my life is a joke and i've accepted the fact that it will exist only as a child's hourglass, lasting as the smallest possible increment in the lifespan of the universe, itself. sixty seconds, if not less. lesser, lesser, so minute and insignificant that i am the size of a singular atom of oxygen, but even then, oxygen has more of a use than i do as a human being. no one needs me to survive, and thus i live only for the fulfillment of my brain's meager pleasures that matter to no one but my insignificant self.
smile, you say? what use does a smile have for me other than the release of chemicals that give me some sense of fake happiness? a temporary release of the weight that i have forced upon my shoulders and mine alone, not for anyone else to and grab with their grimy, germ-covered paws? help, you say? i don't need help. i'll...
in an ocean of life, you wash away
the sand of pain, and in a balance,
you bring it back, salty toffee arms
holding me close in the past, present
and future, (my dear, haven’t i told
you, floating in molasses and honey,
how i love you so, to the furthest stars
in the galaxy, milky way waterfalls
that twinkle and sparkle in those)
orbs of night sky kindness, holding
me, floating on memory foam and
cotton candy fluff, wispy clouds
strong but gentle, and (my love,)
you are everything i could’ve ever
love, take my hand and show me
the world in your eyes, cover mine
hide me from the monsters, mauled
skin, yellow, slitted eyes and shark
teeth, leathery skin, hiding in the
shadows to dig their metal claws into
my soft skin, (muscle, sinew, bone,)
blood peeking out of gouges in my
small arms, red mixing with the
blue night air, cold trespassing,
slow, calculated steps, light and
barely heard, on the balls of his
feet, he creeps into my mind and
freezes my thoughts over, filling
my eyes with (darkness, if not for
a moment, then) a beautiful glitter
sky, white moon splattered with
gray speckles, hands reaching out
to take me into her warm embrace,
healing my scars, pale arms marked
with (too much) care, a gentle smile
with eyes that hide the pain of her
thousands (millions, billions) of
children, the gravity of her (painful)
unconditional love for those she has
adopted into her large family, holding ...
a world goes wrong in the span
of a singular moment too quick
to grab, water slipping through
the cracks of your sun-dried
fingers, and the world slows as
you watch (slowly, but) surely
the drops that would’ve saved
you, (or would they have, in
the end?) slowly moving out
of your reach, fingers cracking
under the pressure of failure and
what else is there to do aside
from moving in slow motion
following the droplets with
earth-cracked fingers, and you
can’t help but realize that your
face feels the water droplets
from a heaven above, all-seeing
blinking away tears from the
eyes of a cowering, broken
being, angel wings dyed black
at the tips, a forced darkness
in the lightness of their life
destroyed by the hands and
mouths of others, writhing
and dripping poison dipped
in the darkest of nights to
tear apart from the smallest
of cracks, resiliency growing
from tears of the pained and
I’m the apologies spoken when they didn’t deserve it. I’m the stuttered words and trailed off sentences because no one cared to listen. I’m the closed mouth in a sea of words, too afraid to speak over the storm of sound. I’m the butter knives in your stomach in the morning when you wake up to go to school or work. When you have an important day ahead of you. I’m the thoughts that keep you up for hours. I’m the scenes that play out in your head that make you sick to your stomach. I’m the stitches over your lips when you want to speak but can’t. I’m the emotions that bubble up in your stomach that always get pushed back down. I’m the geyser that burns your throat and seeps out of your eyes when those emotions are tired of being suppressed. I’m the tightrope you stand on when you’re trying to talk about something serious. I’m the...
We’ve all read a dystopian novel. Or an attempted utopia-turned-dystopia. Fahrenheit 451, The Giver, 1984. Those are the classics, aren’t they? We’ve either heard of them or read the pages ourselves. Or maybe you read a summary of them.
Have you ever thought about how there are parts of Earth that are perfect examples of dystopias? Or parts of history that more or less depict an attempted utopia that didn’t work out?
Not like they ever do work out.
I don’t think I’ve ever read a story where there's a utopia with a happy ending. A story where nothing goes wrong and the protagonist lives a long, happy life with no strife. Where they don’t fight for what they think is right.
There’s no antagonist in a utopia. Everyone is equal.
There’s no protagonist in a utopia. Everyone is equal.
There is no such thing as a perfect world — only imperfect.
Perfect was just a word made up...