Simply me and my musings

I watched the storm and wanted to become her


Could’a Would’a Should’a

‪I don’t know how to feel so I won’t‬

‪No… I wouldn’t‬

‪I always knew I couldn’t‬

‪But… Perhaps I had‬

‪So, what was that?‬


I cannot stop pushing you away

Realizing I cannot love you without hating myself

Has left me unsure of what to do with my hands

That both reach out and reject

(Or what I want you to do with yours)

Loneliness Is My Oldest Lover

You gave me distance

That was your mistake

I’m in love with Misery

Familiar with heart ache

Do not be shocked

That I’m comfortable alone

I’ve only ever belonged to myself

And never believed in home

I told myself I’d never be naive and oh, the beautiful irony-To know it is a wolf beneath the wool, yet still cry out in shock when it devours me.

-The Wise Sheep’s Naivety 


Love me

Leave me

Synonyms on your tongue

Kiss me

Curse me

An attempt to live while young

First peace

First war

Disagreement of the mind

The present

The future

They leave each other blind

Her judgment

His prospecting

Leave too much at stake

Her heart

His freedom

A bend about to break

Twisted Trinity

I’m letting go of the ones I love

Lest they hurt from holding onto me

I climbed too far and was pulled down

From Eden’s apple tree

A taste of fruit, knowledge cursed,

How I agonized over all I cannot be

So I offered my soul, begged to feel less alone,

Now Death, Devil, and I make three

I cannot stomach the dissonance of my existence.

Little Black Book

I have a little black book filled with paper that is the purest white. There are no lines on the paper, no wide or college ruled reminders to keep my composure. When things get bad, that is, when I get bad, I write all the turbulent thoughts I would not dare whisper aloud within the sanctuary of these pages. In those moments of mental disquiet, I purge my mind in its entirety with a black inked pen. I write with a black inked pen on white blank pages in a little black book…how ordinary it all sounds, how unimportant it all seems. But I pour my sins onto such pristine paper because I am a perfectionist who loathes mistakes, a realist who cannot stomach anything but the ideal (my ideal). Having no choice but to present my thoughts imperfectly, I force myself to lose any illusions of control. What I write I cannot take back and what I am left with is painful sincerity. The errors I make-slanted sentences, hardly legible words, some even misspelled or scratched out-taunt me, and each horror uttered is laid bare in utter horror like a confessional where I am both the guilty and the judge. In this quiet plea for the mercy of acceptance, I seek forgiveness for myself from myself. No matter the words I write they all say the same thing: there are things out of my control that can be neither reconciled nor changed, and being unable to obtain the unobtainable does not equate to failure. Sometimes there is simply no way to make my dark mind sound beautiful. Sometimes I am just fucked up and there is nothing poetic about it. I attempt to prove to myself that the pages are not ruined by the consuming mistakes, rather, something once empty is now filled with moments to look back on and learn from. It is growth: it is a process to find a greater understanding, and thus a greater tolerance, for the imperfect. I cannot help but stare at the ink stained hand that writes this. It trembles, unsteady and unsure beneath the weight of the words it holds. I will continue to try to appreciate these pages for their broken honesty (right after I scrub this ink from my skin) but I find myself still searching for the word “acceptance” between non-existent lines.


There are hurricanes and storms on distant planets that last for hundreds of years because there is nothing to stop them

And there is a whole universe surrounding us, carrying on regardless of our problems

Stars look down upon us from the future and only see ashes, the dust of wishes long dead float past

We are a blink in the timeline of the galaxy and yet have the audacity to seek purpose within our own brief time

The curse of human nature is that we can make anything real if we believe in it enough

And I believe this hurricane raging inside of me has been tearing me apart for years

Because for years I have been empty with no substance to me

And for years I believed I was nothing, so I became nothing, and the hurricane raged on because there was nothing to stop it

We are a generation that is ready to die but none of us are ready to live

Too scared to let go of the demons of our adolescence

Who hold our hand when we feel lonely

We believe we deserve to be sick, feeling okay can’t be right, there must be another thing wrong

So we seek to find tragedy in happiness just to feel we are not losing ourselves

We keep the hurricanes beneath our skin spinning with thoughts that viciously tear away at flesh and slowly wear down bone

A sense of worthlessness so real that you convince even those who love you not to look into the eye of the storm lest they lose a limb

Or a heart

Hope is a word that sounds nice but echos back when I say it too loudly and it terrifies me to hear my voices sound nothing like my mind

Love is something I question and desperately seek  to find but flinch away from when I feel its touch

I find it unsettling because I chose to be a ghost and as detached from the world as I am I should not be able to feel anything

It is easier to turn happiness away than it is to lose it, easier to explain these irking flutters of emotion with hard logic than face them with soft vulnerability

There is a whole other world in which I live that is separate from the reality others share, and it is dying

I know the reason, but playing God and controlling the destruction is the drug of choice here

An addiction to misery, a preference to feel pain over pleasure

Because in the end, this low is my high