Tag: dark artist
Food speaks to me, it tells me to eat it, it tells me I will like it so much better than I can even imagine. This is probably because I am
I am probably insane… I am actually insane.
I know this, but I wonder sometimes, if there is something to this, something real, if I am hearing something real, that is real to a small segment of people, but experienced collectively, in that it is the same experience shared by a very small segment of the population, so would that not make it real?
I met her near a bridge, she was going to work, she spotted me underneath the bridge, picking up the rest of my stuff, so no one would know I had camped there for the night. If I was careful, sometimes I could use the same spot twice. This was particularly important in Oregon, because it was not as understanding as California, and shop owner’s or random passersby could help police decide to banish the unhoused travelers.
Do you still think what you thought about her?
Yes. I still find it very strange that her name was Bridgette and we met her underneath a bridge.
Look, I know that is peculiar, but what you thought was insane.
I don’t think it is that insane that people were following us and giving quickly devised names, it is a perfectly logical explanation that you see in old movies all the time.
I guess that makes sense.
Playing with color, playing with dark, I am light, I am dark, I am shadow, I am light, I am madness, I am fright, I am happy, I am sad, I am joy, I come in colors rad.
I make nothing, I make everything.
I am daunting, taunting, condescending.
Darkness, light, and the moon, paint the earth, paint the june.
The loon laughs alone, so do the bugs.
Crying to the stars, sleeping on nature’s pulled out rugs.
I am the act of dissing disease.
Speaking for the human being, who exists in the state of being late to a party they were not invited to, so they came late, and irate, and irritated, and possibly…
That they can’t stand, or in other words, the hated human being, being seen through the eyes of demise depsied by demise, who cries for those who lay in a state of moral decay, by the act of staying away from society.
I miss people, so I am trying to find ones who like me, for being me, not just saying whatever, you want, baby.
I am whoever you want me to be, honey.
My name is Sarah.
I come from a kingdom of dust, and no looking back.
You caw outside my window, which makes me look up.
I am the crow.
The omen is a not just an omen, but a messanger, sent to dispense spiritual law, traveler between worlds, seer and traveler of a divide in time.
Haver of both it and me and no longer, possesser of item. I am simply the crow.
Complicated too, and complicatedly the crow, because I am not a crow, I am a human being, obviously, because crows can’t type letters, but I am listening the caw of the crow as I write to you, whoever is listening, even if ut anyone is at all, and
Where do you go?
What do you see?
What do you desire me to be?
I didn’t know the river, that I thought was a river, was really a swamp. I couldn’t tell from where I was standing, it was too dark.
I had not paid much attention either, having had to make a quiet escape, while my “friend” was sleeping, so as to not offer any explanation and justify my leaving.
I am looking out over the water, I am hot and itchy, it has been days since I showered, and by days, I mean… probably weeks, probably a month. I don’t know the difference between the segments of time, they make no difference to me anymore. I am itchy, and there is water… or ehm.. I was itchy.. and there was water… I am not good at the whole tense thing sometimes either… I am always tense…….. tense….. it is just a state of mind….
I jump into the river, or what I think is a river, and it feels good for a second, just one, till I realize what I have done, and the fatal error I have made. This is a swamp. I panic, pulling at weeds, and struggling to not sink too far into it, it takes me 45 minutes to escape my failure at showering, and I look like a drowned muskrat.
I used to just consume ****ing other things, and for some reason thought if I drank water sometimes, I would feel okay. I think that is why I was losing pieces of my hands… stupid…
It’s kind of cool though… You don’t need the tips of all of your fingers, to be functional. The right thumb thing was the worst.. I am missing half of it.
TRIGGER WARNING: About sex workers or prostitution, and revelation of moments of clarity, mentions drug use and is very graphic do not read if you can’t handle this. I am writing for my own recovery, and to cleanse my own mind and soul.
You were the last man to touch me for free, and now they will never touch me again, because I realize, I charged with the charge of a heart scarred by being untrue to me. I did not want to be with any of you at all. I was not that kind of… person. I charged for the scars to my arms, to my soul, to the eternal burning hole in everything that it is to be me, and give things heroically in falsehood because what I was really doing was buying letters carved in human skin that told stories of heroic-ness, but what I was really doing was sleeping with people for free drugs… nothing more nothing less.
We search your basement hideout for your **** which you already did, I know because we did it together, but you don’t remember this, because we were together for a second, being together in love with each other for the brief second that rocks are thrown on table,
Rock, paper scissor
Scissor, I cut you out of my life, toxic friend, and all men, that make me exchange sex for bitter rocks, cast at my soul.
I like women better anyway.