saltwaterseas:

when i tell you i want to die, i am not looking for attention. it simply means, i want to die. when i tell you i want to die, it does mean i am going to kill myself. it simply means, i want to die. they call it “suicidal asphyxiation.” i want to get hit by a truck. or slip under and drown in the bathtub. or have a carbon monoxide leak in the apartment. or get electrocuted in the ceramics studio. or be murdered walking home at two in the morning.

but i do not want to kill myself.

i just want it all to stop. sometimes i find myself disappearing in groups of people. persons are moving and talking and laughing and looking busy and looking are the room and looking for an excuse to approach you. and i lose myself in the chaos of it all and retreat to the darkness inside my head. i retreat to sandy beaches and upper climate mountains, with bonfires and smoking leaves.

but i do not want to kill myself.

i beg the earth to stop spinning. i beg time to stop. i beg my lungs to fill with air and my body to work ‘normally’ again. i beg my heart to love less so i might be able to get some sleep that night. i beg my heart to love less so i might be able to think straight without wanting to rip it out of my chest and give it to every living creature in need of more love.

but i do not want to kill myself.

i do not want to be alive. the world is too horrid, too busy, too monstrous for me to find my place here. but i do not want to kill myself.

(Source: magnifiquementtragique)

savageleewriting:

I need a girl. Just for a minute or two.

I need a muse. I need a little angel to wipe my cock off on. I need to be inspired, and to be left alone to do something with that inspiration. 

“This is the worst place on earth,” he tells her, his hand reaching uncomfortably for the cock that swings loosely under her thousand-dollar latex skirt. “You’ll die here.”

“Stay long enough in the best place in the world darling,” she tells him, “and you’ll die there, too.”

I need a woman, a face, a body, a place to happen, a victim. I need a heart that functions as a hotel room, somewhere I can pay to spend a bit of time, chopping up victims and masturbating to cheap, ugly pornography.

Yeah, chopping up bodies, and editing memories. Slicing up eyeballs. 
Don’t you get it yet?
I want you to know.
Slicing up eyeballs. I want you to you know.

I want a girl who’s so groovy. I don’t know about you. But I want you to know. I want a girl who’s so groovy.
And I want to
Debase her. 

dennisdubay:

It’s interesting, this need for words I have. When I was younger, they were here for me when I wanted entertainment; whether that meant me writing them or reading them, it didn’t really matter.

I found refuge in them.

As years went by, and school became life during high school, they became my enemy, simply because I was forced to write and read what others thought I should - and I have a really big problem with authority.

So i sought refuge from them.

I began drinking in school, it made the classes bearable. I could read their classics, and find entertainment in the ridiculousness of the themes presented. Nothing felt authentic to me, because I couldn’t place myself in these books. I’d yet to travel, live, and for that the books were empty to me.

It was only after a chance viewing of “barfly” did I learn of Charles Bukowski. From there, I shot him into my veins like heroin. All the shit he wrote about, I’d been there, done that. It was relevant too me.

And I began to write again. Differently this time though. Where once words were my entertainment, my refuge … now, they’d become my weapon.

I’ve been at war now for ten years. Trying to paint pictures of real life in a make believe world of reality television. I bare my soul everyday, in hopes that someone else who might be sitting at another computer screen going through some shit that they think only happens to them might stumble upon one of these pieces and realize that …

Sure, you shouldn’t spend a whole day or a whole paycheck in a bar, but if that’s what you need to do to keep going, then run that tab, run that bar. There’s so many people telling everyone else what is and what isn’t …

Where did they get their certificate of life from? Last time I checked, this life didn’t come with a manual. And the best way to do anything is trial and error, and if your trials last forever, then welcome to the club.

My war will never be over.
I’m tired of uptight, pretentious hipsters who think these words are more then what they are. They are just words.

Its the heartbeat behind them that matters. And if the heart beats true, how is that wrong? 

(Source: therealvagabondking)

vaudevilliandevil:

There is a place where the darkness is palpable. Deep in the canyons of legend, it is a valley of amnesia. A home for all of the forgotten things. Where demons and devils dwell alongside seraphim. God is down there, not just the god of the Christians, or the Jews, or the Muslims; but the gods of the Norse, Egyptian, Greek, and Roman. The spirits of nature, the nymphs and the satyrs. Everything is dead and forgotten in this pit, this vale. The writers, the historians, and the explorers. This place, it is deeper and more full of things forgotten than can be remembered.

They are the true casualties of the apocalypse. The world ends, and everything that it once was is forgotten, shunned to some dark corner of the universe. A wealth of knowledge for anyone to stumble upon. If there was anyone left.

clintirwin:

And the golden hands were grasping from the golden field, pulling her down to sit among them. They were she and they were he, and their eyes were leaves. Their bodies were stems and their heads and hands were shapes made of tiny blossoms. Their voices were crickets and cicadas and frogs, thrumming and drumming and humming. She felt the sun on top of her head, rewarding her, feeding her, calming. And her head was yellow and her hands were yellow, and her body was a stalk of green. She was humming and thrumming and drumming, as the sky counted out the days of the world.

With time comes trouble and joy and trouble again, but there was no time out in the field. Trouble was the old woman, who lived in the house on the edge of the field, who had lost her mother when still a small girl. The field was yellow all the year round and the old woman was very sure why. And when the workmen came to clear and plow she sent them away each time. Each morning she walked in the field in a circle and a circle, waiting for the golden hands to take her. “Take me before I die,” she’d say, “take me to see my mother. Take me to the place where time is still, while I still have my wit and my will.” But the hands never came and her trouble was never still, and she would sit in the field and cry. Her body was found in the field one summer, and the field was brown by winter. Each summer when the field returns to full golden, if you listen real close to the crickets and cicadas, soft and low is an old woman crying. And the far away sky keeps counting out her days.

Note: inspired by this prompt. - Clint

anditrained:

Last night I tore my skin off and bathed in Prestige Vodka. The singeing whiteness of my inward life soaked my muscles and melted my plastic bones until I was nothing but liquid love and passionate steam. And, like a ghost, I floated through masses of people walking in no direction, with real hands on real hips and real words drifting over painted lips. I haunted my own existence, reanimated my own life-like wax corpse and shook hands with important people and hugged beautiful people, who all told me how nice I looked. Yet I pulled away my contact from these people, like a satellite falling away from earth and floating through the terrifyingly beautiful expanse of space. Like falling off a desert cliff into the molasses air, every minute falling three feet closer to my death.

But one beautiful person lingered. Her hand graced my fingertips for 1.35 seconds as I pulled away from a warm hug and for 1.35 seconds my fake plastic hand became as real as her tempting eyes that stung me with real, enamored, pain. The kind of pain that makes you shut your eyelids and point your gaping mouth to the ceiling while you breath out steam and gently moan your lover’s name, like a tiny storm stuck in a brass cage. 

And as the spanish guitar scream that rang in my melted brain waned into the background music of my life, someone said something to me. I turned my head for a split second, said a ghostly sound, and turned back to find my moment gone. Yet the negative of her green eyes are burned into my eyelids, and I can still close my eyes and feel pierced again.

happymonk:

In buddhism, they have these statues of buddhas that people over many generations have layered with gold, people really do make sure that the outsides of the buddhas are as beautiful and as pleasing to the eye as possible, but the insides of them, the parts that nobody sees, are hollow, they’re empty.

marigoldjesus:

There were these four boys with little unusual names to me. I found them rough diamonds enriched with love and I penned them in my little book.
Cosmo was the first. The night came and hidden gems filled the sky, shining like there was something to believe in. He was enlightened – opened up my chest took my heart. There was glory in him. He threw it up high and it never came back down.
The shooting stars
Swam down
To the ground
Explode into birds and ran me down
Skeletal souls danced in the midnight sky
Laughed and cheered

He Took my virginity kiss, hung it up on his lips

Rider let me rest my head on his bare chest .my finger would twirl his brown hair to the root .sometimes he would holler the pain. He would write poems about how he would like to -

Your skirt painted with
Red flowers
Underneath nothing I would
Be soaked in your honey
By my single two fingers

He would kiss with tongue and we held hands across a thousand seas.
My egg dropped form Venus my direction of the sun setted . I became a woman
Without him,

I was young
Not naive
To give sense
But I loved him
But not enough
I ran to —

River, by this time my hair was to my thigh as I sat and my breast grew more than
Two years before, he, river created my smile in paintings and made monologues
Of us fighting and fucking .

What can I say
The moon spinned
I was in love
Before and after

And there Heathcliff had set a table and two chairs in the middle of the field . We armed wrestle each other as the storm leaked from a chessboard table of clouds .
We both lost
As lightning struck us both
Far into a distance

My heart is still high up. I wouldn’t call it lost or any other negative emotion. I digged a hole, plant the book into the ground. Let it wrap in roots colored like veins of blue and green. And out from rays stronger of heat of 100 degrees: them.
“The Boys With The Unusual Names. “

vaudevilliandevil:

Memory fades the wounds, heals them like flesh over flesh. Covers their weak exposed skin and leaves pretty little scars. Scars that I can trace, scars that mark the time of my life.

I have been scarred so few times. The scars I have fade away, remembering pain unbearable, but they’re healing now. Even now. The jagged lines of discolored skin are beautiful now, somehow. The pain that was is replaced by a filtered memory. Seashells, glass, knives, sharp metal, and concrete. Things that hurt me before, that can hurt me again, seem like distant problems. I’m mostly unscathed. My past injuries are faded, pale visages of their former glory. Am I stronger? No. I’m simply more used to pain than before.

What else is there to say? Pain of the heart? That’s a matter of emotion, scars that leave no marks on the flesh, but leave marks in the soul. That tatter it, distort, and weaken it. Those holes hold permanence. Even there I’m not as wounded as I make it seem. I expected this, I expected pain, and misfortune. I didn’t expect happiness. Maybe that is my failing.

mobbleberry:

It was strange, waking up to unblemished skin. To a man who hadn’t pawed at me, hadn’t given me bruises with his lips and teeth. It was odd, to touch my face and not wince at the sore skin around my mouth, where his stubble had rubbed like gravel on my tissue paper lips.

It was strange…

Because it still felt like passion.

He had owned me, but he had not once drawn blood.
He didn’t feel the need to, I was not a tenderloin of flesh to be gnawed at. Rather, a rush of waterfall kisses, to be caught in his fingers and brought softly to his lips. To be exhausted, then lulled into a gentle slumber…

It was strange, to feel passion. To feel it, without the familiar twang of pain.