In empty rooms
vast quantities of nothing exists
where no naked eye
can observe the nothingness within.When lounging in another room
or when a door just clicks closed
nothingness erupts
silent as a cacophony
in those empty rooms beyond.And when a head peeks round a door
(like a feather
slowly drifting back down from a great height)
there really is just nothing
nothing happening in those empty rooms
nothing happening within.
After my father died, life continued. Still, I was always taken aback by his terrible absence, marked so bitterly by the thick layer of dust that settled about the house. It lay in every corner, in deep slopes, and no amount of cleaning could unsettle it.
And in a similar way, every time I listened to a piece of music he would have admired, or a book he would have recommended, he passed across my memory, and then I would simply think, Oh.
When I slept, he told me things. In my dreams he whispered secrets, but they were soundless for there were no more secrets.
Sometimes, when at work or while shoe shopping or between mouthfuls at dinner,...
There is a cerulean skyline
that I look to
when I wake up sad,
with no one to explain
this feeling to.There is something out there,
between the dreams,
that I need to understand.That outer limit,
I don't ever reach it,
but I want to.
This won't last forever.
I'm on my way.
I hold my head in my hands
and begin to think,
attempt to recollect,
the last,
good,
memory of you.Awaking
with your body
still close to mine.Pretending
to be asleep
when I know that you
are watching me.Running fingers
through your hair
and waiting
for your happy-cat smile.All of them
are decent thoughts,
but nothing sparks.
Nothing reminds me
of that painful love
that went away
some time ago.I can only remember
your excuses falling,
brick-like,
against my head
and arguments burning,
aching my failing love,
erasing
the last,
good,
memory of you.
All of my fires
have been put out now,
from the pyre of my heart
to the ember of my eye.Once, dangerous flames
travelled in my wake
but all are subdued now.And I think:
what use is a beacon
without a reason to burn?
Regret is hindsight's backbone,
self-pity his creeping heart,
and bone fingers that scratch
as they work into your mind.
Leering lips, empty eyes
and crooked skeletal legs.He shadows behind
waiting until he is needed
until a moment of nostalgia
pushes you back.
Paranoia over past happenings
is the poison that he seeps into you.And when he's finished
he steps away again
but only for a moment.
After only so many days,
An ache creeps into me.
It is a balloon of pity,
But simply for myself, mind.
Such a furore stirs
That in the time between,
I am just a little girl,
No need for rights here.
I'll make you tea,
I'll wear clenching dresses,
I'll beg, cherish, plead.
However,
When we meet again,
After only so many days,
You'd be searching long
To find these thoughts.
Always look towards that
giant blind horizon.
Claw at it, keep going even
when you are raw.
Behind you lies every mistake
you ever made, even the
ones you hid.
Hold onto that desire burning
a chasm in your heart.
Never pity your
escape from the past.
Never forget it either.
In empty rooms
vast quantities of nothing exists
where no naked eye
can observe the nothingness within.When lounging in another room
or when a door just clicks closed
nothingness erupts
silent as a cacophony
in those empty rooms beyond.And when a head peeks round a door
(like a feather
slowly drifting back down from a great height)
there really is just nothing
nothing happening in those empty rooms
nothing happening within.
After my father died, life continued. Still, I was always taken aback by his terrible absence, marked so bitterly by the thick layer of dust that settled about the house. It lay in every corner, in deep slopes, and no amount of cleaning could unsettle it.
And in a similar way, every time I listened to a piece of music he would have admired, or a book he would have recommended, he passed across my memory, and then I would simply think, Oh.
When I slept, he told me things. In my dreams he whispered secrets, but they were soundless for there were no more secrets.
Sometimes, when at work or while shoe shopping or between mouthfuls at dinner,...
There is a cerulean skyline
that I look to
when I wake up sad,
with no one to explain
this feeling to.There is something out there,
between the dreams,
that I need to understand.That outer limit,
I don't ever reach it,
but I want to.
This won't last forever.
I'm on my way.
I hold my head in my hands
and begin to think,
attempt to recollect,
the last,
good,
memory of you.Awaking
with your body
still close to mine.Pretending
to be asleep
when I know that you
are watching me.Running fingers
through your hair
and waiting
for your happy-cat smile.All of them
are decent thoughts,
but nothing sparks.
Nothing reminds me
of that painful love
that went away
some time ago.I can only remember
your excuses falling,
brick-like,
against my head
and arguments burning,
aching my failing love,
erasing
the last,
good,
memory of you.
All of my fires
have been put out now,
from the pyre of my heart
to the ember of my eye.Once, dangerous flames
travelled in my wake
but all are subdued now.And I think:
what use is a beacon
without a reason to burn?
Regret is hindsight's backbone,
self-pity his creeping heart,
and bone fingers that scratch
as they work into your mind.
Leering lips, empty eyes
and crooked skeletal legs.He shadows behind
waiting until he is needed
until a moment of nostalgia
pushes you back.
Paranoia over past happenings
is the poison that he seeps into you.And when he's finished
he steps away again
but only for a moment.
After only so many days,
An ache creeps into me.
It is a balloon of pity,
But simply for myself, mind.
Such a furore stirs
That in the time between,
I am just a little girl,
No need for rights here.
I'll make you tea,
I'll wear clenching dresses,
I'll beg, cherish, plead.
However,
When we meet again,
After only so many days,
You'd be searching long
To find these thoughts.
Always look towards that
giant blind horizon.
Claw at it, keep going even
when you are raw.
Behind you lies every mistake
you ever made, even the
ones you hid.
Hold onto that desire burning
a chasm in your heart.
Never pity your
escape from the past.
Never forget it either.
After my father died, life continued. Still, I was always taken aback by his terrible absence, marked so bitterly by the thick layer of dust that settled about the house. It lay in every corner, in deep slopes, and no amount of cleaning could unsettle it.
And in a similar way, every time I listened to a piece of music he would have admired, or a book he would have recommended, he passed across my memory, and then I would simply think, Oh.
When I slept, he told me things. In my dreams he whispered secrets, but they were soundless for there were no more secrets.
Sometimes, when at work or while shoe shopping or between mouthfuls at dinner,...
Current Residence: bolton, uk Favourite genre of music: jrock / 80s - 90s pop / classic rock Favourite style of art: anime Operating System: XP MP3 player of choice: mine? Favourite cartoon character: george from paradise kiss <3 OR kadaj OMG Personal Quote: 'stay free my misery' from hide's song misery.
Favourite Visual Artist
mangaka - ai yazawa <3
Favourite Movies
velvet goldmine
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
hide with spread beaver
Favourite Writers
j d salinger
Favourite Games
WoW
Favourite Gaming Platform
PC <3
Tools of the Trade
my computer. simple.
Other Interests
jrock, writing, reading, shleeping xD, staying up late, html, livejournal, uni
courtesy of :iconsjslack: ^__^1. Post these rules
2. Each person tagged must post 8 random (hopefully interesting) facts about themselves
3. Tags should write a journal of these facts
4. At the end of the post 8 more bloggers are tagged and named1) i find it impossible to be a fan of the majority. if everyone else likes it, i cannot. i don't know why >.o;2) i have 10 cats. but i could have more :33) my first ever ambition - when i was about 7 - was to be a writer. then when i was about 12 i wanted to be an archaeologist. then i came full circle and want to be a writer again.4) my poetry takes about 5 minutes to write. i've honestly never s...