potatocockoli

[potatocockoli]

The long road between three minutes and four

Sitting around too long they start to notice you’re a bore

Mary Mary quite desperately trying to be everything but contrary with no garden to show 

Mary Mary grasp at broken bells for the last time with blatant disregard and what it means to set your self free in the cage you built for fun 

Starry eyes and chapped smiles won’t save you from yourself 

[potatocockoli]

undressing to skin and bones to make room for the projections of light

inhaling just enough of you to save for later

[potatocockoli]

half a poem I’m working on

Slipping out of angels hands and touching back down with bare feet

one at a time onto the whining floor boards of my bedroom

splinters pushing up against me with a satisfying ache as if to beg me to continue standing, between swaying and grounding and grounding myself as punishment for being back here again

only the echo of their wings remains as they've left me behind again

Salted with sounds of cicadas outside my window trying to synchronize with the tapping of my foot

Barely existent bits of glass sewn into the beads of sweat on chapped mouths calling out and over each other drown it out

i try to reach back call out but angels have brighter clusters to follow

a firefly infested yard with me can only be bared for a moment by grace i dont deserve but needed

Try to dig a dull blade into me but only draw blood if I sharpen it myself 

i can find warmth in anything

i found everything even if it's out of reach now

[potatocockoli]

A morbid fear: that protests too much. To the doctor. I am going to the psychiatrist this week, just to meet him, to know he's there. And, ironically, I feel I need him. I need a father. I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak. I feel like Lazarus: that story has such a fascination. Being dead, I rose up again, and even resort to the mere sensation value of being suicidal, of getting so close, of coming out of the grave with the scars and the marring mark on my cheek which (is it my imagination) grows more prominent: paling like a death-spot in the red, wind-blown skin, browning darkly in photographs, against my grave winter-pallor. And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.

-Sylvia Plath

[potatocockoli]

the camera pans down to the story book and i wish it ended there

side note:

[potatocockoli]

where my texas boys at..

[potatocockoli]

I dead ass feel myself losing my grasp on whatever it is I’m supposed to hold onto to help remind me what is set in reality and what I make up and subconsciously decide is set in something that’s already gone 

Warping everything to fit the fucked up way everything is supposed to be since I decided there’s nothing good in anything including me especially me maybe only me which again is the crutch I’ll lean on hill I’ll die on stump I’ll stand on so I can let everyone watch me kill myself in every moment starting now

Wait now

No now

Well actually it was that one

No that one

Last one

Next one 

This moment and

It’s gone 

And so is part of me as I lay the pieces of myself down to rest in hopes my best is good enough to be enough to mourn so I can stop carrying the empty spaces forward and stay in the moments I kill myself  for fun like this one and that one and the one we like to tell 

[potatocockoli]

i dont know what im the best at, and i wish i had something

[potatocockoli]

Briefly ye shall be answer'd.  "When departs The fierce soul from the body, by itself Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls, No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, It rises to a sapling, growing thence A savage plant.  The Harpies, on its leaves Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain A vent to grief.  We, as the rest, shall come For our own spoils, yet not so that with them We may again be clad; for what a man Takes from himself it is not just he have. Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung, Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade."

Attentive yet to listen to the trunk We stood, expecting farther speech, when us A noise surpris'd, as when a man perceives The wild boar and the hunt approach his place Of station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughs Loud rustling round him hears.  And lo! there came Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, That they before them broke each fan o' th' wood. "Haste now," the foremost cried, "now haste thee death!" The' other, as seem'd, impatient of delay Exclaiming, "Lano! not so bent for speed Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field." And then, for that perchance no longer breath Suffic'd him, of himself and of a bush One group he made.  Behind them was the wood Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet, As greyhounds that have newly slipp'd the leash. On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, And having rent him piecemeal bore away The tortur'd limbs.  My guide then seiz'd my hand, And led me to the thicket, which in vain Mourn'd through its bleeding wounds: "O Giacomo Of Sant' Andrea! what avails it thee," It cried, "that of me thou hast made thy screen? For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?"

When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?"

He answer'd: "Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in time To spy the shameful havoc, that from me My leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up, And at the foot of their sad parent-tree Carefully lay them.  In that city' I dwelt, Who for the Baptist her first patron chang'd, Whence he for this shall cease not with his art To work her woe: and if there still remain'd not On Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him, Those citizens, who rear'd once more her walls Upon the ashes left by Attila, Had labour'd without profit of their toil. I slung the fatal noose from my own roof."

[potatocockoli]

why did no one ever tell me the truth

a burden for me to bear

a secret that doesn't matter anymore

and it starts with a thought you'll keep to yourself

you pulled away too fast to come back

could be carried on by anyone but me because if i wrote it for any war it wouldnt have happened

helen should have had green eyes

but she waited in my heel to taste the sweet demise of the host i used to be so maybe my perception never mattered at all

i am her queen mab not even who i wanted to be

i am nothing but an image through a lens she can project on to anything she's molded and presented to the

[potatocockoli]

for georgia:

monday - blue

tuesday - orange

wednesday - black

thursday - green

friday - red

saturday - golden hue that could maybe be yellow but i'd like to think saturday embodies a lot of colors

sunday - purple

i dont know if i can handle months but i know this:

thursday is november

sunday is december

wednesday is october

july is friday

monday: straight man

tuesday: straight woman

wednesday: non-binary / queer

thursday: bi girl

friday: bi man

saturday: gay man

sunday: lesbian (but interested in thoughts)

songs by bill withers - all are sunday, i will not explain further

1990s pixar classics

monday - cars

tuesday- bugs life

wednesday - monsters inc

thursday - incredibles

friday - toy story

saturday - toy story 2

sunday - ratatouille

i want to do more of these

[potatocockoli]

“She wanted so to be tranquil, to be someone who took walks in the late-afternoon sun, listening to the birds and crickets and feeling the whole world breathe. Instead, she lived in her head like a madwoman locked in a tower, hearing the wind howling through her hair and waiting for someone to come and rescue her from feeling things so deeply that her bones burned. She had plenty of evidence that she had a good life. She just couldn’t feel the life she had. It was as though she had cancer of the perspective.”

— Carrie Fisher, Postcards From the Edge (via galadrielles)

[potatocockoli]

though its not easy

If I die

When I die 

Will I

Will I even be anything

Was I 

Am I

I

Am

now i've got the will where do i find the why

and when do i

Do I even get to meet the versions of myself I had to kill to stay alive

All my selves I have to carry 

Can I just throw them out

Pull enough out of me until I am not me

Until I am nothing at all

is that how i do it is that where i go when i dont know

if i am new can i be

Soap bubbles you tried to grab in the backyard

that 

Were never ours to hold

Never yours to hold

its some kids birthday party and what was his name again

Slippin through my fingers all the time no turn it off 

What a sticky mess we made along the way with nothing left to show for it

Is every moment someone else’s 

is it sad

I hope so

but its not its just

An allusion 

Disillusion 

Distraction

Bit

The soap though 

Tell me about that soap

Slippin through my fingers all the time

They wave good bye to whats left

but we know shes already gone

we wave to her

with an absent smile but my reflection tries to wave back

and now she's trying to climb onto the soap box no one gave but built to preach a point no one heard but held in their hands but who was it for

A mirror is a mirror 

A mirror knows it’s a mirror without you looking back at it 

So why would it care about me 

what does that make me

because a mirror wou;dn't even think to make the mistake of painting you in its image to shine or break or be anything at all to do with you so I am not me you see

dont wave back

Just a moment someone else created in the back of their mind that should have never crept out

Couldn’t be her or the character created

But something else

Something worse

Something that doesn’t deserve a word like monster

Deserves no words at all

No thought at all 

too much to place in any place that isnt me

too

Leave it on the table no

too much to place

just fucking

In the box

yes

dont touch it

dont open-

no dont fucking open it

Don’t open it so I can live in the moment before any of this could have made sense to you

Been read by you 

Been me to you 

Not vast enough to be nothing

Not important enough to be something 

Can’t shoulder it anymore

Please don’t let me be anything 

I can no longer handle being part of everything

slipping through my fingers all the time

Pour the liquid down the drain that is this body so it can break me down from the inside out

I stop trying to breathe me squeeze me hold onto me through the sharp plastic gates promising bad times to a cat that was forced to interact in the blind spots of someone else’s vision

Let me live in the moment before you open the box and leave me there to be a surprise 

let me be nothing

[potatocockoli]

i wish i could hide

could lie

could die with a one two

no

i wish i wasnt just a fun house mirror

i dont like what i see either

i wish i couldnt feel

could heal

could deal

could feel something else

[potatocockoli]

[potatocockoli]