procrastination

so, what do you do when you don't know what to do? when the only feeling you feel is nothing. no motivation, no direction, just lost and drifting. I tell you what you do. you become someone else for a while, so you can then re locate yourself. I decided to be a 60's chick, Mia Wallace, take no BS.


when you procrastinate about procrastination do you become mainstream? or are you even further away from society? creating your own world.  when you don't even know what you are living for.


all this drifting is exhausting. when will it stop?


how will I know?
what will it take?


!!!!!

shot my baby with a bang

 

something that was less than a week ago feels like months, my mind has lapsed. i seem to have forgotten you, but somehow think of you everyday. i dont know how long this torture will persist. love knows no bounds and it certainly didnt with us, for i cant live with you nor without.

he is his own worst enemy

On stranger tides, the enemy moving closer than he thought; creeping up like a shadow. Cannons fully loaded, barrels overflowing, set up and aimed. Fog and mist making the deed harder than it ought to be. The captain won’t hold back, when in his short history has he ever made a wrong step? A cock sure captain. The smell of gunpowder locked in his nostrils, his heart galvanising, the twitch of his soiled fingertips stimulating the fuse alight in his veins. Sweat beads dripping off his long hooky nose, his eyes squaring through the eyeglass. The smoggy weather so unpredictable and alive, the cardiac muscle has contracted the gunpowder in his blood stream.

 FIRE!  …

The weather caused no hesitation. He smiled to himself for the destruction was clear; he’d only known a life of destruction. The haze made it more of a challenge, a life without games and challenges was no life for him. Viewing the sea to admire his destruction, a queer feeling arose in the pit of his stomach, his eyes as large as if he’d been on opium. the captains heart numb, as if stabbed by tiny icicles; the ruin closer to home than he could ever of imagined. For the captain recognised the dainty baby blue hanky dancing in the hot wind.

frosted glass

The taste of your soul still alive in my mouth.  

Strands of stray hairs on a dirty pillow case.

Open windows letting the cold air scorch cold stone colder. Stale memories lit only by your half eaten love.

Winter has come early.

skull and crossbones

Don’t touch, says irritant

Don’t drink, says poisonous

Don’t sniff, says deadly

You are like a bottle of bleach,

I’m the child that gets curious.

Grasping the child- lock cap with my chubby hands,

Clamping my mouth over the bottle neck, leaving frustrated teeth dents.

If I get in, you are likely to spill, burn me, and no doubt scar me for life.

I haven’t been poisoned yet but I’m close,

It’s hard to keep away; there is something mysterious and familiar about the bottle,

I see it at least 3x a week and I still haven’t got in.

 

dead heart

They say don’t ever go back

You’re on a tightrope

7 footsteps in

The whole wire could snap

You'd never know if you didn’t go back

You’ve been there before

Are you so sure?

Have you ever put yourself in the footsteps of a tightrope?

Buckling under pressure from feet all around

You know the answer

It’s there, lying dead on the ground

she only misses it with you

The girl misses the intimacy, she tightens the grip of her index and middle finger’s that are squeezing her cigarette butt. The girl flicks the un-finished cigarette to the curb; the cracks in the pavement smoke the last of it. The girl goes back inside the dark dingy warehouse where there is a party in full swing. Dodging past writhing, clammy bodies on the dance floor she heads for the bar. The girl grabs a handful of peanuts from the miniature steel bucket. The girl loosens her grip a second later, spilling peanuts all over the counter; the girl has a disconcerting thought of that sweaty man’s hands all over them. God knows what he’s been touching.

“hey you…yeah you, Liz Taylors love child”

“ha-ha, you’ve got to be kidding me, flattery does not wash with me”

Although the girl was playing the whole blasé game, inside her whole body was quivering. The girls’ palms were beaded with sweat. The girls’ throat was brut and empty. The girl twitches as the guy whispers seductively in her ear,

“I saw you outside, you smoke like a pro, you know like them snobs in the old 1940’s films”

The guy gives a cocked smile and a muted chuckle.

The girl ruffles her brows and says

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment? Sounds like a pretty dick thing to say”

“Take it however you want baby girl, I’m outta here, love ya”

The guy links arms with a thin blonde thing that walks past and struts out of the warehouse, lowering his hand onto her perfectly rounded buttocks as they get further away.

 

The girl feels a fool; she feels her checks burning up. The girl knows she misses intimacy but she knows she only misses it with you.