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