To Be A Rose. To Be A Rose. To Be.

𝐎𝐜𝐭’ 3𝐫𝐝, 89’

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠. 𝐽𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠...𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑠..𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑧𝑜𝑜.

8-1

New month, new reason: the beginning of a new rhythm for all the seasons. To the tune of nothing and everything. Will it bring more than a small amount.

Little, little, and little to none. The sweetness of the past will diminish but never be swindled since it roots the world in which we live.

More will follow. There is still much to learn and questions to be resolved.

Angel.

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 “𝐎𝐝𝐝” 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠—

I don't belong. I don't belong, belong. Do I not belong? Am I an alien? Do I not belong in this world?

Despite not asking the question, I gaze to the skies for answers. And yet, I wonder...what? Do I belong or am I meant to feel this? Feel what? This. This...being?

The intense chewing has bruised my lips, numbing my fingertips, causing my eyes to widen and my soul to awaken. Am I not bound to this life, to this experience, to this world that has been shoved upon me. Like compacted snowballs. Do I belong here?

I could walk the tightrope of mounting cathartics and pave a new way. I could even go down the path of death, and my mind has ever so carefully migrated to that area.

This strange feeling. These strange feelings. Odd feeling, this, be I, me, the feeling. Does anyone...anyone have answers? Do I belong here, there, anywhere? Am I needed, wanted, loved, or appreciated? Do I belong...?

This. Really, really, really—felt this.

i am always giving, and never receiving. when is it my turn to be special to somebody

What risks does having dreams pose, if any? free to let one's thoughts stray and get lost. But that's all there is. Lost. Maybe lost means you don't want to be found. Imagine that the joy is in being above the clouds, gazing down as the body is motionless. Still adrift. to fly into the air, temporarily erasing all concerns and doubts. Expressionless, immobile, and hyper-focused on everything at once. trapped in the labyrinth of my own consciousness. Is this the cost of freedom, though? This never-ending web of anxiety... the agonizing impression that dreams are unreal. yet actual to me. My objectivity is unique. within this body...

Nothing is meant by this body, these words. a moron with a body, I am a poet who speaks foolishly. Usually unheard, rambling, and losing charm; merely musing and muttering. A never-ending mass of nonsense masquerading as... Collective words. I'm hoping someone somewhere will understand. This mind's soul is imprisoned in a machine-like anger, much like a demon. Typical. Although essentially silly, intellect is marked... And what conflict does my body have? I'll continue to float, staying in my dreams, and perhaps...

Perhaps...

An astonishing combination of delectable sweetness and mystifying cacophony. Ear-warming. What is? Why the spring days ahead—that is.

The longer nights, shortened days, sunrises, and sunsets are upon us; they love us. Connotations of sweetness. Looking ahead, anticipating the joys of spring...

We wish to keep, possess, and not wonder any more of what lies ahead. We wish to be enchanted, overcome by delirium when it comes. We wish to have our arms outstretched to catch the peaking days. We wish to close our eyes on the settling nights.

Spring...

Spring...

Spring.

gentle reminder that you did nothing wrong by putting yourself first! ♡

The weekend—

where am I? now not bodily. Mentally I need to realize where I am at. How am I still breathing above the tide? I sense like I am suffocating in my very own doubts. My very own doubts are to strangle me into some other realm if i'm not careful.

So where does that depart me now? Itching for ink, itching for a experience of comfort. where's my stash? that's what I need. To open that stash, put on that record, and inhale life through a haze that's not me—however a part of me. Yeah, I have gone back on my phrase and who the fuck cares. I need to know who I am and where the fuck I am.

My future self will shake her head in disappointment. And i'm able to shake it together with her— I want a way out, a way in, a place to belong. an area in which I don't experience as if i'm drowning in myself.