No me interesa la felicidad y ni quiero experimentarla otra vez la felicidad solamente te habré las puertas al odio y ala tristeza es como amar a alguien, amar a alguien es como el sacrificio de poder estar triste por largo tiempo las puertas de la felicidad también pueden ser las puertas de la tristeza y la gente siempre te dicen cosas buenas como que algún día cumplirás tus sueños pero se les olvida mencionar que las pesadillas también son partes de los sueños haci que ¿ser feliz? yo por que quiero ser feliz esta bien sentir tristeza y odio y justamente por eso te diré.......
you have slipped away
counting each breath
and from my hands
of silence I barricade
telling my midnight
that fancies my skin
I cling to each moment
each minute I had
a lovely serenade
off our bodies
this is not a phase. i promise you, this is not a phase, my brain has given up, i am hollow and unlovable and nothing will change reality when it’s right in front of me. i cannot find a way out of this maze, there is no exit to the voice inside my head and i hear my flaws on repeat, i cannot help myself from falling further down into a hole that i cannot dig myself out of, please. please show me the way to serenity, my ache is destroying me, i am far from anything i ever thought i could be. this is not a phase, i promise you. i wish it was, i wish i could wake up everyday and feel something but i am just existing and i have forgotten what it’s like to live, please. please save me from myself, i am destruction walking, i am cold and miserable and worthless and i know it, please. find me a way to nirvana, i beg. i want it all to end.
I ran out of the coping skills my therapist dispenses, but there's always the old fashioned ones. There's always a dark bar and unkissed mouths and drinks that burn on the way down and unanswered messages and regrets.
There are so many regrets in the backseat of this car whose time I rent by the minute while I sit in a body I rent by the year. I am outrunning the inevitable clock, screaming that I'll shatter before I let the world shatter me.
I am sick of fighting battles I always lose with the girl in the mirror. I want to erase her so thoroughly she'll never be found again.
You can be the most decent , caring & gentle person on earth but not everyone can see you as that & no amount of justification or action can change their perceptions of you & that’s an opinion you have to learn to coexist with —
D C de Oliveira from Hēsychazō "Untitled" |
September 18 2021 . 10am . Saturday
Nearly a year in this townhouse / some things remain the same , the walls , the ceiling is a little darker from the residue of dust & mildew / other things cannot be change , immutable either as a choice or just as is / Spring softly erects herself , warmer morning as winter departs from my weary bones / I am a mute longing , I realized the usefulness & uselessness of it / days are categorized / flowery air calmly enters / I am aching always & no pain relief can ease the piercing splinter of its claws / I cannot be well & I accept it / something woke up inside me but felt dismal perhaps even discontent with my body / so she tortures herself & I am dreadfully unwilling to savour every blood that drips within / will she ever stop? / foolish to question , since who am I but just her vessel / this is unbearably intolerable , to be excruciatingly thrust by an invisible shiv / an endless gulf of a hallowed hollow / to pretend that the severity of this acutely chronic phantom pain is easy to live with is to act as if being burned alive in an inferno is marvellous / what is there to fathom when it's yet known or existed? / I have tried to reach out to the source of the pain alone / kneeling in the altar of my own psyche , performing all the rituals that is sacred within the ground of my soma / yet I felt deserted , somewhere the vacancy of my land is forsaken , as though the goddess in my earthen anatomy had discarded her temple / I watch the movement of air , in & out the tenderness of what's empty / & somewhere , the words abandoned me , neglected by perhaps my own doing / again , here almost a year & some things are changing , while some refuses to take part of it / & I am held hostage by the despair of the nameless harrowing sorrow / to which I lay bare , for what battles can be won when you're already crippled & cursed with the immortal wounds? -
D C de Oliveira from Forlornly “Dolorous” | September 18 2021, 9am . Saturday
you don't know
you're too busy being in love
the stars twinkle
their mischievous grin
tells of secrets
he told me he wanted to paint
me with his fingertips
(I let him dream)
What do we do when the world turns it's back on us? We become vigilantes, we take to the shadows and watch over it from there. They don't need to know about us, we don't do this job for the fame. Leave that to the legacies happy to be on the spotlight handling the masses.