hello? I am dying here

Oh really?

Well that's kind of shit for you. Isn't it.

However, in another life, I was climed all the trees of this town and smoked my body down to the bones.

I over heard the sounds of birds and smelt the mid afternoon chicken and chips smell of this town.It was beautiful and tinged with gold that day, I walked out of my 3rd period class to sit in trees.

And be happy.

I don't like being inside these days, I like to feel the cold on my toes, it makes me feel ALIVE, the light is crisp, the air is cold, and outside sourrounded by green and air is where I want to be. Not inside were my head spins around and around mulling over old fact. Outside where my head spins off and my mind wanders of the light spilling over leaves.... I like winter.

I am bored of the mundane droll of life.

Wake, God that is hard. Make myself coffee that is a thick and black.

School, brain busting out the seams.

Making small talk with people I don't really care for, breaking the hearts of the people that I do. Trying not to be sucked away.

Home. Internet. Brain shrinking back, shrivelling away. Books, cutsey and have read them before as a child, why can I not be brave enough to read something new?

Draw, bad drawings of creepy cartoon like people. Also cutsey. Why? Letting myself fall off the face of sanity.

Climbing to the tops of trees to catch the last drops of light running down the pane of glass that is the sky.

Crying over nothing, nothing tangible. Things that are in my head and created by me. For me. Like some sort of sadistic play.

The start of a story, for you.

A thick stripe of mud ran from his ear down over the lumps of his exposed skull, and trailed down nape of his neck , where it blended in with the collar of his filthy, torn striped clothing. Individual ribs were thrust into the air with each breath he took. Opening his eyes to the sky, flakes of dust fell from the lashes, grime that had filled the corners leeched out and ran down his dirty face.


Six days of growth wriggled out of his roughly shaved skull. A grey dirt had crawled even there, smearing itself among the spiked tips. Up he came, rolling slowly along the vertebrae of his spine crack, crack, crack. The feeling made him smile, stretching translucent skin over bone.

Lifting arms that bore dirty hands, he stared at them. A confused look crossed his emaciated face

“They promised me a shower… why am I still dirty”

The precision of this light made his pupils contract, becoming tiny black dots behind the grey film that covered his eyes. Turning to look at his surrounds, the vantage point sitting atop the hill meant he could see everything of this place. A green-yellow grass rolled down the hill and into the endless flat below. The seed filled tips of the grass catching light that was the colour of orange and poppy seed cake and his mother. It even tangled itself into the tips of his hair, giving him a golden aura that stood out against the yawning blue of the sky. The sky felt different to him here instead of compressing him to earth as it has before it gave him a curious feeling of being tugged upwards.

The boy realised he was no longer cold. The horrible penetration of the cold; invading his body and freezing all organs in its path- was gone.

Pondering the cold, made the Cold appear. A black tar of a fog began to twist as if someone had blown out at candle at the base of the hill. Closing his eyes the boy tried recall its form. The spiky tips of barbed wire poked out of the top of the mist, like an exposed spine.

What is it we have to do to be noticed.

Do we have to starve and starve, the deprivation exposing bones and organs and bones and organs.

Having you physical body show your pain?

Do we have to do great things? Be better than everyone in something, more than just one thing but in everything.

have a better smile, laugh?

A greater mind to produce better words and to comprehend more advanced things.

Better hands to make better paintings.

Who judges all this anyway.

And why do some people have to go, and walk and breathe. Without any one looking.

Not really noticed at all, forget the second glace, they would kill for a first.

And why do others bask in a constant glow.

Or do we have to be beautiful,

Even features, their symmerty drawing in people to stare and stare.

Old men, young men. Women.

Who wants to BE noticed anyway?
You can live a life filled with far more fun when it goes unchecked, you just have to be careful to not go to far.

But it is so eay to do, push through the barrier into wildless and freedom.

And who will pull you back when no one can see you?

Drinking endlesws pots of tea,

numbing my body with antihistames/sedatives (two in one)

and freeing my mind with ciggrattes and wine

Will not distract me from the fact that I have not laughed in months.

all the beautiful things

The steam that rises from your body after getting out of a blistering shower on a cold, cold night.

The universerse. It is so endless manages to blow my mind everytime.

Ciggarettes a night, with just that little stream of light to illuminate the smoke.

Enjoying wine with friends during the day.

Breaking out with a song together.

Skin on skin, that feeling should be bottled for the days I feel like crying.

The light two hours before sun set.

Collarbones so deep you can pool water in them.

The way that light hits things, everything.

I hate that even this cannot express how beautiful everything is to me, every second of the day I am filled with the overwhelming veiw of the world, and what is around me.

I wish other people coulds see what I see.

Some times I have to shut off the beauty or I think I may just burst fragmenting golden tipped feathers of my body all over the world, landing in peoples mouths, hair and eyes.

I cry for this, and how I canot put it in a jar for you to see.

Because I tell you, it is amazing.

Instead I just scan the internet looking for things that can show a one hundreth of the depth I feel.

I am filled with love, and it spills over in a clear liquid no one else can see.

hay fever

On this farm, it is your farm, it is mine.
Really of course, it belongs to her but she shares it around. Gives you rides on the machine that roars like a tiger and speeds you under orange pecan trees. Bumps reverberating into your knees, chest, ankles, heart...mind. Each bump of cow shit sending your mind that little bit higher. The air spitting bugs into your eyes. Pfft, Pfft, Pfft.......pfft.
And then you spot a little yellow cap worming its through the cow bitten grass, a mushroom. Or 'shroom' if you will. So the roaring beast stops and you jump off, the impact reverberating into your knees, chest, ankles, to your heart and finally once again sending your mind that little bit higher. You tap that cap for luck.

In it goes. On you go, roaring away into the wind, your mind bumping its way into the clouds and soaring around with the birds. Poor body, left behind.

You are in a land of music that fucks you up and over and in again.
The dusty bottles salvaged from a dusty shed, the labels ripped and torn crinkling off the sweet poison they hold. Taste like berries and evil. The same way that many things appear delicious and right, beautiful, but underneath it all it is Poison. The warmth courses through your veins.

The caps fuck with your mind flying it, with bats now. This new substance messes with your body holding down, slowing it, numbing it. Numb: here again.

The girl whose red eyes make it look like she has tiny devils lurking in the corners tells a story of everyone. She can see everything.
About everyone.
She knows them by looking at them, she knows they way they function, not like the well oiled machines that propaganda tells us. We function in a way that is indeed fluid, but not in any way solid. We are oil. We can float or sink depending upon where we chose to land our flaccid souls. How viscose that substance is.
And it scares her so much that she cries, she cries for her future: because that is something that she cannot see, but already knows. No one can tell her what she is to do- she knows for everyone. But no one knows for her.

And so she cried, numbness weighing her body not touching her heart. Fucking heart- breaking like that. Tears from the eyes that look like devils lurk in their corners. It is just her hay fever. It is that time of year you know?