This is hollow

There are spiders crawling in and out if this place
This is hollow
It's spitting smoke and tar through gritted teeth
this is hollow
It's a soft elegance of musk on dusted lids, behind which the worms grow,
the quick burn of slow slow decay in this hollow place, always hollow.

Oh for all the relics in the world there is something sweet, sickly, cacophanous

Choking with victory, benevolent with life
in this place that is hollow.
How slow, the quick quick time could drop by, still slathering as its eyes roll
as we all fall to its beauty

We have chained it here, this monster
With golden bolts and locks of obsession. Our very arteries embrace it
There are spiders crawling in and out of this place
This is hollow
A rising sickness with the fever, through its throat and to its mind
Upwards, like the tide to a lighthouse enamoured with its duty, depreciated.

This place is golden and oozing with decadence
This is hollow
It keeps up to fall behind, ever losing against the time,
All skin and bones, all nails and iron, still slathering as its eyes roll
And we break under its beauty

Sweet release, the exhaled breath is all but inky bruises
Under the pen, oh for all the relics you can see it in the eyes!
This wound is festering in the place that is hollow
Behind the eyes, where the worms grow
Keep time with the rising sickness and bite down a distancing hysteria
It is spitting smoke and tar through gritted teeth

And feel the show roll out as the mercury rises
To the place that is hollow
This is all face down floating in the sickness
Touch the poison where the worms grow,

It’s the eternity behind the eyes.

I feel a hysteria coming on like I'm diving and twisting into a sea of madness. I don't think I can stop with the poems.

Dear diary,
today I learnt the value of pressure.
Yours sincerely

The end of the end

previously on buffy the vampire slayer...

ok so i think i'll explain myself.
I really feel like writing, so I will.

That's it. I love revolutionary, hard hitting words on paper and I'm trying to recreate that. Not with much success often, but hell. I try don't I?

This blog has been going a long time now, and I'm not sure what it's for. A creative outlet? An unspeaking therapist?
It's true most of the things here really are laid out for the world to see. Blogs are strange if you think about it.
They're often an open invitation to come and see the inside of someone's head...please?

Are we really that misunderstood, that unrelatable that words on a screen are the only way we express ourselves. Am I really like that too?

No. I don't think so. Because ideas are viral. They spread and catch like fire in a haybarn, to the right people. I think blogs are just here to remind us what was in our heads.
And I like it like that.

Come look at this site

www.bakerella.com

I'm going to be making the pecan pie when I'm a granny for my grandchildren to remember me by ;)

The hunting ground

It's the light of the fire that's flooding through the park tonight and everyone is gathered round, some huddled, some at arms length. It's almost winter now and everyone here can tell, the girls in their dresses shiver slightly as steam rises from open, laughing mouths.
The fire itself casts a iridescent, ethereal glow on this unlikely meeting place. It's as if we are all pixies or magical beings participating in an ancient ritual of sipping vodka, staggering around and then as the night draws to a close, coupling off like woodland creatures, scared of their own company.
Because god forbid you're the one left behind to nurse that hollow feeling in your chest, the one that's put there to tell you you're not complete, you're never complete.
Leon has been telling me all this damning stuff about society and the rigors, rituals and expectations that have been put on us. His girlfriend stands glassy-eyed a few feet away, not really participating in the conversation, her long blonde hair flowing and at times, the fire behind seemed to mix her hair with the red-haired girl next to her.
They were a weird couple, like fire and ice.
Leon was all fire, hot-tempered and full of ideas - ideas which at first don't seem to affect you until his revolutionary thought chain licks up into your consciousness to burn and char away your previous beliefs.
Jas was ice. She was quick, to the point, unfaltering and seemingly guarded. Her ideas were shared if she was encouraged, but she took no pleasure in making people see as she did. She was stubborn and liked her ideas to stay hers. Jas was perfection in a blonde-haired blue-eyed package.
Who knows how they got together, but they equally needed each other as much as they fought.

A girl in front of us was laughing loudly, carefree as the boy besides casually slung an arm around her shoulders and left it there. That's as smooth as it gets here.

I wasn't too interested. A couple of us eventually went home to Leon's and the night faded to inconsequential words in the past tense as I basically blacked out into his sofa.

life plays out like the movies

It actually does. I see things through the eyes of a film.
This is Chuck Palahniuk and he is a God. Author of Fight Club, his style of writing is a vivid testament to a brilliant mind, twisting and turning. I love basically.


"Truth is stranger than fiction, at least for those blessed with interesting lives. The rest of us have no choice but to live vicariously through their stories."
written for ChuckPalahniuk.net by Joshua Chaplinsky

Born February 21, 1962, Charles Michael Palahniuk spent his early childhood living out of a mobile home in Burbank, Washington.

His parents, Carol and Fred Palahniuk, divorced when he was fourteen.

Chuck never knew his father’s parents. His grandfather shot and killed his grandmother after an argument over the cost of a sewing machine.
Chuck’s father, who was three at the time, watched from under a bed as Nick Palahniuk searched the house for additional victims, before turning the gun on himself.





Chuck claims his interest in writing started when his fifth grade teacher, Mr. Olsen told him,
“Chuck, you do this really well. And this is much better than setting fires, so keep it up.”

I draw inspiration from this man. He's the most amazing writer I have ever come across and his work just astounds me. One day I hope to be able to write like him.

Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.... Maybe self-destruction is the answer. ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, Chapter 6

Last thoughts. I wrote a very long message, imagining myself as a character in a plot line. It would be called Shutters.

"We're too good to be remembered exactly as we were forever. That's what makes us secret and special. 300 years on and they won't know how we met, what's your favourite band and why I don't drink out of glasses. I think that makes us exciting. This piece of time is ours. It's less than a heartbeat in relation, but it's ours."

glass fists, glass jaw.

In the rain, your life misted up against the glass,
shifted; slight shuffles with sly feet towards the warmth
and the ripples of the glass, fogging more and less as with the tide
sure, steady rhythm bringing you home as if to the arms of a lover.

The beautiful cold splinters, baptized in rain and glass,
new eyes and new rain all precious gold dust in distant mines,
and life escapes upwards to dance with the sun in warmer skies,
with your memories of gold and red flooded sweeter dusks.

But in the rain, your life misted up against the glass,
safe inside, whole. But I stayed hollow
while mine flooded out, my mind on the outside,
shaking and fumbling home in the rain.

it's happening now and it's always been like this.

We are just drifting forward,
and living in the moment,
keep pushing up the blinds,
the shutters across your eyes
drawing down oceans of calm,
all the scars across your heart
they kept you standing proud

I built these foundations with my own hands,
they're fumbling forward, just drifting onwards,
join on and draw near,
race on with laughter courting tears,
sweetheart, are you the one calling,
my lover, bright rapture, the one who I fear?

Truths sung as lips chasing dreams,
shaking the venerated, I hope whisper brings
in the echoes of your arms and subeams
we race forwards, slipping in and out
of your ever elusive scheme.










|I do have a cool picture to upload but I'm tired. The lack of creative output manifested and overpowered my simple nature :)


Oh, by the way,
"Always like this" by Bombay Bicycle Club

No mas.


\freddie x

It takes time to realize your life's just what you make of it.

Its summer. Its good. I've missed the sun and yesterday was great. I'd worried about it sucking, but it didn't.
And something I've not felt since getting lost earlier last year is beginning to come back :
balance.

When I was little, I would always ruin everything by rushing it. It had to happen right then otherwise...something, anything bad would happen. I guess something, anything I'm learning is that some things take time and all you can do is try. Sure, if you fail it kills but isn't that the point? Oh, how sweet victory to those who have tasted failure? Right?

So I guess I should stop pushing things. Although, some "things" admittedly need a good hard push... right out of their high horses :)

So my wish list now:
1) Discipline
2) Maturity
3) Inner calm ;)
4) You
5) God


poetry time? okay fine. bear in mind this was written in 20 minutes.

Deep Sea Diver 4/5/2010

We ran the length of the open sea,
the deep sea diver, just him and me,
fairytale books and glistening dreams,
we dived the depths, just him and me.

The world's inverted in blue-green sea,
the greatest adventure, just him and me,
so waste the day and shoot the breeze
we found the treasure just him and me.

And all encased in metal suit,
the friend, the captain, the losses grew,
all dreamy depths, all dreamy lows,
hysteria's a cancer that grows and grows

So if he follows then I will lead,
the deep sea diver just him and me,
the greatest adventure of all my days,
was in our heads
on the bed where we lay


i'll be revising that soon. But for now, i'm going to clean :)

I'mma just go ahead and put it right out there

I have my 17 poems. :) Attack of the fear and trembles, right kids? Because that means its publishing time. Soon. And a part of me wants every little secret to stay in their neat little corners. As neat as dirt can be. So here's my favourite poem I've ever written. Ever. And a jazzy photo :)

skyscrapersandlights.


Take me back to the bright lights and high hopes, take me back.
Where the skyscrapers soar higher than my dreams
and in sleep I smiled, contented. What a fool!
Take me back to the busy roads and strangers' faces,
where the accents sound better than my dreams,
and in passing I smiled, contented. What a fool!

Take me back, where I dreamed and breathed and smiled easily,
But now I know my hopes and dreams are just as cold as the concrete floor,
just as lonely as the skyscrapers, leaning towards each other but never touching.




Sweetheart, it's just New York, not a fucking massacre. Y fin xx

Shiny

ok after that heart-wrenching two months of extreme emotion, I think I'm clear of the turbulence. As long as I stay far away.

So basically, I know I have to get my arse in gear now with my poetry, so I have brought forwards bucketfuls of whiney teenage angst from the depths. I think most of it isn't too bad, but feel free to correct me. Also, edited two photos, would very much appreciate if you could tell me which is better.

Currently, I think that if emotion was visible it would look like fairy dust, and that mine would be bleeding out all over my hands.






This is a piece of Poetry I wrote during happy days:

Far from the Storms 1/3/2010

Not reflected in the sunshine, but in my heart.

He stretched out fingers to caress my face and golden glows

Slowly saturating souls so soft so, sweet start,

We’ll keep the shadows at bay.

Born on the longest day, child of the sun,

It’s a smile tossing me to and fro on this sea, not a storm,

Golden as the sand, gold beats through my veins

Which are heavy now, as with alchemists treasure and fervour conjoined.

This is the summer of my heart,

Days needless of the dusk,

but still coming and painting the sky a flushed red

Blushing at the thoughts belonging to the night.

Twilight here holds warmth while you

Extricate the meanings from the ebbing sky

Laughing and coasting away on clouds,

Replaced by pillows and covers of dreams

Soft warmth in the night, chased backwards from sleep

By laughing nymphs and thick safety of darkness

Dances with the settled scent of sensual skin

Still, lie still but night presses on down the river.

The dawn reforms and bursts, palmfulls of burnt out daylight

Aged slightly to an alternative hue whilst you’re there.

The summer catches, contagious and lithe, whilst we are

Laughing and coasting away on clouds, far from the storms.

Tuviste mi corazon en tus manos.

"baby, there's a shark in the water, there's something underneath my bed, oh please believe"

The glass heart has shattered, all hail the heartless and the casual. Sacredness is overrated and fairy tales are just stories. Test me, use me, break me, take everything. Go on, there's nothing left, you might as well.

The rain hit the windows like reality hit me, as a head on collision, full internal bleeding. When does youth end? When you decide it has. It ended for me a long time ago, and I'm in a very black mood where the days and years stretch out endlessly before me, a great cacophony of fear, pain, sound and confusion.
The media suggests that children are growing up faster with teen pregnancies, and are being subjected to advertising that makes you feel undesirable without a product, not complete, not whole, not happy.
I'd say that this is a sad truth, and now I have no articulation left in me.

Yes I'm a bit bitter, mainly because the one I gave everything to, held nothing back from, I didn't mean enough to him to keep him mine. This blog is aptly named, its the end of the end of a lot of things.
I think the old heart has finally gone to the knackers yard. There's nothing left

The diamond on your hand,
the one little fingers trembled to find,
then coarse and broken, they fingered the diamond,
in the rough, we are all diamonds in the rough.

It dances in the light, all sight of the blood gone,
amongst ceremonies of white and smiles,
all lies and shows for the audience,
we always want an audience.

In the end, when all is dust,
your diamond will replace the pulse of your heart,
the steady heartbeat now a lonely twinkle,
the lonely star.

Not the best piece I've written, granted, but I am very tired.

Here's a better one:

It's the enigmatic route,
It's being told to shut my thighs,
But I'm the mother of all your vices
and you're opening your flies.

We're not the furthest thing from heaven,
however hard you try,
But still I'm buying a 5 foot 4 coffin
and I'm burying my lies.

If there's no smoke without fire,
It's not love if you don't fight,
and if our winter turns to summer,
I hope you'll see me in a different light.

http://www.thephotoargus.com/inspiration/30-striking-photos-of-urban-decay-beauty/
I found this gorgeous site on my search, here's one from "Felix" :

fin.

The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide

Just been to God Squad Camp and realized some facts I will now share.
A) He doesn't feel the same way I feel about him, his heart never skipped beats,
B) I no longer have any clue what to do with my life
C) I NO LONGER KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE, PANIC!
D) I am a difficult person
etc.

But still, there was a beauty in the way the stars aligned themselves at night, ("hey it looks like a pot!") a sacredness to the warmth and protection from harsh wind, and the precious feeling in your chest when you find one of those "moments".
Life dictates that emotion belongs in the heart, which is not ruled over by the head. Who cares if its irrational? You follow with your lights, please come with me and lets leave glimmers of stardust on the lids of shut-eyed rational sleepers, who shut their eyes to these moments, these emotions that should be, but are perverted and twisted like choking vines.

I'm a dreamer with her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground. Most of the time.

Hasta que muera.

Jeepers creepers, is it that time already? I've been meaning to keep this blog up but as usual things are in shut down.
It's interesting to take note how a perfectly ordinary girl can have crazy, unbelievable dreams. What's even more interesting is that the ordinary girl will be gutted when these dreams pass their sell by date.
My friend said something interesting about her favourite Disney Film, The Little Mermaid, the other day.
She said,
"it's sad when you realize that you are older than Ariel and past the age when any of this could happen to you."
and its true, the one thing we hold onto in impossible situations is time. We still have time left. If all else fails, there's still time. That's why hope is a cruel emotion.On the other hand, I found what verse I want on my gravestone. It's Ecclesiates 7:8, "Better is the end of a thing than the beginning"
I should do something with my poetry, I've been compiling my works recently. Thats where this all ties in, silly little girl with a silly little dream to publish.

And I'll keep these dreams running, until it's too late,
Hasta que muera. xx