are white and pretty.

Hair is short,
Cut in such a way that it seems to get longer and longer—
The farther it gets from the face and to the nape,
The longer it gets.
Wispy it is, seemly light and fluffy,
And how dark the brown.

Due to the squint, the irises can’t be seen well.
The eyes look like black slits,
So stereotypical.

Background, a marina.
Flags fly in the background,
People are standing, sitting, taking pictures elsewhere,
And one could see the dock—
The picture was taken up high.
There are trees,
And the sky looks white,
White as the seat that the girl in the photo—the subject—
Is sitting on.

The whole?
A girl sitting on a boat in the marina.

Beyond the photo though, you can’t tell the full story.

You don’t know that the girl is looking at her best friend,
That he’s using a disposable camera to take the photograph.
And that they are on a school field trip.

You don’t know that the girl is thirteen and is on a boat for the first time.

You don’t know that she’s worried that she’ll get seasick.

And you don’t know what she is thinking that day.

Photographs may say a thousand words,
But they can’t tell the whole story, just facilitate it.

A photograph.
They can serve as triggers.

Look at these series of photographs.

The first two photographs. A baby.
Smiling at the camera,
The wide eyes of the child suggest innocence.
They are blue-grey in color.

The later photographs show a blond haired child.
First off is a school picture.
The eyes are darker now, but there is still a smile on the child’s face.

The second one shows a toddler, riding a tricycle.
Christmas morning, as the tree,
Ornamented by garlands and the like,
Suggests.
The child isn’t smiling, but you could imagine a joyous mother
Taking the picture to preserve that moment forever.

Another school picture.
The child is smiling, the shirt blue and striped,
The background blue as well.

The final picture is of the same child,
Wearing a hat that looks like Mickey Mouse,
The child is sitting on a concrete fence post of sorts in what looks like a park.
Thick it is and square.
Behind the child is a pond, a fountain, something like that.
The child is happy,
Looking ahead—
Towards a happier future?

Where did that child go?

Happiness is fleeting, and
Photographs are reminders of what has been,
What has not been,
And what has been lost.

The happy children in those photographs are lost forever,
For life reared its ugly head,
Twisted those smiles into frowns,
Tore away the innocence,
Destroyed the self-confidence, the happiness, within,
And made that child into an adult
Haunted by the demons of lost yesterdays and bad thoughts.

Where did the happy children go?

Expose of depression. Summer 2012
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
It

Open the eyes.
So tired. No desire.
Klunk, klunk, klunk, goes the clock.
Check the clock.
No energy. Let me die.
Clouds outside—
Golden red in color,
Wisps of peach and pink,
Blue sky.
Time. 7:26
Sit up. Glance at book.
Life Studies
Read a page.
Door opens, door slams.
Footsteps on stairs.
Fatigue again. Shut eye.
Name called. No response.
Hide your face, shut eyes.
Return to oblivion.
REM.

Name called.
Return to reality.
Loud voice. Anger.
Take a shower, wash your face, brush your teeth.
The mirror.
Pale with a hint of pink in the cheeks,
Hair sparkling with dew from the water,
Blank face.

Head down. Water.
Warm this time.
Grab some food—
Look at the translucent white of fat.
Does it matter?
Scoop, cover, heat up.
Add one scoop of rice.

Eating, watching the TV.
On the TV—rhythmic gymnastics. Clubs.
Loud voices—
Yelling. In anger. You’re a failure.
Yes, I am a failure. But
Yesterday. You don’t know.
You don’t care either.
Punctuality is more important than anything.
I remember. Feeling sad is not allowed.
Suppression or punishment.
Hide your inner self behind the wall.

Heading out. So much confusion, and so hot.
Arrival to the appointed address.
Check the directory. Something’s wrong.
Utter confusion. What’s going on?
Frustration, protests.
The look. Disappointment.
You are a failure, it said.
There is no need for words to express it.

Heading up, turn a corridor, find the number, wait in line.
It’s a physical, checking blood and urine, not TB here. Ugh, didn’t know.
The look again. You’re a failure. You’re stupid.
You should have listened to your mother.
Now there’s going to be elevated blood sugar, fats, etc.
The look haunts.

Needle for the blood test and
Blood for the blood god.
Relax. One prick. Feel the pressure of it going in. No pain.
Don’t think.
Don’t look at the needle.
Don’t look at the blood gushing into the plastic tubes
Dark red because lack of oxygen.
Blood for the blood god of testing.
Completed, you may go.

So much nagging on the way out.
You are a failure, you should have listened to mother.
You are unworthy, the look implied, the mind said.
You need to punish yourself.
You are not worthy of food.

Returning home.
A request to show me completed homework goes unheeded.
Mother and brother get into a shouting match.
In the meanwhile, sit upstairs. Seek oblivion.
Don’t think.
Fold clothes.

Too late. Tears fall. Utter failure.
They cannot be stemmed.
Grab the toilet paper roll to get paper to dry the eyes. It soon becomes
Wrinkled and wet with tears.

The plastic hook of a clothes hanger.
The irony of punishments.
Clothes hangers led to a meltdown the day innocence was lost.
The bottom of the hook, where it had broken off—
Rough, but not sharp enough to cut. Perfect to scratch.
Scrape out lines on the left arm,
White against the tan.
Self mutilation, even if not permanent, is so beautiful.

Tears continue to fall.

Why can’t I die?
Why is it that good people around the world die, while I,
Worthless piece of shit,
Unloved, uncared for, undesirable,
Failure in everything nonmaterial,
Still walk the earth?
I don’t deserve to live.
Let me die now.
I don’t deserve the life that I have been given.
I am not worthy of it.

Lack of energy.
Just lay on the bed.
Reading Dante’s Pugatorio provided some release.
Sudden fatigue.
The sky is too bright. Shut the eyes,
Return to oblivion.

How long was this nap?
One hour, two?
Who cares?
Time passed, who needed the measure?
It reminds people of a ticking clock
Ticking closer and closer to death.

It is so hot.
Is it the environment or is it fever?
Maybe it’s both.
Illness.
I am ill.
Mentally ill.

On the desk, a brochure.
Depression, the title squawked.
The printers used orange,
A bright color.

Now, a return to numbness.
It’s better than earlier, than yesterday, but
Life doesn’t matter anymore.
The logical side says to ask for help,
But there is no desire to ask for it.

Besides, the family would frown upon it.
You’re supposed to suppress the pain and put on a face in public.
Tears? Discouraged.
Punishment for past mental breakdowns has taught you never to ask for help.
It’s a sign of weakness.
The day innocence was lost,
The authorities had betrayed you to follow procedure.
Betrayal means that trust can never be regained.

You’re left to face it alone.
The demons of the bad thoughts box can’t go away.

Isolate yourself, and keep them away from everyone else,
For you are not worthy of people.
It would be unfair to them to have to fight the same demons on your behalf.

You’re left to fight it alone.

Sometimes illusions don't stay up forever. Summer 2012
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
Questioning

Emptiness.
Numbness.
Apathy.
Complete and total apathy.

Can we pretend that airplanes
In the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could use a wish right now,
Wish right now,
Wish right now.


Is it possible to say goodbye to apathy?
Or is that just an illusion that I’ve just set up?

She lives in a fairy tale,
Somewhere too far for us to find.
Forgotten the taste and smell
Of the world that she’s left behind.


Perspective is everything.
It all depends on your point of reference.

It’s all about the exposure,
The lens, I told her.
The angles are all wrong now—
She’s ripping wings off of butterflies.


In my point of reference, life is just a stage, and I need to ride it out.
In your point of reference, my life is valuable, if only because I’m amusing.
(And I know there’s more to it.)
If the point of reference is the universe, then it is just a split second of eternity.

Do you ever feel like you’re a plastic bag,
Drifting through the wind,
Wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin—
Like a house of cards—
One blow from caving in?


Do you ever feel like you’re a ghost,
A mirage of what you used to be?
Do you ever feel that life is not worth the fight,
And that sometimes it might be better to end it all?

Do you ever feel already buried deep?
6 feet under, screams, but no one seems to hear a thing?
Do you know that there's still a chance for you,
'Cause there's a spark in you…


I need to be convinced.

Her prince finally came to save her,
And the rest you can figure out.
But it was a trick,
And the clock struck twelve.


Everything’s an illusion,
And the one that I built is beginning to break.

Well, make sure to build your house brick by boring brick
Or the wolf's gonna blow it down.


The wolf has already begun to blow it down,
For the illusion has already begun to crack,
And the truth within is a dark hole,
Waiting to devour everyone nearby into its dark abyss.

You don't have to feel like a wasted space.
You're original, cannot be replaced.
If you only knew what the future holds—
After a hurricane comes a rainbow.


It’s always the darkest before the dawn,
And yet…
It’s too hard to see the end of the tunnel.

Well you built up a world of magic,
Because your real life is tragic.


And that world is beginning to crumble.
It’s too late to stem the cracks, it’s already breaking.
The real world is tragic, so we all built up the illusion.
We are all guilty of it. But for some—
For some it’s breaking apart.

Tear away the illusions and what do you see?

Is there anyone out there,
‘cause it’s getting harder and harder to breathe…
Last edited by Individuality-ness on Mon Apr 29, 2013 7:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Gen Dokephalne
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Postby Gen Dokephalne » Mon Nov 05, 2012 10:50 pm

These are really nice, Indi :) Thanks for sharing.
Are you going to post some more, and can other post their own work here as well?
Gen Dokephalne is a small, floating island republic of Sages.
The Sages practice a mix of Tibetan Buddhism and Ancient Greek Ionian Pre-Socratic Philosophy. They value all life as precious and worth protecting: they are thus strict vegetarians and pacifists. Most of their time is spent in meditation, experimentation and tea-drinking. For more information click here.
Economic Left/Right: -8.12
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -7.08
Likes: Art, Science, Anarcho-communism, Pacifism, Comic books, Film, Music, Drawing and Writing
Dislikes: Capitalism, Fascism, Religious Fundamentalism, Racism and Nationalism.

Some meditation music...

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Postby Individuality-ness » Mon Nov 05, 2012 10:52 pm

I have more actually, I haven't shared them yet though.

Of course, if you want to post your own stuff, you can probably make your own poetry thread. :)
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
Poetry Thread | How to Not Rape | Aspergers v. Assburgers | You Might be an Altie If... | Factbook/Extension

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Postby Gen Dokephalne » Mon Nov 05, 2012 11:10 pm

Cool, I just posted one now.
Hope to read more of yours soon :)
Gen Dokephalne is a small, floating island republic of Sages.
The Sages practice a mix of Tibetan Buddhism and Ancient Greek Ionian Pre-Socratic Philosophy. They value all life as precious and worth protecting: they are thus strict vegetarians and pacifists. Most of their time is spent in meditation, experimentation and tea-drinking. For more information click here.
Economic Left/Right: -8.12
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -7.08
Likes: Art, Science, Anarcho-communism, Pacifism, Comic books, Film, Music, Drawing and Writing
Dislikes: Capitalism, Fascism, Religious Fundamentalism, Racism and Nationalism.

Some meditation music...

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Individuality-ness
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Founded: Mar 02, 2011
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Postby Individuality-ness » Mon Nov 05, 2012 11:12 pm

Gen Dokephalne wrote:Cool, I just posted one now.
Hope to read more of yours soon :)

When I get to it, I'll add more. There's actually some more that I've done that I haven't put up, and then there's one that I'm still working on, hence it's not up here.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
Poetry Thread | How to Not Rape | Aspergers v. Assburgers | You Might be an Altie If... | Factbook/Extension

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Postby Individuality-ness » Sun Mar 10, 2013 11:11 pm

I read books, inspiration comes from books. Lolita was a good book. Fall 2012
TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL ABUSE/ASSAULT
Oh yes, there’s something that I should not tell,
About the dark that I know well.
Dolores is my name; ressentir la douleur is my fate.
My life – tragic fate it is, to be your doomed immortal mate.

Every night I sleep on my own bed,
Thoughts of you running through my head.
Every night you come to me in the cover of night,
Doing things to me that would give a mother fright.

Oh yes, there’s something that I cannot tell,
About the dark that I know well.

Oh tragic love, oh tragic life,
You married and killed my mother with marital strife,
Then took away my innocence, my happiness
Replacing it with your so called tenderness.

The day we met, so long in passing (but how fateful!),
It was spring, and you passed by with Mother (how pitiful!)
As she showed you around the house –
Who knew that you would eventually lust after me, a louse?

The last time I saw you, Mother,
You sent me away. Mother, you married treacherous stepfather.
Who knew that I would end up being his lover,
A stepfather lusting after his wife’s daughter?

Oh yes, there’s something that I would not tell,
About the dark that I know well.

You, disgusting hunter, sought after your prey,
Using traps to snare me and make me stay.
Every day you give me presents galore, gifts of love, so fake.
Every night you knew me, every pore and follicle, all for your sake.

You abducted me and took me to hotels,
You raped me in behind closed doors in motels.
We travel across the country far and wide,
You and I, side by side.

Lolita, you called me, Lolita so sweet.
Every night I wish that we would never again meet.
You said that you loved me and that you would never hurt me.
You never kept your eyes off me, you never let me be.

Oh yes, there’s something that I may not tell,
About the dark that I know well.

You hint at gentility,
You act as if you deserved nobility.
You don’t really see me for who I am.
What am I to you, except for the fantasies you indulge in on the lam?

You raped me, you knew me,
You destroyed me, you killed me.
You fucked with me, with my life,
With your magic wand as the knife.

You – disgusting man – Father.
I hope you’re happy for getting away with sleeping with your daughter.

Oh yes, there’s something that I cannot – could not – should not – tell,
About the dark that I know well.


Father. Dad. Daddy.
So vulgar. So disgusting.

I remember you giving me money so that you can touch me,
Strip me of anything good that I had left.
Mother – you killed her, didn’t you?
You married her and killed her, while I was gone away
And I never got to say a proper goodbye.

What did Mother do to you?
Did she impede on your desires to rape me?
You who seduced her as you tried to seduce me –
Did she know about your lust for me?

Why did you feel the need to take me so far away?
Did you fear that people would catch you?
Did you know that what you wanted –
What you lusted for –
What you forced me to do night after night under the cover of darkness –
Was completely and totally amoral?

Mother, Mom, Mommy,
Why did you let yourself get ensnared by him?
Why did you leave me all alone here with that man,
He who knew me in ways that one’s father should never know his daughter?

Mommy, why did you leave me, why did you die?
Did you depart happy inside?
Did you know what will happen, what was going to be,
And if you did, why didn’t you save me?

Mommy, I’m sorry for all of my sass.
I wish I said I love you the last time I saw you.
Did you send me away because of my crass?
Was it my disobedience, my rebellion, which caused us to say adieu?

Our animosity must have killed you, my mother, my mom,
Leaving me behind with stepfather and sobs.

At night I cry for you and I,
For a relationship lost, immortalized in time.
Where else can I go, Mother, where else can I go,
When your presence, your love, your protection is gone?

Do you hear me, Mother? Do you hear me crying,
Taken away from me by the beast who claimed your heart?
Do you see me, Mother? Do you cringe,
Knowing what happens under the cover of night, in the hidden shadows?

I’m sorry, Mother, I wish I could take it all back,
I wish I could undo years of my talking smack.
But for now it’s too late to say I miss you, I love you,
And there’s nothing that I can do
To fix what I did that led to your death,
And my own imprisonment by the self-same man you swore to love
Till death do you part.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Individuality-ness
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Postby Individuality-ness » Wed Apr 24, 2013 4:50 pm

All of these are Spring 2013.
WARNING: Are you looking for happy poetry? This is not the place to find it. You're looking for non-political poetry? Not here.

Oh what Muse I sing, write, and think,
What Muse in my head, within me, seeking
To put thoughts in my mind and words in my heart
To put on a piece of paper.

Oh what the Muse whispers in delight
Sighing in the winds.
Oh what the Muse scribbles in thought
Expressing the ideas within.

The Muse likes to think of happy things
Sweet and beautiful and lovely.
The Muse screams in fury and in anger
Crying tears of despair, so unhappy.

The Muse tears out her hair in frustration
Yelling all the while.
The muse pounds her fists and scratches the skin
In order to fight the pounding sound of anger, hatred, anger.

Look at the torn up pages sitting on the floor,
The neglected room stinks of death and of despair.
There is the Muse, hiding under the covers,
Refusing to see, refusing to see, refusing to see.

In the trash are all of the happy things that she said once,
The papers on her desk are burnt.
The words on the wall are made of blood and tears,
The Muse is dying, dying, dying.

You can see the ropes restraining her from her neck
And the knife is bloodied on the floor.
The Muse has committed suicide
And the ideas she sang will be sung no more.

And all I can do is follow, follow, follow.
And all I can do is cry out in sorrow, sorrow, sorrow.
The Muse died today, she sung her last,
And all I can do is follow, follow, follow.


The music is pounding in my head,
Full of synths, beats, drums and guitar and looped.
The vocals come online – the singer sings a song
A song about a person who is trapped in a building
Where sound echoes, echoes, echoes off the wall.

Close your eyes and just shut down.
Allow the music to speak for you – the entrapment you feel.

You know you’re slipping farther and farther down the hole.
You know you’re slipping, slipping, slipping away.

The vocals are looped, looping and looping forever.

Everything seems to be looped, looping, looping.
Every day is exactly the same, the same, the same, the same.

The screams of the person in the building bounce off the walls,
But no one hears, no one hears.
The cries of the person trapped in the building echoes in the night,
But no one cares, no one cares.

Every sound you make bounces off the soundproofed walls.

The sound is mangled, twisted, broken up and choppy.
It’s in stereo, it’s in mono,
It’s layered, it’s clear.
It’s everything and nothing.

The sound pounds into my head,
Resonating inside and making sense, making sense, making sense.
And yet it makes no sense, no sense, no sense at all.

Your voice is a loop, it loops on forever around the sun.
Your life is a loop, it loops on forever around the sun.
Your every motion, your every action,
Your every thought, your everything –
Looping, looping, looping, looping
Looping forever and ever and ever and ever.

Every sound you make just bounces off these walls.
And no one hears, no one hears, no one hears.
Every sound you make is torn up, layered, covered and hidden,
Screaming and fuzzy and constantly crying
And no one cares, no one cares, no one cares.

Every sound you make just bounces off these walls,
An eternal loop that goes on forever and ever and ever.
Just looping, just looping, just looping.

The music is pounding away in my head…


This is the beginning of the end.

Watch what you think, they can read your mind.
This is the beginning.
Censor your thoughts and just go and grind,
This is the beginning.

They say that we’ve come so far,
Believing ideas worthy to condemn.
They say that we’ve come so far,
But this is the beginning of the end.

Beware of who you speak to, they’re just spies,
This is the beginning.
Listen to the bullshit and believe in their lies,
This is the beginning.

We say that we’ve come so far,
But silence led to this consequence.
Nothing we can do except open that jar,
This is the beginning of the end.

Look at the propaganda and turn away your eyes,
This is the beginning.
Think for yourself and learn to criticize.
This is the beginning.

We know that we haven’t come so far,
They’re using the tool of revisionism.
All we just did is turn on the TV and saw
The violence in high-def ultra realism.

Pick up your paper, pen, and pencils,
This is the beginning.
Take up the spray paint and your stencils,
This is the beginning.

Turn off the screaming and lying television,
This is the beginning.
Open your eyes and stop giving them your attention.
This is the beginning.

Begin to resist and free yourself,
This is the beginning.
Dissent and take control of the self,
This is the beginning.

Raise your arms and protest with your signs,
This is the beginning.
Use art and begin to wake up people’s minds,
This is the beginning.

We’re going to go so far,
Using our voices and screaming out loud.
Pandora has opened her jar,
This is the beginning of their end.

We will go so very far,
Refusing to accept their consequence.
They will see what they have done,
For this is the beginning of their end.


“I pushed a button and elected him to office, uh huh.
And he pushed a button and dropped the bomb.
You push a button and watch it on the television.
Those motherfuckers didn’t last too long.”

Apathy, ignorance, suppression.
Tools of the ruling class to keep us silent.
They pacify us with scene of war on television,
All done up in high-def ultra realism.

We move on to the voting booths every even year
And we dot a paper black and stay quiet.
Everyone in office thinks that they can hear
The heartbeat of people, the desires of their peers.

We sit down dull and uninterested, apathetic,
And those in power think that we like it.
They cry out that we should be more theistic,
They think that they’re giving us delicious salt to lick.

They use propaganda to blast us with their message of hate,
They use revisionism to lull us with scenes violent.
They cut education to ensure that we will not think,
And we sit there waiting for our caviar and liver pate.

They think that we cannot see the reality,
So wrapped up in their fucking lies and their stories giant.
We swallowed their story, their history happily.
We let them define what is truth and beauty.

They took away our time and our money,
They took it slowly while we stood there silent.
Now we will get them to honor honesty
And we will rise up and retake our humanity.


A quiet nothing-ness,
Non-corporal existence,
A limbo of sorts.

In that world,
Visions weave in and out,
Voices meld into the air –
The separation between thought and reality,
Between memory and imagination is thin
Getting blurrier all the time.

There is no feeling, there is no thought.
There is no sense of being.

You’re free. Free.
Free from the trappings of everything.

A voice breaks through this peaceful limbo,
Pulling you away with a jerk.

Non-being becomes cold reality.
Non-being translates, melds, seeps into the physical world –
Or perhaps the physical world transposes itself onto the nonbeing,
Bringing with it its chaotic entropy.


Tears are falling, your heart is sinking,
Your thoughts are spiraling down, down, down.
And you don’t know why.

Tears are falling, you are sinking,
Your mind is screaming, screaming, screaming,
And you want to scream out loud.

I try so hard, you know,
Avoiding the temptation.
I try so hard, you know.
Restructuring the thoughts in your head.

The cure I guess could be apathy,
And yet apathy doesn’t feel like anything at all.
It’s hard to see, it’s hard to believe
It’s hard to understand, it’s hard to be.

You lie there unmoving,
Trying to shut down your thoughts, your head.
You lie there with eyes shut,
Trying to shut down your eyes, your sight,
Understanding.

Sometimes you wonder what you do if you succumb
To the temptations that are nearby.
Sometimes you wonder what you do if you succumb
And whether you can come back from it all.

I want to stop it all –
End all the mental anguish.
I want to end it all –
Retranslate mental to physical.
I want to be blind to it all –
Erase all memory of hurt and all memory of everything.

Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.
Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.
Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.
Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.

My god, can this go any faster?
Oh my god, I don’t think I can last here.

Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.
Oh my god, please help me.
Oh my god, make this stop.


The downward spiral keeps spiraling
Lower and lower and lower and lower.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
Further down, further down, further down.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
Out of control, out of control, out of control.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I can see, I can see, I can see.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I cannot scream, cannot scream, cannot scream.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I want it all to end, all to end, all to end.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I need help, need help, need help.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I am crying, crying, crying.

The downward spiral keeps spiraling
And I go down, go down, go down.


I am trying to believe.
I am trying to see.
I am trying to believe.
I am trying to be.

You know how everything always seems so cyclical.
The ups, the lows, the summits,
The minimum and maximum,
The point of inflection – infection – inflection – infection.

I let you in my body, my head,
I let you flow through my veins,
I let you turn me into this.

My God, can this go any faster?
Oh my God, I don’t think I can last here.

I am trying to believe.
I am trying to see.
I am trying to believe.
I am trying to be.

They say that it’s a battle that can be won.
They say that it’s psychological, physical, environmental.
They say that it’s fixable.

What’s happening?
How did I end up here?
I’m losing control, I’m not used to this.
I’m losing myself.

It’s hard to see, it’s hard to believe.
It’s hard to believe, it’s hard to be.

I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to see (and it’s hard to see)
I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to be (and it’s hard to be)

Hey…
Can we stop?
Me, I’m not.

Hey…
Can we stop?
Me, I’m not.

I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to see (and it’s hard to see)
I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to be (and it’s hard to be)

I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to see (and it’s hard to see)
I am trying to believe (and it’s hard to believe)
I am trying to be (and it’s hard to be)

I am trying to believe.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Individuality-ness
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Founded: Mar 02, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Individuality-ness » Mon Apr 29, 2013 7:16 pm

Spring 2013

WARNING: While these are still PG-13 (technically), the following is of a sexual nature. You have been warned.

To feel pain—
Oh, pain, yes, yes, yes
Keep going, keep smoldering
Keep sending that signal inside of me
Keep inducing the sodium and the potassium to work.
Make it hurt, make it hurt deep
I beg of you to make it hurt more and more.

Alive I feel, with every sensation.
Alive I feel, with every sudden shot
Tearing through the muscle and through the nerves
And traveling up and up and up!
A euphoria so sudden and so delicious.
I want more of it, more and more and more and more.

Pound me, I want to feel it deep.
Slap me, I want to know I can still feel.
Thrust that inside of me, let me feel its power
Let me remember that I’m alive.

Just take me, take me, take me away.

Defilement. You, defiler,
Dirty me, cause me to decay,
To rot me away from within
And to leave behind an empty shell
Awaiting the lightning strike to break it in half.

Your impurity needs no touch
Your impurity needs no gaze
Direct contact is not needed to rot me away.

You are my precious jewel
You are my disease, my infection.
You are the most beautiful, the most dangerous.
You dirty everything that you could think of.

How easy it was,
All you needed to do is to open a program
And all of a sudden you can defile everything
Anything, everything, anything you want.
How easy it was to be infected.

And now I am left as an empty shell
And you move on without hurt.
And now there is no one to turn to
And nothing inside of me at all.

Get me something tangible right now.
Hand me something that I can touch, can feel in my hands.
I want to fill up this hole inside of me
And you’re the only one who can provide it.

I don’t want your false saccharine sentiments,
And I don’t want your pity from the horn of ivory.
You can get rid of your humanity when you’re with me,
Your baseness is all I really need.

Just obey, just don’t question me – this way
Everything becomes simpler, easier.
There is no need to lie when you’re with me
Just take it and fill yourself, let me be the whore.

There’s a hole inside of me that needs to be filled
And you’re the only one that can fill it.
Just fill it, take me away, so far and so high.
Remind me how much I can feel alive.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Founded: Mar 02, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Individuality-ness » Tue Apr 30, 2013 10:13 pm

This is extremely rough. I don't think I'm happy with this either, and I wrote it.

My problem with this one is that I don't think I'm that happy with the line breaks. The poem is comprised of one broken up gigantic paragraph, and I've been staring at it for the past couple of minutes and I still don't think I have the line breaks right, but whatever. I tried.

So, here it is. Spring 2013.

You tried to keep me from falling apart
Except that you failed
And you gave up on me
And left me behind.
I have no one to turn to
And no one cares anymore,
Not even you.
I’m falling apart already and
You don’t even see.

I think I still want to talk
Except that we can’t anymore
And I don’t know if I want to reopen dialogue.

I’m worthless and you know it
Or why else would you leave me here?
And you know what?
I HATE YOU.

I hate you with every soul of my being,
As much as I loved once,
I hate you and I hate the fact that I’m here
And that I have no one ever again
And I hate everything,
And I hate you.

But I don’t think I really hate you, because I still care.

Maybe I don’t hate you
But I hate the memory that you left behind.

I am angry that I failed.
I am angry because you tried to help me
But at some point you just gave up on me
And I have no right to ask for anything anymore.

And the one thing that I have left
Is some music recommendations and some photographs
Except that photographs hurt too much
So I’m focusing on the music
Because it reminds me of you
And it reminds me of depression.

I’m drawn into it because you suggested it first.

I can’t really think about your name anymore
Because it hurts too much
But the memory of it still haunts my head
And even though I would like to remember with joy of what has been
All I feel is just a memory of pain.

And I just keep slipping away further and further and further down
And I’m trying to live my life in an attempt to forget
And to stick it up to you
But I know that no one will care
And you certainly don’t give a damn.

But I do it because I must and
Because I want it to mean something,
I want my life to mean something,
Even if you don’t care what it is
Because it matters.

Maybe that’s the reason why I’m now drawn again to self-harm,
To scratch my arms and otherwise
Establish my hate towards my body
Because my body was how you could get me
If you had ever met me physically.
And I hate my body so much
And I want to shed it away so that
I could get rid of this taint and of this dirty-ness,
The defilement that I feel,
Even though it was solely words and thoughts that defiled me
And not a physical touch.

I can’t even really think of myself as the Madonna anymore,
I can’t see myself as a virgin
Even though I physically am
Because how you once talked to me has
Already echoed back in my head
And the memory is defiling and tainted
With your memory.
It needs to be destroyed.

And I hate your memory and I want to be rid of it.
And that’s why I try to pretend that nothing existed,
And I feel alone.
And I hate the fact that now I have no one to turn to.

And all I really want right now
Is for you to just say that everything will be okay
Because I really need it right now
And I just want someone to say
That everything will be alright
Even if I won’t believe it at first.

And I want to hear it from you most of all.


Edit: See, I'm STILL not happy with this thing! Damn it!
Last edited by Individuality-ness on Tue Apr 30, 2013 10:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Postby Individuality-ness » Wed May 01, 2013 9:34 pm

*blinks* I think I'm on a writing streak. Damn.

Of course, Spring 2013. Also of course...

WARNING: the following poetry will be quite depressing. You have been warned.

I wonder sometimes what will happen when people see
The illusions that they had made up are full of holes
And are falling apart into tatters.

The living and the dead, do they exist?
Do the things I feel and can touch and can see
Really exist, or is it really just me?

I’m starting to pull away the layers little by little
And they’re falling apart easily and easily.
All of the distortion, all of the haze
The fuzz that sounds repeatedly in my head is fading away
And everything is suddenly clearer, clearer
But I’m afraid to see what really lurks underneath.

Sometimes I wonder if the person I say is the dream person
Is really the real me in that world
And I’m the real dream person in an eternal illusion
Complete with emotions and touch and senses.
Am I real or am I just simply a dream?

Help me, please, help me.
I need to be grounded again
I know that I’m slipping and I’m falling
But I’m falling up higher and higher
As well as falling lower and lower
Contradiction and falling and slipping down
Higher and higher up
And I’m floating away, away, away
And there is nothing to ground me
Nothing real, nothing substantial, nothing tangible
And I have nothing to hold on to,
And I’m falling and slipping down
And floating away from the pull of the planet too.

The clarity of sight and of light
It doesn’t come often, no.
But when it does, I can see, for I am free
Of the illusions that bind me.

But maybe this poem is an illusion too
A construct of the mind itself trying to bury itself and hide.

Is everything illusionary or am I simply just dreaming?

I open your mouth to scream out loud
And no one is there to listen.
Or maybe they hear the screams, but they do not care,
Warped up they are in their own personal dramas to worry
About some insignificant person somewhere in the world.

I want to scream, I want to cry
I want to beg someone to listen, to listen.
I want someone to hear the screaming and crying,
To listen to me, to care.

In the middle of a world full of 7 billion people
It doesn’t ever seem possible to feel alone,
And yet in the most crowded room
I feel even more alone than ever.

(This one is actually "The Artist's Lament" but I can't use contractions in spoilers, hence this title.)
Here I am.
I have opened my soul for you to see,
Except that I don’t think I have a soul
Not anymore, maybe not ever.

It’s all laid out for you to peruse.
You can mess with it (whatever it is) to your heart’s content.
I have laid myself bare to indifferent eyes
Waiting for approval or disgust.

My gods, what is wrong with me?
What have I become? Have I sold myself out
In order to gain recognition for what I do?
Since when did I become dependent on approval?

I don’t know if I have a soul,
But if I did, did I trade it away for likes?
In order to fill the void inside of me,
So dark and cold and so empty,
Have I become reduced to posting things publicly
Awaiting someone to say “I love this!” un-ironically?

I have laid myself out for the public eye
To approve or disapprove as they will.
Did I give away my heart and my self
In order to gain an empty satisfaction
In an attempt to fill a need that I cannot fill myself?

I feel like a panderer of human sympathy,
Using words to pull some strings that control people’s empathy.
I feel like I’m defiling myself with every word I say
And yet I can’t shut it off, no way.

There is no taking back what I have done,
But I’m scared of what I have become.
Hey… can we stop?
Oh gods… me, me, me I’m not. Me I’m not.

I’m scared of me.
Help me, help me please.

You helped me when I needed it in the past
And now you’re gone, and it’s
All my fault, all my fault, all my fault.

And now I can’t say anything,
I have nothing to say, nothing.
You helped make everything go away
And now you’re gone and left me here to stay.

Help, I’m begging you, help.
I gave you everything I have and had
And you took everything away from me
From who I used to be to who I could be,
And you took a little bit more.
I’m such a fucking whore
I just keep coming back for more and more
And now I’m crying on the floor
Begging for you to give me more and more.

You took my life, you took my heart
You took my soul and you took my art,
You took my dignity, you left me insane
And now all I have left is music and inner pain.

I just want something that I can never have.
I’m starting to scare myself.
You made this all go away,
And now I’m begging of you to help me,
Please I beg of you,
Give me what I can never have.

It seems so simple.
Three little words, one syllable each
And oh, so very short.

But how can you say them
When you feel as if you have no one to say them to
And that you have no right to say them at all?

How can you say them
When you feel as if you’re defiling its meaning
And that it would be the equivalent of swimming in sewage?

Even the thought of those words,
It’s defilement, the words are so pure and you are so dirty
And you have no right to say them at all.

You know what you really need
And yet you have no right to ask for it.
It’s so simple the sound and yet so hard to say…

Why is it so hard?
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Constaniana
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Postby Constaniana » Fri May 03, 2013 8:47 pm

The Candy Bar poem is nice. I'll read through more of them later, but you're definitely good at this.
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I have the oddest of feelings this is my fault somehow.
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Individuality-ness
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Founded: Mar 02, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Individuality-ness » Fri May 03, 2013 8:53 pm

Constaniana wrote:The Candy Bar poem is nice. I'll read through more of them later, but you're definitely good at this.

Thanks Con. :lol:

Strangely enough, the Candy Bar one was like from almost five years ago, and a school assignment to boot.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Individuality-ness
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Ex-Nation

Postby Individuality-ness » Sat May 11, 2013 2:49 pm

I'm going to be fair, I just made this one up. So Spring 2013.

Now today is the day where everything ends
And today is the day in which we all start all over again.
Together we can overcome, for
How else can we become stronger, better people?
All has been reveled, and I am stronger for it.
Nothing can stop me now, absolutely nothing.
I can overcome, I can breathe,
Enlightened with new knowledge, I
Look towards the future and hope.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Constaniana
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Postby Constaniana » Sun May 12, 2013 6:59 am

Individuality-ness wrote:I'm going to be fair, I just made this one up. So Spring 2013.

Now today is the day where everything ends
And today is the day in which we all start all over again.
Together we can overcome, for
How else can we become stronger, better people?
All has been reveled, and I am stronger for it.
Nothing can stop me now, absolutely nothing.
I can overcome, I can breathe,
Enlightened with new knowledge, I
Look towards the future and hope.

This is a good spring poem. Another job well done Indi.
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Postby Individuality-ness » Sat Jun 01, 2013 3:38 pm

Spring 2013

I believe, I believe, that there is love in heaven.
I believe, I believe, that all will be forgiven.

I am trying to believe,
I am trying to see,
I am trying to believe
That everything will be forgiven.

We are the guilty ones,
We did this together,
You and I together—
We are the guilty ones.

I believe, I believe, that there is love in heaven.
I believe, I believe, that all will be forgiven.

I am trying to believe,
I am trying to see,
I am trying to believe
That everything will be forgiven.

Our fault, all our fault.
The taste of dust is in my mouth
And you are gone somewhere else
And it’s our fault, entirely.

All of our hopes and all of our dreams,
All washed away completely gone.
We knew better, and yet we continued on,
And now we are the guilty ones.

May God have mercy on our dirty little hearts…

I believe, I believe, that there is love in heaven.
I am trying to believe that all will be forgiven.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Postby Individuality-ness » Wed Jun 05, 2013 9:40 pm

I know this isn't a poem, but more of a blog post. Fuck that shit. I'm posting it here anyways.

Clinical depression. Major depressive disorder. Depression. Mental illness. Disorder.

Are we all so scared of the big bad negative mood that we have to put on a fancy label and say “oh, you’re not just suffering from the blues, you’re really sick!” and go on from there?

It feels like it sometimes. Fear of the big bad black bad thoughts box. The black box is so horrible, it locks you in and it squeezes you and crushes you and fills your head with disease and horrors best left unsaid.

The bad thoughts box—that’s a symbol that I haven’t used in months, I haven’t thought of it that way for a while. I don’t know how I’d categorize things now, I don’t know if I want to. Just personifying what is considered to be a mental disorder, it’s not hard. But I don’t know if I want to do that now.

To personify a negative thing and give it a shape, an object, something to represent it… tantalizing, I guess.

Am I supposed to consider myself diseased? Am I ill? Am I sick with something? Or am I okay but with something in my head that I don’t want to be in my head?

Something inside of me just doesn’t work right.

I mean, I know the logistics of that—the biochemical side of things at least. I know about neurotransmitters, about the various biological chemicals that set up mood and everything else. I know that.

But I can’t describe it.

Putting it into terms of “the serotonin and the dopamine levels are somehow lacking in some way” or some bullshit like that (I guess a more accurate description would be “some areas of the brain are hyperactive, while other parts of the brain are in need of activity”, or something about the lack of certain neurotransmitters) just seems so rather impersonal. As if it’s completely separated from a person, just some alien thing.

And maybe it is an alien thing, a machine that just stops working, or like something that makes noise inside your head and the only things that you can do is to either ignore the voice or listen to its words. And the noise is the voice of a incubus, it’s a seduction, it’s luring you into a trap in which you will fail to get out of and yet you are tempted to inch closer and closer in order to study it, touch it and then run like naughty little kids. It’s the Siren singing her song on that island of death, and you have to resist its siren call lest you follow and die.

And then the return to labels.

Clinical depression. Major depressive disorder. Depression. Mental illness. Disorder.

It’s not as simple as “blues”. Nothing is ever that simple, not ever.

Labels only serve as simplistic portraits. It strips a person down, removing all of their complexity, and replaces it with a simple word, a label, something that is supposed to describe a person completely and yet is sorely lacking and incomplete. A label is not a person, it never had been and it never should be.

And I hate labels. I guess this is the reason why: because they are not full embodiments of the human condition but are rather simplistic and stripped down archetypes for complex people.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Postby Individuality-ness » Sat Jun 08, 2013 3:59 pm

[TW]: subject matter is rather depressing.

So, I was thinking about it for a while. Should I share it, or should I not?
Eventually, I figured that I'll let you guys read what is essentially a manuscript for something that I wrote and put together.
So, for your perusal, here is the completed work:
Image
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Postby Individuality-ness » Wed Jun 12, 2013 11:58 pm

There is NIN influence in this one. The title's a placeholder, although I think I'll make it official. Spring 2013

The walls are alive with noise
And everything is vibrating,
Full of the promise of life.

Everything—
The beginning, the ending,
The virtues, the sins,
The flesh and bone and the corporal,
Cyclical, repetitious,
Positive feedback loop.

Breathe.
We're just echoing the sound.
And time starts slowing down,
Please, just keep repeating.
Please just complete me.

Echoing the sound
The walls return the waves periodical,
Cyclical, repetitive, eternal.

And suddenly everything is clear,
And I have no fear.
I do not wish to disappear.
I don't want to make it stop.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Postby Gothmogs » Sun Jun 16, 2013 8:30 pm

These are amazing! The Spiral Down especially stood out to me, and you should definitely continue writing these.
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Individuality-ness
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Postby Individuality-ness » Sun Jun 16, 2013 9:07 pm

Gothmogs wrote:These are amazing! The Spiral Down especially stood out to me, and you should definitely continue writing these.

Thank you! :lol:
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Erinkita
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Postby Erinkita » Fri Jun 21, 2013 12:28 am

You're such a good poet, Indi. A lot of these honestly make me cry.
Loan me a dragon, I wanna see space.
Justice for Jane Doe

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Individuality-ness
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Postby Individuality-ness » Fri Jun 21, 2013 12:30 am

Erinkita wrote:You're such a good poet, Indi. A lot of these honestly make me cry.

:hug: Sorry about making you cry Erin. :( Thank you for the compliment though.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Erinkita
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Postby Erinkita » Fri Jun 21, 2013 12:34 am

Individuality-ness wrote:
Erinkita wrote:You're such a good poet, Indi. A lot of these honestly make me cry.

:hug: Sorry about making you cry Erin. :( Thank you for the compliment though.

:hug: No apologies needed. When you write sad poetry, tears mean you've done it effectively.
Loan me a dragon, I wanna see space.
Justice for Jane Doe

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Postby Individuality-ness » Fri Jun 21, 2013 12:36 am

Erinkita wrote:
Individuality-ness wrote::hug: Sorry about making you cry Erin. :( Thank you for the compliment though.

:hug: No apologies needed. When you write sad poetry, tears mean you've done it effectively.

I know. I tend to put in the [TW] for the sad ones, as a fair warning.
"I should have listened to her, so hard to keep control. We kept on eating but our bloated bellies still not full."
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Erinkita
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Postby Erinkita » Fri Jun 21, 2013 12:39 am

Individuality-ness wrote:
Erinkita wrote: :hug: No apologies needed. When you write sad poetry, tears mean you've done it effectively.

I know. I tend to put in the [TW] for the sad ones, as a fair warning.

The consideration is appreciated. I read them anyway. Because they really are very good.
Loan me a dragon, I wanna see space.
Justice for Jane Doe

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