𝑾𝑨𝒀 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆.

It's my mind... It's my mind. I'm drowning. I'm drowning... Please help me. Someone help me. Can I help me?

gentle reminder that you did nothing wrong by putting yourself first! ♡

At a loss for words... discomfort at it's finest. Hurtful, heartbroken almost— and yet, still having hope. A fool. Sometimes, sometimes... Cold and alone, heartless. Touch knees to elbows, mellowed and self-loathing. Cruel. Cruel. And no more love to be given.

—;

So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.

Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.

This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.

Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.

If by chance... Chance at all my emotional wheel of competency fails me... I will be able to say I tried.

Shall I fail at this or that, whether I fall into something or not— I tried. On my sleeve my heart is. In my mind thoughts are. On my heart? I'm unsure.

I tried...

I tried...

And maybe I cried but that's life.

And don't forget folks, that's what you get folks...

—Angie 💋

There are parts of me that are broken, tangled together, hurtful, and joyful. I've talked about this before, but that ravished part of me doesn't care. I am still learning. Learning how to... To put on paper how I really feel. It goes well beyond the creepy, spooky, and unsettling feelings that I will harbor within me. No fancy talk, no cover-up, just how to...

The high effects of life's ecstasy warn me off. Dull eyes, zombie dragged and drugged, I am a personality bubbled and bright, but only in the dark crooks of my mind. No mask. Uncovered and here to stay. I can be two, three, four, or six people at the same time! I don't want to be trapped in the bug house. I don't want a circus. I'm just letting loose this sticky muse.

There will be another muse like this. This personality will regain its strength and trust me, I'll be here to capture it. I am not someone who locks it up and pretends to be a housewife. Fuck it. Captured it and I'm happy. This is an anxious capture.

To: Angie.

From: Angelina.

𝐴 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑒'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 1. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒—𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦...𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠.

...𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝑇𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑠...

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞.

Ja. Einzigartig. Das uralte Gedichtgerät. Schön.

Heeeeelllll yeaaaaah.

Don't ask me "wyd" i really just be in my room going insane and being a danger to myself

𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛.

The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.

The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.

The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.

Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?