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Behavioral Center

Empty halls and empty heads,
empty rooms with empty beds;
all those people, all nowhere,
an ambulance once took me there.
They told me they could make me feel
better, help me know what’s real-
then took me to an empty room
with iron door and sense of doom.
they told me that I had to strip
and searched me with cold, harsh, gloved grip
I spread my legs just like they said,
despite my shame and hate and dread.
They shoved me in a crowded space
with nary a familiar face;
Fear and trembling was the rule,
but never could I lose my cool
for fear of being placed again

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Catharsis (lots of triggers if you don't like rape or violence or some shit don't read it)

I'm fucking angry. I'm fucking angry at the shit that this fucking world has decided to put me through. I'm fucking angry that I have to listen to this fucking screaming all my fucking life and it hurts and it sucks and I need it to stop but the more stressed I get the louder they are and it's not exactly like they calm my nerves is it? I'm fucking angry that some fucker decided to rape me and not just once no somebody had to do it again years later and you know what fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! I HATE YOU!

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a continuation

I climb Olympus, taking care to
watch my step for fear of Death,
I seek the pastures still to come
as freezing air does chill my breath.
I search for comfort, calm, or quiet,
wish those pastures might appear
For my knees are bent and broken,
and nightfall follows, all too near.
And as I stand here, strange and fearful,
beholding heaven at the peak,
I know that to complete my journey
still stranger pastures must I seek.

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stream of consciousness; more rape stuff. Whee.

do you think it is a place of peace that place i must retreat to when i close my eyes and think of nights of yore when i was young and foolish?
do you think i wish to sleep when all i know is darker dreams of stinking breath and bloodstained underwear?
hateful black and endless nights of dying days and frightened child i dream as
sleep oh little girl and dream for once of things unlikely, dream of flowers growing ever, dream of children singing sweetly, dream of childhood, not of fear and blood

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Why I'm tired of cis people

So I had to go out shopping this morning. Went for groceries with Yaya. And while we were at Publix I started feeling really dysphoric, and felt like I really needed to get out of there, but I knew I had to stay and help so I did for a while, because we had a fairly short list and we should be out soon and whatnot.

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Mourning a Stranger

I do not like to acknowledge my mortality. I want to live forever, and if it's at all possible in the future, I mean to do so. But I know that I will die. I know that someday I will cease to be. And I'm afraid of that. I'm so very afraid of that. I can only hope that I will be remembered. I want to be remembered. Because in the end, that is the only way to honor one who has died. And so I also wish to remember those who are already dead. I don't want to be forgotten, and I don't want the ones I love to be forgotten. So... Yes. Please remember the lost.

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Koo koo ga-joob

So. We don't mean a goddamn thing, the universe doesn't give a shit, Eris isn't paying that close attention and probably doesn't give a shit either; why should we? Lets go eat a bagel or something. Stop worrying. It'll give you ulcers. Start praying. It won't accomplish anything, but sometimes it's fun, esp. in public in a loud and hammy manner. Or a loud and manny hammer. Who gives a shit.

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A vision in white

Sweet sigils of heaven take me to my rest and I smoke and sing and I am awake for a time; sweet and gold and silent are they, and I a queen of Eden: stinging snow is falling on my skin and slowly I fall, not screaming but murmuring some soft refrain of a song long forgotten in a language never spoken- a king unveiled as queen and a poet unveiled as king: long live the gods of poetry and inspiration, the bezerkers and skalds pledge themselves to Odin both (not sleeping but waking and drinking of mead); chanting an anthem of surreal worlds visited only by the honored dead: this anthem is my song

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Nightmares and visions

Nightmares and visions inform the waking world. Children know it. A dream and a nightmare are synonymous for the child and psychonaut, images of sworling madness, the snares of hell, and the trappings of heaven and earth are all one, kings an gods and children are one. Nightmares and visions are the artist's wellspring and greatest desire. Ask a poet or artist which they desire and they will ask for a nightmare, not a dream. Sweet nothings and candy hearts are the domain of the soul nonetheless and can destroy and create an artist.

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excuses- a poem about a bad person

i burnt her
because she would not love me
i mourned her
because she would not love me
if the fire was wrong
then why did god let me do it?
if the fire was wrong
then she should have loved me
i burnt them
because they laughed at me
yes i burnt them
and now i am the laughter
if the fire was wrong
why did god let me do it?
if the fire was wrong
then they should have praised me
i razed the city
because it was in my way
i tore it to pieces
because it made me feel whole
and if the killing was wrong
why did god let me do it?
if the killing was wrong

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more light (science fiction maybe? you tell me)

and god looked upon the world as it was and said 'more light'

'more light for those who cannot see past their own noses'
'more light for those who have aught but the dark'
'more light for those who are afraid'
'more light for those who are ignorant'

and god looked upon the world as it could be and saw that it was good

and god saw the people who could not look beyond themselves
and god saw those who had aught but the dark
and god saw those who were afraid
and god saw those who were ignorant

and god flayed their flesh from their bones and their bones into dust were burned

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Every moment of my life

It's a song I guess. I mean, the moments. The moments are like a song. The mind is like a wave? The song isn't ending. I'm not sure how to say that the world isn't ending, when it sometimes feels like it is. The world isn't what it used to be, is it? The song doesn't end, but the words do. The universe is the song, and the words are our lives, I suppose. I'm not really sure. Isn't it odd to think that maybe we aren't going to live forever? I'm not sure what to do with the knowledge that I'm not immortal. I want to be immortal. I'm so afraid of dying. It's like shooting a whale. Dying, I mean.

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a brief thought

If to-morrow means nothing, and might not ever come, stop thinking about to-morrow. Life's short and meaningless, sure, but does it make you feel better to mope about it? Read a book. Play a game. Watch a movie. Play outside. See the woods. Examine a tree. Play with a puppy.

What is it about that idea that people have such a hard time with?

the koan: the life without pain belongs to the person who feels pain; the life of endless pain belongs to the person who feels no pain

so that's what enlightenment feels like...

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Eine Kleine Knollenfäulemusik (Trigger warning; rape)

So. I had a charming flashback yesterday.

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The Forest Primeval (a poem that doesn't really satisfy me but here it is anyways)

Woman of broken glass, thus I declare myself; God as my witness.
Always I wish to see she who is kindly and decent and loving,
Yet I see still there is part of me staring at mirrors and seeing
someone who takes what she wants and does not look back; lies and abandons,
nary a care for the screams and the shrieks that are sounding so loudly.
Such is the life of a woman who stares at a mirror and sees a
maze of a thousand truths, faces, and voices obscuring her own truth.
This is the forest primeval! The deafening tones of the voices
screaming at me for the crimes that are indistinct in the twilight, so
shrouding my mind and destroying the things that I thought I once knew as
True and eternal; how foolish! How naive I was! I see now.
Woman of broken glass: thus I resign myself, God as my witness.

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