Fake Laughter

Fake Laughter

Words are like punches, fists of heavy stone plummeting down deep onto my heart; Delicious pinkish-red, blue veined pancake.

She has the tendency to let them knock her down hard, bawling up in an aura of despair; Sensitive tears spilled upon her pale-brown cheeks throughout her whole existence.

Unable to control the way it torments her inner sticky cavities, she cries in pain and guilt.

A burning dark pit forms in the center of her chest, making her want to vanish, never to have existed, undo any wrong she has caused, shrivel up from life and the confusing feelings that leave her soul spinning as it twists and snaps; Dwelling on every little thing.

Her tiny brain is an ugly-nasty-bitter-gray-mattered-self-conscious-conniving bitch, who holds onto every sentence that has ever forced it's way through her emotional chambers; Spiteful organ of control.

Betraying eyes reveal the way you've carved in with venomous vocable, as she beats you until you're physically hurt, an array of purple-red-black-and-blue, the only pain that she knows how to administer to recover from her mental bruising; Emotional loss.

Crumbling down, making a huge mess on the counter, a chipped baby, cracked up cookie sinking down low in the tall milk glass of criticism, pathetically crying, disintegratingly soaked; Did the mouse ask for a side of stricture as well?

She apologizes for her obstreperous heaving, as she ignores the pit that tugs on the string of her gushing-gooey-leaky guts; The thin tethering strand that yanks up insides from an achy-retched-endearing place called "Love."

- Autumn(Me)

Unclear And Uncertain, Distressed Little Actor

My thoughts are cluttered, a mix of wants and needs, the desires of a dreamer clashing together with the realistic doubts of a pessimist, leaving me in a daze of hopeless fantasies as I waste away on my filthy mattress of hairy-stained-sweat; Time clicking by as she waits and watches.

“Where should I go? What should I do?”

I think and ponder instead of taking charge of my own life, pacing back and forth across the stage, fully understanding and confused that I am the lead in this play, but ignoring the fact that I am the writer, director, and crew as well; An original production called Carmen starring me.

“Where the hell is my script? How am I to know where to block?”

Instead of focusing on the production and all the behind the scenes work that must be done, I find myself captivated by the productions of others performed right a long side mine, lost in a jealous rage of mesmerization as I am dazzled away by their hard work and energy; Where do they find such dedication?

It seems at times that my play could never compare to theirs, take a look at those beautifully painted sets, each paint stroke tells a story somehow, remarkably handcrafted by deligent-independent-self-assured-calloused hands; Empty stares of the tools of potential, wastefully lying upon my vacant stage of possibilities.

Sleepless eyes burningly marvel as the deeply meaningful hues of light dance across each actor and set piece, how groundbreakingly perfect the way it all seems to align with their very essence, every color has a profound meaning that just brings the audience to tears, no real need for dialogue as you feel the story guide you along the stage with them, so powerful, this unspoken connection; Tearing apart another worthless-insufficient-insignificant script, scene by scene.

Lost between the edge of my delightful dreams and dreary doubts, I've twisted myself tightly in a stagnant web of indecision, stressing as time continues to flow even as I am stuck in my own shrill sticky threads of hopelessness, for I am both the spider and fly amongst these lines of thoughts, mashed together on a stage, as I close my eyes to imagine what could be if I detangled from this loud cluster of thoughts scorching my restless brain; Repeating this paradox that doesn't slow the clicks, as days turn into months of blissless slumber.

-Autumn(Me)

08/24/2024

I want to start posting my art doodles and nonsense on here, sooooooo

I Present My Doodle, Chrysoprase

💕😩💕😩💕😩💕

As Well As My Other Doodle, Burning Pile

Empty Slots 4 Rent

Spoiled-bitter-bloody liquid oozing from the holes that once held teeth, leaking down into the depths behind, a throat that chokes on chemical red, she smiles as the bile floods her lungs; Enriched within.

She awakes in a puddle of metallic drool, sticky and dirty, drizzled all over her cheek, staining her pillow, running deep within old tarnished fabrics, her tongue explores the dry cave from which her crooked teeth reside, the meaty flesh scrapes up against the hard enamel, bewildered by the lack of moisture; She did not sleep well.

The wisest of smile bones neatly plucked and cleanly sliced, two freshly shattered, two perfectly intact, stored away in plastic, a bag now holding wisdom of 18 years hidden inside the box of a dancer who no longer spins, shut safe and tight, cluttered behind the door of her closet.

What wisdom do they hold?

The four have sat up in her skull, awkwardly shifting and twisting their pointy roots in her jaw, growing with her, only to be removed; Years of observation taken.

"You raised them."

In the oddest way, I have indeed raised them, only for them to be discarded into a box of memories, their service not required by man for some time now; An unexpected Mother sends her boys off.

Poor children, all alone, separated from their siblings and family, left to collect dust and whatever bacteria flourishes in the space of their new home, it must be so lonely, so difficult to get used to their new microscopic neighbors; Missing impacted dental tissues.

My children left me with no wise words or lessons, instead they leave me, their mother, in pain, ghostly little fists punching at gums, bruising teeth, puffing up her cheeks, leaving her to sleep it all off; Recovery hurts.

Odd, such a strange feeling, my tongue slithers to the back, finding nothing, no one is there, only stitches and a pool of minty spiked saliva, the most disgusting tartness.

Although they left her in an irritating state of uncomfortable affliction, she misses them, it's vacant, quiet, no longer loud and jam packed, her rude children are gone, family photos at the dentist no longer the same, for there are four empty rooms in the back, where her babies are no longer.

- Autumn(Me)

An Unspoken Secret Yearning To Escape

There are words resting in my throat, choking me, wanting to be let out.

I'm scared of the aftermath that will come if I raise the volume of my thoughts; Purposefully unplugging my earbuds to let you all hear for yourselves.

What if you leave me?

What if you hear my disgusting thoughts and think me an ass?

You take each shakey pitch with venom as you clog up your eardrums; Perfectly placed cotton swabs.

If I don't speak up, I fear the worst, I teeter on the seesaw of internal death, the death of us.

But what if I said it all and things changed, it brings us closer, maybe carving open my mind wouldn't be so bad?

But I'm petrified that you're going to yell and take everything side ways, that you will think it all to be blame and slander; "A huge slap in the face to everything you've ever done for me, for us."

I hate bottling everything up in fear, I too am a hoarder, one of a different nature.

I just truly don't know how to fix us, I know there's a way, I just don't know which wire is the right one; Which one will cause us not to blow up and die?

I'm a coward who doesn't want to be the one to do it, to cut the wire that could help us heal, together.

My chest caves in at the thought of being abandoned for unshedding my tears; Opening up years of bottled anguish.

I'm just so tired, it hurts to see everyone suffering around me on mute, and I honestly don't like the thoughts that have been dashing around my head, they hold a knife up to my existence and whisper awful things; A twisted way of coping and solving everything.

What do I do, what do I say?

How do I keep us all together without you walking off into your mountainous forest of solitude?

Silently I weep at the thought of our band finally breaking up, each member angrily heading off in a different direction, walking home the true family way; Sitting alone in a quiet garage of abandoned-dusty-unique instruments.

Through tears I let the gentle melodies of our songs wash over me, it's torture to listen to my favorite hits alone, each memory bouncing off the lonely walls of my heart.

We don't need to crack and float away, there is no need to become Pangaea; Wait, just wait, I swear there's glue in this drawer or maybe...it's this one?

Will I raise the volume to my wellkept thoughts?

Clear my throat, raise my head up high, fixing my posture(for once), looking you each in your intimidating marbles, 3 pairs of brown and the lil odd man with the beautiful green orbs dancing in a mixture of many lovely shades, and release a tiny roar for your huge four-finger-lengthed foreheads to acknowledge?

No.

No, I will not be doing any of that, at least not with my voice, for my skills in writing far exceed the ones in speaking; Written material from the fierce-short-inner Centaur smoothly typed out as her tongue undoes a multitude of knots.

I spill to you this, my droplets of truth; A taste of the secret feelings I have imprisoned inside the dark shelves holding a fine collection of tightly sealed bottles within my heaving lungs.

Told to you through the freeing art of poetry; The Centaur is shy, having little experience in the domain of sharing and talking about the arrows currently kissing her skin, they've rested there for years, the blood has dried and dipped into her unwashed pores.

I am lost, searching for the safest way to pick out the splinters we have rooted deep within our skin; She doesn't know what to do, panicking under this overwhelming presence of frosty distance, stressful tears brimming the corners of her eyes.

How do I fix this?

Will sharing any of this help?

There are words scratching on the gummy insides of my throbbing neck, screeching to be freed, wanting to mix and mingle with the sounds of life, it kicks and strangles me, turning me green and blue, for I wish to vomit them loose on the carpet of our home, but I'm scared of the mess it shall truly make if I were to yack it all up for once.

- Autumn(Me)

New Bird, Same Song

Good morning, oblivious bright bird, blissfully blind to my feelings, to my silence.

You flew right into my hands, singing an annoyingly cute tune, convincing me that I was beautiful, tweeting on and on how you want to fly around, wing to wing with me; A tired old tune of lies and disinterest manipulating a gullible heart.

A fool who never learns, always she repeats this lesson, the way she smiles as her young snotty heart bleeds, so disgustingly enjoyable; A masochist down on her creaky knees kissing fists of make-believe roses.

These thorns disguised as honey soaked green tea leaves, soaking beneath rotten pores, so sweetly bitter this game, this decaying plant upon the garden of possibilities; Endless crushes.

She mourns the death of this little sprout, for this one had the best smile, but beneath its young roots were nothing but weeds, poisoning her fertile soil of love, making her gag in guilt and shame; Uprooting a ghostly invasive green.

Goodbye, silly boy.

- Autumn(Me)