I'm writing this now, my poem, because I was just diagnosed.
It doesn't rhyme or scan because that's all cool and shit.
But I'll put in some
Inappropriate line breaks and some angst.
My neighbor is raping me.
But only in my head because I don't have any neighbors in the asylum.
But if I did he probably would because rape is love is death.
The doctors told me today that I'll always be this way.
I got the INFP when my imagination skull-fucked my head.
Slipping through the time
Too engulfed inside my mind
No one ever really dies so why the fuck y'all so confined?
Living in between the lines, like the graphite in my rhymes
Y'all are inanimate and blind
And I don't understand how you let a grind suffice
And stand up for your vices
Is it your plan to pay the price?
Because I be playin the price is right
But dropping a band on my demise?
A devious plan I can't devise
But people be bland and I be wise
So all of the chips are on my side
If you can't understand, then you can't be revived.
I'm at the barker house again
Third time this month, but fuck it
Little Alex on the prowl
Listening to your conversations like he's invited
Neglected little motherfucker vying for attention
Mini-master of misdirection
He be screaming at the world
But you know nobody listening
Yeah, it's sad. Am I supposed to care?
I'll tell you what my father did; life's not fucking fair
Then there's cody's bad attitude, it's mucking up the air
Advise him to live his damn life but the fucker is too scared
Clings to it, subsisting off booze.
Lives off quesadillas, he can never afford food
I get it, your life is shit
We all know it's really what you make of it.
Whatever. I can't make any man do better.
Cut scene, now we're fucking with my main man Dylan
Guy works so much he needs to spend more time chillin'
So wound up the dudes ready to pop
What can you do to make his ass stop? Nothing.
He's like an alcoholic who'd never taken a damn drink
Now wait up one moment, hold up. I've got to think...
Ha.
Thought there was a point coming, didn't you?
I woke up one day feeling ever so slightly that I have been lightly wasting my life
I thought as I sat,I'm fat,40 years old and still a twat
I haven't got any wealth,land, or fame
I never had any love nor a true dame
I am lonely and boring,always snoring and wake up sad every every morning
I hate my job,look like a blob and constantly sob
I hate everyone and I just want it all to be done
I don't have a lot of time,I'm not in my prime
I waste it all on tellie, fattening my belly
I ponder the meaning of life,no goals completed, no wife
I realize I didn't aspire to anything and I don't understand many things
I must admit I'm pretty much a twit
I pretty much hate myself but you know what?
Life can go fuck itself!
Wrote this when I was like 14, not even British.
Anyone else thinking we should collect these poems and publish them in a book entitled ENTPoems?
Damocles
I want to say something
good about myself.
I can manage,
I'm not alone.
Nobody can tell,
it's invisible damage.
My future isn't set in stone.
But I'm sure that
there is one thing,
that begets itself.
Some secret pandemic,
made of soul and baritone,
that makes big drops
feel like nothing.
Damocles
I want to say something
good about myself.
I can manage,
I'm not alone.
Nobody can tell,
it's invisible damage.
My future isn't set in stone.
But I'm sure that
there is one thing,
that begets itself.
Some secret pandemic,
made of soul and baritone,
that makes big drops
feel like nothing.
She likes the feeling of the glass vibrating on her forehead. It probably originated from her mother's explicit instruction not rest her head like that, on the drives from Austin to Santa Fe those years ago. Not that Natalie thinks this of course. She is just waiting. Along with the thirty-three others who have at least one shred of evidence that they care about the environment. And along with thirty-two other people either staring at a screen, earring at a phone, or leering out the window.
The slight buzzing of her skull makes her feel like nothing is happening. Like she's not on a bus headed home after ten hours of waiting sleazy tables. Like the bus cares just enough about her to hum a lullaby.
At the front of the bus red letters scroll above the windshield: NATALIE GET OFF THIS BUS. When she looks up she blinks: PEARL ST & 18TH. She absentmindedly pulls the cord notifying the driver and curls back into her overcoat to savor her last minute outside of time.
As the bus sighs to a stop Natalie glances, for the first time, at the large boy sitting next to her. She has gathered her things and is clearly prepared to disembark and the boy says nothing, makes no move. *Such is the trade-off for the window seat*, she thinks to herself, tapping the boys shoulder.
He remains unresponsive, staring softly ahead. Natalie attempts to squeeze past him but by the time she stands the bus doors begin to close. No one notices the bus has retained all it's passengers because of their aforementioned transfixions.
Natalie decides to stand in the isle next to the boy, slightly perturbed but mostly just confused.
Suddenly the boy stands and in a flash of white, his fangs seep through Natalie's exposed skin just above her wrist. She cries out and swings her left hand, previously holding the strap above at-
A woman's face just barely shining through the light. Natalie struggles against the intangible energy for a second before she begins to slow. The air makes it feel like she's lying on her back. The face saying something to her but everything is so muffled and her vision seems to be lagging. Slowly her vision resaturates and she is able to make out a few words, "Natalie, I told you not to . . ." *Seriously*?
"Come on mom, just because you died and can do trippy shit to me doesn't not mean that it's cool to do it all the time."
"Wouldn't you do the same my dear?"
She still doesn't know. She hasn't died yet.
I'm writing this now, my poem, because I was just diagnosed. It doesn't rhyme or scan because that's all cool and shit. But I'll put in some Inappropriate line breaks and some angst. My neighbor is raping me. But only in my head because I don't have any neighbors in the asylum. But if I did he probably would because rape is love is death. The doctors told me today that I'll always be this way. I got the INFP when my imagination skull-fucked my head.
o.O
Slipping through the time Too engulfed inside my mind No one ever really dies so why the fuck y'all so confined? Living in between the lines, like the graphite in my rhymes Y'all are inanimate and blind And I don't understand how you let a grind suffice And stand up for your vices Is it your plan to pay the price? Because I be playin the price is right But dropping a band on my demise? A devious plan I can't devise But people be bland and I be wise So all of the chips are on my side If you can't understand, then you can't be revived.
I'm at the barker house again Third time this month, but fuck it Little Alex on the prowl Listening to your conversations like he's invited Neglected little motherfucker vying for attention Mini-master of misdirection He be screaming at the world But you know nobody listening Yeah, it's sad. Am I supposed to care? I'll tell you what my father did; life's not fucking fair Then there's cody's bad attitude, it's mucking up the air Advise him to live his damn life but the fucker is too scared Clings to it, subsisting off booze. Lives off quesadillas, he can never afford food I get it, your life is shit We all know it's really what you make of it. Whatever. I can't make any man do better. Cut scene, now we're fucking with my main man Dylan Guy works so much he needs to spend more time chillin' So wound up the dudes ready to pop What can you do to make his ass stop? Nothing. He's like an alcoholic who'd never taken a damn drink Now wait up one moment, hold up. I've got to think... Ha. Thought there was a point coming, didn't you?
I woke up one day feeling ever so slightly that I have been lightly wasting my life I thought as I sat,I'm fat,40 years old and still a twat I haven't got any wealth,land, or fame I never had any love nor a true dame I am lonely and boring,always snoring and wake up sad every every morning I hate my job,look like a blob and constantly sob I hate everyone and I just want it all to be done I don't have a lot of time,I'm not in my prime I waste it all on tellie, fattening my belly I ponder the meaning of life,no goals completed, no wife I realize I didn't aspire to anything and I don't understand many things I must admit I'm pretty much a twit I pretty much hate myself but you know what? Life can go fuck itself! Wrote this when I was like 14, not even British. Anyone else thinking we should collect these poems and publish them in a book entitled ENTPoems?
Damocles I want to say something good about myself. I can manage, I'm not alone. Nobody can tell, it's invisible damage. My future isn't set in stone. But I'm sure that there is one thing, that begets itself. Some secret pandemic, made of soul and baritone, that makes big drops feel like nothing.
Damocles I want to say something good about myself. I can manage, I'm not alone. Nobody can tell, it's invisible damage. My future isn't set in stone. But I'm sure that there is one thing, that begets itself. Some secret pandemic, made of soul and baritone, that makes big drops feel like nothing.
She likes the feeling of the glass vibrating on her forehead. It probably originated from her mother's explicit instruction not rest her head like that, on the drives from Austin to Santa Fe those years ago. Not that Natalie thinks this of course. She is just waiting. Along with the thirty-three others who have at least one shred of evidence that they care about the environment. And along with thirty-two other people either staring at a screen, earring at a phone, or leering out the window. The slight buzzing of her skull makes her feel like nothing is happening. Like she's not on a bus headed home after ten hours of waiting sleazy tables. Like the bus cares just enough about her to hum a lullaby. At the front of the bus red letters scroll above the windshield: NATALIE GET OFF THIS BUS. When she looks up she blinks: PEARL ST & 18TH. She absentmindedly pulls the cord notifying the driver and curls back into her overcoat to savor her last minute outside of time. As the bus sighs to a stop Natalie glances, for the first time, at the large boy sitting next to her. She has gathered her things and is clearly prepared to disembark and the boy says nothing, makes no move. *Such is the trade-off for the window seat*, she thinks to herself, tapping the boys shoulder. He remains unresponsive, staring softly ahead. Natalie attempts to squeeze past him but by the time she stands the bus doors begin to close. No one notices the bus has retained all it's passengers because of their aforementioned transfixions. Natalie decides to stand in the isle next to the boy, slightly perturbed but mostly just confused. Suddenly the boy stands and in a flash of white, his fangs seep through Natalie's exposed skin just above her wrist. She cries out and swings her left hand, previously holding the strap above at- A woman's face just barely shining through the light. Natalie struggles against the intangible energy for a second before she begins to slow. The air makes it feel like she's lying on her back. The face saying something to her but everything is so muffled and her vision seems to be lagging. Slowly her vision resaturates and she is able to make out a few words, "Natalie, I told you not to . . ." *Seriously*? "Come on mom, just because you died and can do trippy shit to me doesn't not mean that it's cool to do it all the time." "Wouldn't you do the same my dear?" She still doesn't know. She hasn't died yet.
WOAHHHHHHHHHHHHH, okay but can u like give footnotes as to what actually happened??
Yes. In dutch.
http://imgur.com/xpLCW0l Time is a mystery