detache

Staring again. 
"Vacancy" flashes across my forehead in that dull-neon red. I detach my self from my body, seeping through my eye sockets and spilling out and puddling all around. Songs on shuffle are the only thing I hear. 
We hear what we want to.
 and every song is delivering a message to my cranium, which is now dripping off the bed and onto the floor.  
Questions are hard to form right now, but there are many. They most likely don't matter, or won't matter later, but this feeling is permeating. That small bit of cancer they miss in the scrape. It sits and it grows. Once it reaches your mind, game over. 

My mind is all I have, and once it's penetrated, I'm filled with a soreness that only authenticity can take away. 
Some mistakes are made, and some linger with possibility.
Do I know better than this?
© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2013

You're underwhelming election day

I woke up at midnight from some much needed sleep to a riot out my window.
I went outside and smoked a cigarette and realized I was just being over dramatic again.  
I think it's because I'm not living up to my potential, or whatever it is they say in movies that makes you think.
I just want to write happy songs about how much I hate you, or sad songs about how much I hate myself, then everyone would sing along and love me or hate me and I'd be out there existing in multiple forms at multiple times apart of multiple peoples lives, experiences, moments.

Now that's something when you think about it.
But I can't sing, but I don't think that's really what it's all about anyway.

You're an idiot and the evidence of it is all over the fucking place. It's here and there and everywhere. People standing pointing at you, calling you an idiot, your friends behind your back... I never met them. I never met anyone that you knew. Anyway, then there's me. And I definitely think your an idiot in the most idiotic ways of all time possible. Then it's there, looking me in the face...

My discretion is what kills it in the end.

And there you have it.
You ruined another one.
Without even trying.

Like a kaleidoscope I change and morph these thoughts again into nothing and no one and nothing and back again.
All that's here now is me, these four walls and all the colored paper I've smothered them with.
Then it all fades away.
 It's 6:06 am and I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.



© m.f. /Roxywaters Nov. 2012

I hope if your ever mauled by bears...

I dreamt of you again.
This time was different.
You lingered here.

Hurried as I awoke.
Life seeped in.
It was hours before I realized.

I tried to go to you
I tried to find you
For a second...

I thought I lost you.

Then I found myself.
Stuck between here and somewhere else.
I dreamt it all and forgot to realize it when I woke.

I let you stay on me,
Let you walk with me,
Let you occupy me again so easily... effortless
I let the idea of you permeate into my actual fucking day.

It's terrifying.
Mixing up life and consciousness like that.

In the dream, I was with you.
I was yours. I was bright, golden, trusted, one, whole.  Felt it, I finally felt it. Light. Simple. 
I questioned why, even in my dream, I questioned why, but I didn't search for it. I let it go.
I let go and let you in.


Where do you go after this?
I'm frenzied, frantic with you all around me.
It's been three years,
That's plenty of time.

but I just can't sleep...

© m.f. /Roxywaters Nov. 2012

Referendum

Can't find sleep

 always seems to lead the way of losing yourself.
That manic feeling
fade in
fade out 
Weary here in this man made place, with all of this surrounding, challenging 
...ungrateful maybe

 definitely felt unfortunate.
Perhaps its luck.
 it doesn't feel like luck.

auto correct stops here, whatever I type on this machine stays here.

Dreams Reality Nightmare the undefinable makes you go the furthest.
the more you learn the less you know.
truth falls away.

          impulse

decide already, this isnt life or death, and really theres only death... 
Everything is so pumped up so false so fake, blinding the senses with good reason.
you all have a reason.

whats the point? no one knows for sure. 

free will, ain't that a kick in the head?
all the resources, opportunities, advantages, past, future, experience, knowledge, what good is it if I'm not doing what I can? what I should...

What should I?

you call it a choice? are you fucking mental? there are no choices here friend, only perceptions and reactions.
chemicals too, biological chemical shit that rages war on the psyche.

there never was a choice, just the appearance of one.

It's Friday, November 2nd, 2012, 5:28 am. Everything is right as rain,
that is,
 no apocalypse,
 plague,
famine,
but the way we live, you'd think we were all the walking dead.

© m.f. /Roxywaters Nov. 2012

I'm a god damn hypocrite

I just want to feel happy for longer than a day every two months, before a cataclysmic event.

You know when you write those silly little self help inspirational nonsenses? 

I am happy
I am loved
I am positive...

Well that's not what I am. That's what I would love to be, what I would kill to be, what I trick myself into being every once in awhile. 

but what I am is not that

I am selfish

I am my mother

I am angry

I am annoyed 

I am scared 

I am vulnerable

I am lonely

I am constantly upset

I am stressed the fuck out

I am just barely surviving here, physically and mentally

I am a liar

I am deceptive towards myself

I am ignorant as fuck

I am painfully hard on myself

I am quiet

I am unoriginal

I am unsure 

im not that smart, I can't sit still enough

long enough

to figure out these answers

 and i dont care either

 all i care about are things i can dream about

I wrap my head around the 1920's

lives of famous crazies, 

what it was like to see, know, and be charlie chaplin,

how tunnels are made, 

and why song writers can so easily display truth. 

Today I thought about where

Audrey Hepburn is, 

what she's doing, 

and if she has anyone

by her side that 

loves her

 

"If you judge a fish by it's ability to climb a tree it fails."

I am a fish

that sucks at swimming

dreams of being a bird

and is being asked to climb mt. everest 

"bullshit."

 yeah, me too. it all is. 

in a tangible world all I have is a feeling that's impossible to describe



the only thing I believe in is myself...
and im losing faith

© m.f. /Roxywaters Sep. 2012

of when things were beautiful

I need to get you out of my head and off my mind.
I see you in everyone. It's changed me.

Things used to be easier.
We all say we're searching for happiness, but that makes little to no sense.
Look back on your life, nothing is easier with age, if you're not close to happiness right now, what makes you think you'll possess it in ten years?

But that force that keeps us searching, she is a grand old bout of energy.

Think of these words, think of all words...
"What is poetry?" nothing.
Poetry is the backwards hope of mankind and the vision of land on the horizion.
Poetry is the dream written down and the dream deferred.
Poetry is the greatest lie ever told and the sheerest truth ever heard.

I need to stop wasting my potential.


© m.f. /Roxywaters Jul. 2012

fade out

Slow fade from pomegranate to yellow.
The bed you sleep in is a mess.
You find dreams on a mattress littered with clothing, bags, and magazine shreds.
Sleep long into the afternoon.

Pinpoint the problem. Go back.

Mirrors surrounded.
You have to look.

opened luggage parades itself around you... baggage
it's time to leave.

The flour like substance-stick on your palms, rubber gloves. That smell, that taste...

The paperless cut of an eye
The wince of a nail-less chalkboard
The anti-scrape of metal on metal
The cringe of an unspiral fracture

Somethings not right here.

Get up. get out. get up get out getup getout getupgetout GETUPGETOUT

WHITE OUT

The infinite sound of snow falling silence.



© m.f. /Roxywaters Jul. 2012

Gluttony, Gold, Greed. "Ain't nothing but a g-thang baby"

Milk it for all it's worth.
Rape and pillage until there's nothing left.

Drag it on.
Longer and Longer
Further and further
Over and over
Again.

Claw, Sleep, Fuck, Push, Climb your way to the top.

The end justifies the means,
by all means I want a Range Rover
...and a Rolex.

Take what you want.
Leave nothing left.

Glorious, fraudulent, theft.

Account for nothing.
Lawyer up bitch.




© m.f. /Roxywaters feb. 2012

Too Much, Too Many

I can feel my blood pressure increasing.
Rapidly, uncontrollably, beating within my chest.
The odour of chrysanthemums latches itself onto the air, cantering through my window screen.
Bored to death.
This device is blinking, waiting patiently for greatness to seethe and seep through and from.
Music is too much.
Turn it off.
Turn everything off.
My cerebral cortex is breaking under the immense idea of nothingness.
My body wants sleep, but nausea floods when I close my eyes.
I've tainted everything soft and childlike with the faint sent of carcinogens.
I'm confronted with the notion of air.
When breathing is hard, you're doing it wrong.

I'm a blade of grass.
In a field of wild flowers.
I'm trying so hard to bloom for you,
But I'm stuck here.

I watch the sky change from orange to pink to black to blue.
Am I really wasting myself on this feeling?

I've smoked too many.
I inhale you in,
but I can't breathe out...
Can't breathe at all.

I'm just another blade of grass.
I stand here, strong and tall, robust and straight,
green beyond all the fruitfulness of my imagination
yet, I still bend in your wind.

I can't let you in anymore than this...
What do you want from me?

I'm just a blade of grass.
Trying so hard to figure out my place.



help me. give me something to hold on to.





Roxywaters m.f. April 2012

Anything

overwhelmed with feeling.
melodies gloss over, inside, and out
welling up inside
start to surface
pin pricks fill all the space
electric space.
float over me with that sound
break down.
nostalgia floods
taste, smell, & perception.

It Was So Long Ago.


© m.f. /Roxywaters Apr. 2012

Dubstep Isn't music, it's sound.

I don't know what it is about you.
You close and you open and you close again.
But somehow to me,  you're always closed.

Do you ever think about your problems?
Not the ones that stick, but the ones that are stuck?

All of our wants and needs funneling together,
a boisterous cloud of uneasy heading right for us.
Get out while you still have time.

Through all the color and the flash
Can we still tell whats real?
Do we even want to know?
Do we notice it growing bigger and bigger?
Swelling up to a certain point on the shore.

I miss you. I don't know why. But I do. It hurts. Everything hurts.
And all that I have to comfort me is google blocking my websites to prove a point about censorship.

© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2012

Throwdown Teapots

It's sick how much I'm still in love with you.
It's astonishing, how I've memorized your looks.
The one's you give when you're upset or unrealistically joyous, which come about much more often than the prior.

I've ingrained your being into mine.
Your essence has been captured by me.
Bottled, inspected, labeled and sold.
You've been shipped off...

I have no idea how many of these I've written to you.
After a while you lose count.
You never lost anything.
You always kept everything right in the palm of your hands. Simple and concise.
No reason to complicate things...until me.

You don't know what you've done. But it's not your fault. You couldn't hurt me, anyone, if you tried.
You've only ever thrown teapots.





© m.f. /Roxywaters Apr. 2011

Everything

I've been selfish again. I hope you'll forgive me.
Its moments like these, the small incandescent ones that form the landscape for all the rest.
I get so close to giving you all the keys that unlock the various doors and windows. Then you blindside me with something so innately wholesome and melancholy. And just like that I can't look at myself for days.
I could quite possibly be in some form of love with you, if I weren't too busy making my self fall apart at my own seams. Relapsing into a purgatory of uncertainty.

I crave your conversation. It nags at me like the cold whistling in from under the door frame. There's a constant reminder that I'm not doing it right, that I'll never get this right. But I know some things that not everyone knows. I know what his hands should be. I know the peculiar way his lips frame his teeth. I know his hair down to the grain. I can trace his shoulders with my hands as if I were molding them from clay. I'll know.

You can't tell me who you are, despite your efforts. And that could make sense... I don't know if I'm strong enough to take care of you. I'm scared to find out if I'm strong enough to let you take care of me. Such a funny word care. Conjures comforting feelings and thoughts. I wonder if I'm ready for that. To go head first and stead fast into your grasp. You'd never let me go, that much I am sure of. Do I want to be let go?

Maybe.

© m.f. /Roxywaters Apr. 2011

Bring the bookfair back!

These clothes are just clothes rags to keep me warm, not definitions.
Wouldn't that be nice.

It's "wha?t" 356 times a day.
Read SOMETHING. ANYTHING.

We are of a different caliber.  (class, sect, religion, region, dialect, background, lives, worlds,)
I'm just better than you. (but honestly I don't know that much)


Iwantmychildhoodback.&mymother&myfriends&alltheopinionsihadwhenIwas6.
What makes something write or wrong?

When did this become okay?


Sleep should be worshiped.
Drugs should be banished.
They just wanted to see what could be done with no outside knowledge. They wanted something pure. I can't blame them for that.

Mad science revels.
Bring the bookfair back.





And with it the idea of flying away in a peach.  He was on drugs too when he wrote that.

Luck and work, life and death.
Every time, I've come up short. but only within my hand, and not my poker face.

Don't give dust a place to settle and you'll never get tied down, but where on earth have you ever seen dust never have somewhere to settle?


© m.f. /Roxywaters  Mar. 2011