drunk-on-poems-and-songs

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

why am i healing

having a scar that has healed

its like

idk

wrong

the urge to rip it back open

it was there because of a reason

it was there because of an event that happened

its mending now, what of the past now

the past is vanishing every day

what happened

what did you learn

wisdom is gained with age

who was i last year

who was i last month

who am i supposed to be

who do i know

what things have i told people

hoe many people do i know

it dosent feel like ive existed for more than a month

be normal

ne normal

be normal

whats normal

what standards do i have

with what do i draw my boundaries

who can cross them

wha is happening

who am i

why am i healing

my body is riddled with wounds and each have a story

lines lines lines lines

forearms stomach thighs

lines lines lines lines

what remains of me when they heal

what would remind me to not speak unless spoken to

to not act unless called upon

to not exist until remembered

habits

habits

making habits

breaking habits

writting

poems

why am i healing

its too fast

if it patches up if my skin is white again

what did i feel

what happened

surely nothing bad else it wouldnt have healed

why am i healing

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

stuck

i think. i think i think. ofc i think. everyone thinks. but my thoughts in particular are affected by the things around me what i watched, how that one person i went on a walk with talked, the last thing i read, everything. and after a while, it’s like i don’t know. i pretend to be a damsel in distress in situations that don’t even involve other people sometimes. ohh my life is so sad, my parents are so emotionally abusive. ohh i think i’m depressed, everything feels so down and i don’t really have the energy to do anything. ohh i’m getting fatter, i’ve lost six kilograms over the span of an entire fucking year. ohh this, ohh that and then there’s another part of my head that’s like bitch. shut the fuck up. mom and dad do the best that they can do, and do the best in accordance with what they think to be the best. you get scolded when you do something to deserve it, and if they do something you truly dislike and you tell them, they try to not do it again. depressed my ass. you don’t even fit all the symptoms. don’t have energy?? you’re just lazy. you said you don’t really have any energy to do any workout yesterday, but when i dragged your ass to the gym you did a full and proper set of chest exercises. you’re not getting any thinner cause you can’t control that manhole you call a mouth and stuff everything you find ‘tasty’ inside. 3 a.m. i couldn’t sleep yesterday. lay in bed, scrolling mindlessly through instagram, came across a reel that said: "after all these years i failed my parents anyways, what use was it all?" and then just fucking started sobbing. and after a while, it just became "shut the fuck up you overreacting bitch, ankita was right in naming you a drama queen. look at you sobbing like a child. you haven’t done enough to be able to lay down and cry." "isn’t the entire ‘you’re a man, men don’t cry’ shit bullshit? shouldn’t everyone be more in touch with their feelings or something?" "yeah but that doesn’t count lying unproductively, laying down in your bed, crying over random bullshit you see on instagram of all things, that thing rots your brain." "that’s a point. i shouldn’t cry. it’s 4 a.m. now, i have to go on a morning run, i should really be sleeping, but i can’t seem to." "just eat a melatonin. if it doesn’t work, just put all the pills in a water bottle and chug it down." "you do realize melatonin isn’t much of a sleeping pill? i think it boosts sleep. plus, chugging an entire bottle of pills would be as if i’m attempting suicide." "don’t YOU mention suicide, you dumb bitch. you’ve cut yourself almost ten times this year, every time, you were close to hitting an artery or going deep enough. it didn’t even hurt much at that moment, and yet you just dropped the cutter and were content seeing your hand bleed. didn’t you lie to glitter as well? you failed your part of the deal." "the deal was about not saying sorry as much. also shut up. i drank the melatonin. music?" "riptide." "roger. g’nite." "g’nite." ** static. ** it’s weird. i think. and then i think that this isn’t my thought, i’m pretending to be someone else. and then i think that me thinking that i’m thinking that i am pretending to be someone else is absolute bullshit, and i’m thinking that so that if there’s a mind reader nearby, then they think that my mind is a sophisticated place. it’s weird. i don’t know. i don’t know what this is about. it isn’t much of a poem to be written on a poems platform. ah well who gives a fuck anyways? it isn’t like anyone’s gonna listen anyways. i don’t know. ah well. g’nite.

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

untitled

untitled

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

the day after i killed myself

a mirror a blade and filth

the day before i killed myeself well if you can call it that it wasnt a day with fireworks or dirgies or a day where the world seemed dark and bleak it was a day full of dull knives and silent screams it was a kind of day where everyone you know kinda drags their shadows behind them and they all appear to be so so damningly tired of breathing in a world that spits them out

people dont usually plunge knives into others over a misplaces word or an akward glance thats something thats reserved for the special days days where the weight of their existance passes onto yours like a bruise with a bruise days when their gaze is just a bullet when ther silence is louder than they could scream sometimes just being seen is enough to tear apart the threads holding me together

but that night well the night i killed myself or the first time it wasnt loud the moon dint flinch the stars dint dim it was a nght like the one before and like the one that followed it except for the silent war raging through my head sometimes the universe is cruel thay way

i dint think uch i dont like to think much my thoughts sometimes well often times urge me to make decisions that all else of my mind screams at me for even considering thinking is dangerous when your mind is a minefiels you just move dont think just do pick up a blade the wrong blade the dull blade maybe thinking is better at times after all and place it on your arm feel the metal like its whispering to you whispering that this is a fucking awful decision and is gonna hurt like a bitch drag it and let the world stop spinning a little bit less

this isnt about death i yearn to die but i dont wish to take my life by my own hands i wish to die in a manner that would horrify and mentally scar the person that comes across my corpse if i somehow leave one this isnt about pain either pain is a preadator i aoid at all costs but theres something something about that thin red line and that blood pooling and dropping onto the floor in a constant stream that makes me feel nothing

mirrors mirrors mirror mirror on the wall whose the ugliest of them all mirrors gods mirrors when people look into mirrors they see flaws smudges stray hairs imperfections something they promptly get to fixing

when animals look into a mirror they see curiousity staring back and i envy them at times their innocense innoscence is indeed a bliss whomsoever is that dumbass that said that

when vampires look they see nothing and i envy them and their frictional blood too i wish i saw nothing

when i look i see a grotesque parody of a person a skin covered abomination walking talking filth but when i look away down at my arms my legs lo and behold viola badabin badabono im human

crowds ah crowds im a glitch int he pattern im a crow lost amongst ravens like a stain in the fabric of existanec this used to fuck me up primarily my thought process but its just a fact now a heavt ugly fact

where was i

not thinking

there are a thousand reasons to pick up a blade but when it bites when it drags the reasons lessen by quite a bit and cease to matter and scatter like leaves in the winf

i dont wish to die well not in this manner atleast i dont wish to bleed out its sticky i dont wish to feel pain

still i drag it the first time i thought damn that sucked and dint help with shit ah well another bad decision but the next time the next and now three scars later that have faded into invisibility and one fading i think thre is something to it i dont know its a topic for observation

erasons reasons reasons reasons reasons wonderful little shits emphasis on shits i do it for i wish others to see the glipse of the filth that i see everyday i walk past anything that reflects thta what festers below the surface of this uncomfortable cloth we have named skin

the worlds beautiful the stars blink the trees whisper the people talk i im absence of it the beauty aspect of life it feels like to be a wound in the fabric of the universe a contraiction wrapped in flesh

wrapped in flesh that has a nice ring to it

maybe i wont know why maybe i already do maybe it dosent matter two shits maybe it never did

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

Gratitude Journaling

lIfE's A sTaGe, or some shit they said  

but look at you  

a fucking  

puppet  

with cut strings  

dancing like a drunk bird trying to impress the wind  

no one told you to perform  

no one asked    

yet there you go  

spinning like a top  

on a cracked table no one even sits at anymore  

do you hear it??  

the sound of silence clapping??  

no  

of course not  

because mannequins    

don’t move  

and the dead don’t applaud  

you’ve got an audience of cardboard souls    

and even they’re bored of your pathetic tricks    

not hate  

not love  

just—nothing    

and gods  

doesn’t that sting more?    

you think effort’s a currency    

like you’ll be paid in meaning or warmth    

but the universe doesn’t oWe you    

a single “well done” or even a “fuck you.”    

it doesn’t owe you shit    

you’re the kid showing off cartwheels    

to a portrait of their dead dad  

cute, if it weren’t so goddamn sad    

but hey cmon  

don’t stop now    

what’s one more tumble into insignificance?    

you’re the clown of your own funeral    

juggling voids, tripping over the infinite    

and maybe you’ll laugh when you hit the dirt    

because even that feels better than apathy    

better than knowing    

the world was never watching you at all    

you’re not cursed  

you’re not special    

you’re just noise in the static    

a speck in the endless gray    

so keep dancing  

bitch    

the spotlight isn’t even on you    

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

— Traci Brimhall, Dear Eros

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

da boi

he was born screaming, not in protest, but as if to confess, as if the world deserved to know it had just been cursed.

his parents didn’t love the way he laughed, or how his presence clung like a stain. he began to tear himself apart, scraping off the dirt of who he was, offering the pieces as penance, but no matter how much he bled, he could never scrub himself clean.

in school, he was the boy who sat too still, a shadow out of place, a smudge on their perfect picture. he studied their smiles like commandments, practiced their words like prayers, and still, he failed. his strangeness seeped through the cracks, and when they didn’t call him strange, they called him nothing. so he clung to two others not friends, just fixtures who didn’t tell him to disappear.

when he switched schools, he thought he could start over, but filth doesn’t fade, does it? on the first day, his silence betrayed him, his eyes darting like a rat’s, searching for scraps of approval. what did they like? what would make him look less like a mistake? the headaches came as often as his failures, his masks crumbling faster than he could build them.

he made friends, he thinks, but they only keep him around because throwing him out would be worse than tolerating him. he believes this. he knows this. their patience isn’t affection

it’s endurance. friendship is sacred to him, but not to them. he’s just another burden they’ve learned to carry.

he doesn’t know who he is anymore, and maybe that’s a kindness. the boy he used to be the quiet one, the one with the book in his hands, hated by teachers, despised by peers was just another version of the same filth. this version is no better, only older, only uglier.

when he looks in the mirror, he sees a thing pretending to be human. flaws aren’t enough of a word. he’s rot disguised as skin, decay masquerading as flesh. he works out to keep the illusion alive, but the mirror knows. he dreams of clawing himself apart, tearing through the disguise, to find the thing he knows is there the abomination, the wretch who doesn’t deserve this air, this earth, this life.

he wants to be understood, but what is there to understand? he’s a coward, a leech, a failure marked by disgrace. his poems are rants, his words are lies, his attempts at creation only proof that even art can rot.

he distances himself, and they let him, because they’ve learned to live without him. friends, family, even the stars they know he’s weight, and he knows it too.

he is a child who never stopped acting, but the act was never convincing. and the tragedy is, he was always the villain. no one asked him to perform. no one asked for him at all.

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

why do people people

why can't people just

not people

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

sometimes i think if nobody spoke to me, id never speak again

- alice oseman ( radio silence )

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

those who can not conceive friendship as substantive love but only as a disguise or elaboration of eros betray the fact that they have never had a friend.

- CS Lewis

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

when someone asks how you are, you're not supposed to tell the truth. you're supposed to say you're fine, maybe even smile, and ask how they are with more enthusiasm. we've long since killed the society that cared for each other's well-being, but we still play the part

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

the hum

(try 1 at horror :*) )

he moved in gray and empty spaces, a life of routines, no edges to cut. a job that asked for nothing but time, friends who lingered only in screens, and walls that held no warmth, just the hum.

it began as a breath beneath the noise, a faint vibration threading the air. the fridge? the pipes? he shrugged it away, but silence made it louder, turning stillness into a question.

the tv, the radio, the clatter of keys— none of it drowned the hum. it seeped through the cracks in his life, a presence, invisible but vast.

sleep grew distant. eyes burned from staring at the ceiling, a mind frayed by the rhythm of nothing. and then came the whispers.

soft at first, like wind through a distant gap. they were words, though not yet whole— fragments stitched into the hum. his name emerged, close and calm, like fingers brushing the back of his neck.

“you hear it too, don’t you?” “he knows you’re listening.” “don’t look.”

the words unraveled his breath, his pulse stuttering beneath their weight. the fridge door slammed open, lights flickered on and off, but the apartment stayed empty, its shadows thick with something unseen.

the whispers followed everywhere, their murmur tucked inside the air vents, riding the rattle of subway cars. at night, the recordings became confessions, static giving way to slow, deliberate voices:

“stop looking.” “you don’t belong here.” “run before it’s too late.”

his hand shook on the keyboard, the cursor froze in place. the screen blinked dark, and the hum grew louder still.

patterns sharpened where none should exist— a man in black on the same park bench, a neighbor’s eyes watching through a sliver of door. and the reflection, strange, lingering past his movements, its head tilting just enough to feel wrong.

the whispers rose, tangled and frayed, their anger biting into his thoughts. and one night, he woke to a language scrawled on walls, on ceilings, on skin, lines etched by a hand not his own.

the reflection watched through the bathroom mirror, its lips curling into something like a smile. glass shattered, blood painted the shards, but the reflection did not break. it stared, whole, and grinned.

reality unraveled, the hum now a roar in his veins, the whispers a symphony of dread. he walked through a world that moved wrong— figures jerking like marionettes, shadows that stretched to unnatural lengths.

he turned back. the apartment was a prison, but outside was worse.

then, silence.

no hum, no whispers, just the absence of everything. standing in the center of the space, the air heavy, the mirror covered.

“you’ve been looking for answers,” a voice said. not a whisper— a voice, clear and sharp, behind him.

he turned. the room was empty.

“do you see it now?” the voice pulled him back to the glass. the reflection waited, its eyes holding secrets he couldn’t face.

“i don’t know what’s real anymore,” he whispered.

the reflection tilted its head, a slow, deliberate movement. “does it matter?” it asked, as its grin swallowed the silence.

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

Abomination

i dislike myself. sometimes i dislike myself more because when i finally make peace with the abomination i am, someone i admire whispers, "you’re not bad at all." "you’re good, in fact!"

they tell me i’m not what i’ve pinned myself to be. a flood of messages, warm, bright, soft hands on my jagged heart.

but after a day, after two days, after three, the sadness returns, like clockwork, like a curse i can't break.

and it breaks me, because they tried. they actually put effort to stitch the frayed edges, to make me believe i’m decent.

but here i am, undone, sad again.

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

poem

ma out pa out there was a botle CHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUGCHUG lIkE a BeAsT liquid courage? na liquid CHAOSSSS BABYYYYYY burming throat, warm fire in my chest, eyes 50$ off, half-seeing the room spim, and there’s something prettyy about losing control but also pathetic. like i pathetic but freeing. iM a LiBeRaToRrRrRrRrRrRrRrRr what does it say about me mEh

ooooo tree. biiig tree sprawlimg maybe its drunk to branches clawing at the sky it's asking begging im begging begging youuu or maybe just tired eh OOOO CLOUDS PAST THE TREES you forget that. i forgot that. everyone forget that. poor clouds. but they float past da branches, white smears in the sky like spilled milk, and there’s pretty in that.

MILK, i boiled a packet biig packet 2l maybe i wanted tee a cuppa. milk bubbling over like it’s angry “you fool! you didn’t need this much!” wHaT aRe YoU mY mOm??? but i do. i really two tea bags drowned in that steaming cup, their parents were sad ig and i sat there with me feast: four Merlins, those lying chocolate FUCKS. not chocolate. no. just covered in it. inside? cream. cheap cream. betrayal. but i ate them anyway because—well— nom. also when life letrays you you bite back like nom

and in that moment, i felt it— lIkE a god. not da god. no halos, no thunda. just i sitting there, bloated with tea and biscuits, feeling invincible in the most best way. pawaful. full of milk and lies and Merlins the lying lying merlins and that’s when it hit me: god is bullshit. a crutch a puppet we pull out when the world’s too heavy. "oh no, not my fault, god willed it." weak. we are weak so we make gods strong and we hide behind them cowards in da shadows of da divine. but it’s all us. us and our endless blaming shifting whining we lie like merlins

anyway, litti. LITTIISSOGOODBRO it's not just food it’s experience, crispy shell breaking soft inside smoky, like eating a piece of earth itself. so damn good it makes you wonda why don’t we talk about this more???????????? why don’t we worship this?????? forget gods. worship litti!!!!!!!! worship the tree!!!!!!!!!!! worship clouds, milk, even the lying lying Merlins!!!!!!!!!!!!! because at least they’re real. tangibl not some hollo excuse.

…and there it is again, that heaviness i can’t shake it off shake it off o la la gomma sleep

[drunk-on-poems-and-songs]

kaleidoscope of rot

i used to think creation was beautiful,

that spilling myself onto paper meant making something of worth-

meant i'd write a book,

stand tall, gaze at it,

and whisper, "this is mine, this is beautiful."

but poetry isn't beautiful.

mine isn't.

it's an autopsy with no anesthesia.

skin flayed back,

muscle shredded,

bones cracked to powder.

i take my remnants,

stuff them into a kaleidoscope

where the mirrors are lined

with the mouths of people

whose words left trenches across my flesh.

i peer inside.

the mirrors fracture me more.

each shard snaps into finer pieces,

until there's no shape left,

no pattern,

just blood.

red spreads everywhere,

a raw smear across the lens.

no veins. no sinew.

no artistry.

just carnage pretending to be color.

a poet can look at a leaf

and sculpt it into something holy-

leave you unable to see green without feeling worship.

but what do i do?

i amputate my limbs,

arrange them on a canvas,

splatter what's left in pigment

just to cover the red.

but it bleeds through.

it always bleeds through.

and yet,

the beauty of it lies in how

you can't recognize this rot

until you're in a park,

watching the sun kiss the horizon.

the air's soft.

birds thread songs through the breeze.

people walk by, hand in hand,

hearts light.

but all you want

is to be murdered

here, beneath their feet

to let the soil drink you in.

while they stand above,

enjoying their sunsets,

their lovers' laughter.

as you rot, forgotten,

beneath their world.