stranger's disease

"i wish i believed you when you said that this was my home"



moving rooms

dead people in the closet
sick people in the bedroom
old bright pink dreamcatchers
bright new floors of pine wood

papers and dreams
scribblings, messages
and things that I can't get rid of
had drowned me

I cannot get rid of
whatever makes me sad
I can't get rid of the past
because the house is here to hunt

you can break it,
tear it, fix it,
build it from scratch
but just like the cat

                               it's kicking me out

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custom concern

I don't feel at all
like I thought
and we're losing all touch
losing all touch
                       building a desert

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street like war

I feared that the elevator
would shut off again
only this time with me inside.

the heat wave took
the city by storm
not ready to face
the sunday sun.

the street outside was
quiet; it smelled like oil,
pools (though there are none
around, I suppose it was my own desire),
cars' fumes and other
people's deodorant.

heat makes smell condense
and light up this particular
hot concrete scent
which I know so well.

inside the shop it was
quieter. it was a new shop
they sold ice cream. I guess
no one told them about
competitive pricing.

i heard a voice behind me say
"the war that lasted 30 years"
and I turned.
it was winston churchill on the
screen. I said aloud, "winston
and the guy behind the counter

the street is quiet like
empty train stations,
a field,
a friend's old car with no stereo
a night alone.

the street is quiet like
it holds a secret.
maybe war is still going on.
who knows.

I'm just glad to be back
in the shadows.
I'm not buying ice cream
there again.

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this began 3 years ago and he began 3 weeks ago

ugh if I could tell you just
how much he makes me want to
be fifteen again
time flies faster than the swallows

it's only been like
three years?
more or less?

I feel so
so much more
than I did back then


“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
— J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye




all hail

all I ever wanted
was for you to be my king
but I guess there's no kingdom
where there is defeat

I wanted to give you
a millon roses
a thousand horses
and a soul to claim

but it was useless;
fighting against the will
of a few traitors
those which with blood in hands, stained


all I wanted 
was for you to be my cæsar
from the purest heart
be your greatest weakness

and now for the power
of a few more months
I'll lay down in spite
watching what was once mine fall apart

it takes one man
to build an empire
and it takes one man
to bring it down.

in my heart
I will always hold
the true weakness
of your soul.

I'll shall carry it with me
wherever I might go.

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broken temple

this virtual, metaphysical 
touch feels less unique than
the spring/summer rain 
which fades faster than your will
to talk to me.
I play this game with
disgust and
though you feel like
everything is right
I don't ever want to talk
to you again 
and I don't think I'll
ever will.
just get away from
me please.

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bring on the havoc

it is eight in the evening
and everyone is freaking out
over the phone.

chemicals, explosions,
names I can't pronounce
cloud up my head.

I'm too tired to
even think of getting up

yesterday I slept less
than four hours
I'm pretty sure of that

and pretty girls didn't seem
that pretty and music
didn't seem so loud.

I'm pretty sure (also)
that my head has exploded.
I wonder what made it go off.

we are all so insane.
maybe it will last.
I hope so.

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this house is no longer a home

    suddenly my dad had the decency to remind me how I had stripped down my room until no personality had been left in it. I used to hang a life up on the walls, lively encourage movement behind the closed door, maybe even act up daydreams but suddenly it all became quite a blur and I became a recluse to my mind. I remember how this used to feel not so long ago, but I can't grasp it, I can't handle it, I can't... 
                              it's not me anymore, it's not me. this house is no longer something I long. he's right, my room is white as a sheet, like me. it's dying, you see, it's dying slowly. 
                                how can you live when you are constantly terrified? of ghosts, of noises, of strangers. of tv in the middle of the night, of the subtle silences in the empty rooms left behind by those who can't love us anymore. tell me, seriously, where did you take the feelings we used to share a summer ago?
                                                                                                                              I know you feel the same way as me. not even the cat knows what's going on. can we stop pretending this is okay?
                                                   the house is kicking me out. it is. look at it. look at me. it's so cold. so cold...

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maybe text instead

seriously I can't live
without being afrAID
I'm constantly hesitating and
over-thinking because I can't
pick up the phone.
there are people who need me
or maybe they don't but I should 
still talk to them-
who knows, I wish nobody needed me

I am afraid of making a mistake
though I'm not making any
I'm terrfied
I can't sleep

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I keep asking myself these questions

I don't understand why
I consider myself tidy
or clean or organized.
I feel better when
there is a mess
in my hair
my room my house
my head and hands,
I feel protected.
I'm not in control
when I see the tiles on
the floor
when my hair is neat
when my paperwork is done.
I don't feel at ease.
maybe that is why
I keep creating
re shaping this mess
so I can put it back
like a little puzzle drawn
for kids like me, addicted
to feel like the world
has gone mad.

is there a name for
being addicted to

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I should probably
hate you because
I can't sleep again.

but god knows
that I have been waiting
for someone like you
   to wake me up.

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introduction to religion/the hostility of just not caring II

carved wood images
stare back at me like
the dead film
of the dead eye
of a dead fish.

maybe they are
judging my commitment
to this particular event

fuck it
i can't care.

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“Am I a good person? Deep down, do I even really want to be a good person, or do I only want to seem like a good person so that people (including myself) will approve of me? Is there a difference? How do I ever actually know whether I’m bullshitting myself, morally speaking?”

— David Foster Wallace, Consider the Lobster and Other Essays

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