I Have Wrote Almost A Thousand Words In Less Than An Hour. I Think Something Is Wrong With Me

i have wrote almost a thousand words in less than an hour. i think something is wrong with me

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personal this is coming from someone who almost exclusively writes things under 400 words and even then that takes a while

More Posts from Rumograph and Others

rumograph
3 months ago
Jarvis Might Be Having A Bit Of A Rough Night ...

jarvis might be having a bit of a rough night ...

full image under the cut just because. i liked it better cropped but i still like the full version

Jarvis Might Be Having A Bit Of A Rough Night ...
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my art art traditional art pen pulp jarvis cocker pulp band
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rumograph
4 months ago

got a new jacket !! need to do a lot to it though ... needs more pockets ...

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personal diy high up stupid denim jacket with two pockets it's a good jacket but only two ... ? not even in a good place so i need to add some pockets at the bottom and some inside pockets
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rumograph
8 months ago
text reading: Late Night At The Corner Shop Bottles cluttering the counter at the corner shop This morning I cut my hair short and it felt like cutting the legs off of a lamb I stand trembling before the woman scanning my items and Fumbling and shaking I press the change into her hands and "Are you okay, sir?" and then I feel the blood spilling onto my hands again and is this what care feels like? That night I felt like both the lamb and the blade and I will carve my mind into flesh My Lord, I fear that I have killed someone tonight.

late night at the corner shop [18.01.2024]

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poetry poem original poem trans poetry rumos poetry orginal poetry 18.01.2024
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rumograph
10 months ago
Finally Got A Tom Waits Record
Finally Got A Tom Waits Record

finally got a tom waits record

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i need rain dogs ill get you someday mr waits
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rumograph
2 months ago
A Carver's Fish Always Drowns Silent

a carver's fish always drowns silent

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writeblr writing poetry poem original poem spilled ink rumos poetry 27.10.2024 couldnt think of a good title so. this is what im going with
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rumograph
7 months ago
This Is Old But Whatever Take It !!

this is old but whatever take it !!

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my art art traditional art original art pencil oc lenmon oc daniel have i ever posted a drawing of lenmon here? ive been drawing him on and off for a while now i think ive posted a drawing of him i need to draw my characters more !!
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rumograph
2 months ago
rumograph - is rumo real ?
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my art art traditional art original art pen rumosona antsona alien sona
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rumograph
1 month ago
Some More Old Art I Found Going Through My Sketchbooks

some more old art i found going through my sketchbooks

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my art art traditional art ocs original art pen oc daniel
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rumograph
1 month ago
You're on a sinking plane. A skeleton on a fish hook. Scrubbing the blood stains off the kitchen tiles. You're everything. It will all go sideways for you soon. But you're everything. Let's start again. You're dying from the outside in. Your brother noticed it before you did. He doesn't know how to help so you ended up staying the night at his and smoking on the roof together. You want to fall asleep up there & you tell him so & he doesn't say it but he is scared what you really want is to jump. He noticed it before you did. Can you link the stars in a way that makes you feel something? You could when you were a kid. Actually, did you feel something then? Take another cigarette when he goes back inside. He won't notice. Maybe he will. What I should say is he won't talk about it. It's Tuesday again. God. You drive your car like you're the hostage, the man gagged in the back, the body in the trunk. You take turns where you shouldn't. You see your blood seeping through the seats. You're meeting with your mother for lunch and you are sick & scared & tired. Outside the café there's an angel hanging limp in the power lines; a boy and his sister throw stones at it. Keep walking. You can't stop them. Lunch is nothing special and you leave with bleeding nails. You're dying from the outside in. Remember that. This is your life & you are cigarette ash. But you're everything. You still have time. Let's start again.

remember: from the outside in

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writeblr writing poetry poem original poem spilled ink rumos poetry 30.03.2025
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rumograph
4 months ago
People don't understand what I mean when I say that I've died a million times. I'm in a train and in each carriage is a dead child. They are dragged off the train, one by one, and I can do nothing but watch. It's hard to tell a dead child from a living one sometimes. I get off at Camden and think about what casket they'll sleep in tonight. When I get out of the train station, my mind is full of nothing but the dead. I think about the suicide pacts I made with my ex. I call her on the phone, say it's been a year since I last touched a blade. I spend the next morning prying the blood out of my fingernails. I revise the ways I'll die over and over. Three bullets in my throat, one for each child I missed. I light another cigarette. I stumble through the market like I can't see two steps in front of me - in many ways, I can't. I spend too long looking at the wrong things, trailing my hands across the painting of Bowie, buying orange juice instead of the record I want, walking across the rainbow crossings over and over; there is a dead child in me and London makes him sick. His body hangs limp in every window I pass; you learn to deal with it, eventually.
Every twelve steps you take are someone's last. I stay at the Lockside until I'm gagging on my words and I can't feel the rain on my back. I taste it on every breath; I am dead in ways people don't understand and I will die in ways they wish they couldn't. Outside there are bodies floating in the river and only the ones already standing with one leg over see them. I stay inside for another hour or two. On the way home, all I can hear is screaming. I've always hated the underground. The screeching dies before it can reach me and all that hits me is the sobbing behind it. The underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery. There is nothing in the windows but my reflection slumped and rotting in the seats across from me. I wish I could find it in myself to mourn but you can only die so many times and still feel something towards it.

camden market '07 [13.01.2025]

(first piece of writing of the year !)

Tags
writeblr writing oh well I tried rumos poetry parasite days not sure how good the image is on this one what do i tag writing with
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rumograph - is rumo real ?
rumograph
is rumo real ?

the underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery

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