Glorious ShitAnother Dream-You can make it;Pass through shitTo welcome the divine.********************What kind of mind is this?What kind of perversion?You don't make much sense to me,You don't make much sense to them-You don't make much sense.Return to painting flowers,Name flowers flowers,Name darkness strangeness,Name genius a vile trait.We cannot decipher you...Bend down a little.Everyone needs their audience-Who are you to dispute?Who is it you're talking to?It can't be to yourself!Alright. Now...Everything is illuminated!(I can write my glossaryOf horror and neglect.)Do I love you?Of course I love you,Nobody else still caresAbout the little things,Such as your senseless self.(Yes, I'll make everything clear,The way you want me to.)Let's speak a new language,Let's call man the Head,The alphabet into the globe-The stud of universe.(Of course we are the center,Can't you see?)NowStrip.Stop laughing,Stop writing-Stop mocking me!You are a brilliant little b
MotherA knot deep in my stomach-An unbearable growing painContaining breaths and scars,Momentary intervals of our life's game.A knot in my throat,Choking me before the rise,Depriving us of understanding,Taking away left time.A tidal wave devours my skin,Casting me bare, without a kin-Without the courage this blast to bare,Stolen from time,Convicted to just stareAt every day that passes by,At my lack of bravery,My egoistic past wounds driveSafekeeping me against the onesI should be the least afraid to love.A knot is tied around my heart,Bred inside it for years-For too damn long for me to claimDespite the drain I still have one.
The WriterI am not my stories-Not all of them at least...There is truthAnd then there's fiction.Spare me just this.
HardDo not flirt with Death.He will fuck you anyway.
ReturnIf Time existed,I would not.The face is erased,My eyelids reversedTo form a danceOf dissonant notes.The unbeliever in me,The lioness in me,The crimes perpetratedUpon my life;All these exist-While I could not,Even if I wanted to;Within this hellNo man could breathe,Expand, or love.Take this sigh,This glimpse into my underworld.Step in,Or forever Goodbye.
LoversYou define me.You hold me imprisonedin the snaresof magic unprecedented,under the reign of love.My eyes are wet-and in thisthey're not alone...I want you.I must devourevery inch of you-Before it is too late,before the passion disappearsas unexpectedly as it came.
The Serpent's RevengeFlames protrude through my eyes.The pain is sharp,clear inside my mind.As the smoke escapesfrom my future corpse away,everything is possible.The epitaph stands cold,alone within my life,in memory of fear.I grow into a lionessroaring through my spirit.My soul is for saleto anybody interested.The flesh grows old,denouncing my history.Hanging from a thought,this world I leave behind.I denounce my possessions.From the imposed egoI recognize but fearaugmenting with each loss.Our prisons we buildwith our faked tears.In full denial we screamtowards the unattainable.With hatred-filled fiststhose secluded we attack-Like amoral beastsdemanding vindicationin the name of victims sodomizedin their reign of broken human pacts.
BitterIt starts with a feeling,a flashing memory,a suggestion of movement
It all comes back to me:Faces, dates, facts.It all comes back to me-But I am not there
A teardrop, your handinterchanging genders
Our lives could bethe finest, most delicate,most intricate scenarios.My thighs spread apart,waiting for you.My mind gets rid ofits burdens most unbearable.The music is familiar-And so is your smile
Always promising,never truthful.While I gnaw away the timelost in contemplation,you start another life.As lovers we first met.As foes we diefrom our histories apart-Creators of riddles,friends to no one.
Turning into GhostsWho's that face on the wall?Who's that mirrored mask of horrorother than my own?Leaving the years flowwithout the time to lookinside or outside,we let our livesmove on their own.So drag this carcass on the mud-Smear its facewith these horrid colorsof solitude and alcohol.For of this selfwho used to be my own,I recognize the traitsbut not the whole.
Notes on Avoidant Personality DisorderGreen pine trees, cranes and turtles…You must tell a story of your hard times,And laugh twice.— From Oiwai-OndoOn 30 June 2015 I was diagnosed with Avoidant [Anxious] Personality Disorder:Individuals with Avoidant Personality Disorder grow up with excessive social anxiety and withdrawal. They have a longstanding pattern of shyness, feelings of inferiority, and hypersensitivity to rejection/embarrassment. The core features of this disorder are: (1) negative emotion (anxiousness (fear of rejection/embarrassment)), and (2) detachment (withdrawal, intimacy avoidance, and anhedonia [decreased ability to feel pleasure]). This disorder is only diagnosed if: (1) it begins no later than early adulthood, (2) these behaviors occur at home, work, and in the community, and (3) these behaviors lead to clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.Source: http://mentalhe
MotherI lived with my mother until I was eleven. She once told me that I was a planned child. Yet when I was twelve she told me she doesn't want me to live with her anymore because "she got her own life now". Now, if she would have been the jetsetting type, I might've understood. When you travel a lot a child can be a burden, limiting you in your personal fulfillment. But my mother spent her newly acquired own life on her butt on the couch, infront of the TV.Why do you want a child when you get rid of it after twelve years? I have my speculations about this. She separated from my father when I was five, first we went from one hotel to another, after she went to the lawyer she received spousal support. Even after I got older, she never looked for a job. She just didn't wanted to work, always had excuses. She was lazy. My father later told me it's always been like that, even though he got her a well-paid job in a big firm (prior to my birth), she always complained about work and later
I Am Not UglyWeek 1 "Why don't you like your body?" Kim asked. Noticing my eyes focused on her pen, she laid it and the yellow legal pad on the table between us. I didn't bother to look at the scribbles there. I knew what they would say. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Low self-esteem. Victim of sexual abuse. Negative self-image. Possibly related to attacker's verbal abuse. "Because I'm ugly." My fingers found a strand of lanky blond hair and started to twist. Around and around, tighter and tighter. Eventually, strands were pulled from my scalp, but I didn't notice. Pain had stopped existing. "Why do you think that?" Kim shifted in her chair, recrossing her legs and angling her head to get a better look at my down-turned face. I don't know what she thought she'd find there. "Because it is true." "Who told you that?
Against His WillINTRODUCTIONThis is the true account of my personal experience as a feeder, fattening up my husband against his wishes. I have done my best to offer this story exactly as it happened, other than changing names, with no exaggeration. You may feel that what I did is morally reprehensible, and I cannot disagree. But I also cannot bring myself to regret even one moment of it. It was the most exciting time of my life; I have never felt more alive or sexually satisfied. Not to mention the child who resulted from this brief but scorching affair, who is today the light of my life.I. BORN THIS WAYMy name is Marie and I was born with this fetish of feederism. All my life, as far back as I can remember -- maybe age 5, long before I even had a sex drive -- I have had an intense fascination with overeating, fat bellies, and weight gain. It was the subject of pictures that I drew and stories that I wrote and fantasies that I daydreamed. I was always overweight as a child but not remarkably
Yanking her panties at the playground It was a few days after we wedgied Lacie on the bus, and I still wanted to get Breanna. Breanna and I were hanging around together by ourselves, without Roxanne. We basically just rode our bikes around and found a playground on the outskirts of the small town we both lived nearby. It wasn't a big one, a few stairs, bars to climb on, slides, swings, and a merry-go-round. Naturally we both got on the merry-go-round first and began to spin. When that got boring, we went over to the slides. The slides were bright yellow and unusually steep for a children's park. Breanna wanted to go down the slide first, and I obliged. The tall girl came and sat down on the slide, ready to go down. I noticed a blue waistband sticking out of her pants. I saw my chance, and I went for it. Breanna opened her mouth in a joyous scream as she shoved herself down the slide. I lunged, and missed. Breanna didn't get a wedgie this time. Unfortunately, I had lea
you can't make them love you.He is beautiful, new, unexplored. He has wanted to kiss her ever since they met one week ago and fell prey to helpless chemistry. Dont, she says, moving her hands in a subconscious yes pattern along his arm as he rubs his cheek against hers. You dont even know my favourite colour. The wind cuts through her thin jacket, and his chest is so warm. Red, he guesses, improbably correct. His ears are cold. And how many dogs do I have? Two, he says, and she laughs wildly at his luck as he nuzzles her neck. Im trying to save you, she tells him, pushing fruitlessly against his broad shoulders. So you dont wa
Notes on a Psychiatric WardJohn Forbes Nash, Jr., was one of the recipients of the 1994 Nobel Prize in Economics — but he nearly wasn't: the Nobel selection body had expressed concerns that he might embarrass them.Mr Nash was a paranoid schizophrenic. His illness had led him to believe, among other things, that he had been charged with creating a new world government that would lead to his being crowned Emperor of Antarctica.Some people might call such a belief mad. Mr Nash himself, acknowledging what he had been through, said: 'My quest has taken me through the physical, the metaphysical, the delusional — and back.'The same might be said of my own quest.After a long and interesting life, Mr Nash, along with his wife, died suddenly and needlessly in an automobile accident. I was on a psychiatric ward at the time.The point of these brief, loosely-structured notes is to speak a little about some of my fellow patients, and to illuminate the often obscured truth that people with a mental illness are
Sonny Moore BiographyMikaela M*****May 11, 2009BandPortfolio ProjectSonny Moore BiographySonny John Moore was born on January 15, 1988, in Los Angeles, California. He would go on to become the lead singer of Florida-based band From First To Last, and is currently the front man of his solo project, Sonny.Moore began his musical career when he was nine years old, receiving a guitar for Christmas from his father. However, Sonny didnt become serious with the guitar until he was about twelve years old. In the Alternative Press podcast, Moore was asked At what point could you call yourself a musician? To this, Sonny responded, I started learning songs 'cause I was a guitar player before I was a singer. [My father] would, like, brag about me at his work 'cause I used to play in local bands, and he would get photographers to come out and shoot for us and stuff. He was like, Yeah. My son's a musician. It kinda stuck with me.When Sonny Moore was two years old, he move
The Green of my Heartbeats5: Red, rude, a bully.She was bored, propping her face up on her palms. Her teacher, high-voiced and chirping in fuzzy green flurries, was writing rows of sevens on the board. White chalk. The sevens were glimmering in turquoise, and she smiled.Sevens were nice, friendly. Seven would never eat nine. Nine was just a baby, like her brother at home.She was only five. Fives were bullies, nasty. Bright garish red, like B. B was red, but he was not as rude. He forgot things though. Like his keys. Impatient.She sighed, her head slipping and resting on her wrist. She could feel her pulse on her cheek."Seven!" said her teacher, continuing to fill the board. "Say it with me. Seven!"Later, they got to practice identifying numbers. She had learned before, at home. Kindergarten was not meeting her new knowledge expectations.Sitting at the table, she strived to make conversation to ease the ache inside her brain. "I like sevens. Aren't they the prettiest color you've ever seen?"They boy next
AliveI am a black canvasSmeared with gold and red.