Yielding
i've been beating my room for weeks and it proffered a book of poetry i wrote in early 1996. does this mean i won? i don't think so because the proffering only rendered heartbreak. there are notebooks and boxes of writing. i cry with remembered agony
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The speechless come
In but two kinds:
Those who need no words
For they know the image,
Those who have no images
So need all words.
(2007)
--
From my own pages of remembered agony.
I love you.
Kindred
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Thank you for sharing and solace. Thank you for reading in the first place. I did not expect a reply and was surprised to find one. It resonates with me as yeah... I'm there right now.
It is odd to consider something 15 years old as one's "early period" when one is already middle aged. Am I really that old? Yes. Did my words inspire? Yes. Should that lift my spirits?
Perhaps, but it is hard when ones actions are to push away those we love. My reflex to this kind of pain is to curl up and retreat. That's where I am. I am a -strikeout- fearful -/strikeout FEAR-FILLED creature.
But thank you for everything. There is no greater gift then inspiration.
I will love thee too, just know that if I slam the door, I love thee no less. I simply hate myself, ever more.
ps FUCK the lack of formatting. What is this shit? Fuck it
.
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is to kill.
Sometimes
myself
sometimes
everyone else.
http://anon-j-anon.livejournal.com/51671.html
I wrote this a few weeks ago, after __ happened. After I was done fantasizing about annihilating the world, I wrote this. There is no solace in it, only nothingness.
and yeahfuck formatting
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