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I grew up around people who were really statues; people you spoke to but they never spoke back to you; people who listened to what you had to say; they'd turn around when you finished and tell you...
#selfharmawarenessday I would write a poem, but self-harm has been quite a controversial subject on Opuss as of late.
You say a picture is worth a thousand words.
Scars remain as faded memories of a time where wrists where painted red and thoughts where painted black. I am the artist of my own demise, a portrait of my life drawn onto my wrists in blood red.
A post about ranking inspires me to ask, "is productivity more valuable than creativity?" A hundred opusses or articles a month better than one hot story which mangles your mind and lifts your pulse.
1. we love like traffic jams; boundless energy and nowhere to go with it except further together. sheets twist around our bodies as water runs round rocks, interlocked like tangled headphones.
You started out with nothing. Your a sickly looking bush, dying leaves and bare branches showing. A day closer to death you are my rose.
People are different. Some people irrevocably so. Some people are like parallel lines. The lines never touch, they never clash.
it's raining outside and I have a headache. we were beautiful once and now everything is too loud. the lightbulbs, the snow on the pavement and the looks they give me, everything is screaming.
The snow soon settled. The last few flakes fluttered to the ground, Glistening in the now setting sun. For the days of December leave so soon.