Excerpt From My Journal - Tumblr Posts

there is joy to watching the sun come up. there is calmness in a train ride. the smile of a stranger, the passing compliment, the things i have seen and might never see again.

i am slowly loving life and all it might include

excerpt from journal entry 08.08.2023

Inevitably crushed from the start, you and I had become two souls so far apart in mind and spirit we were merely with each other because I gave in to your hormonal desires.

- excerpt from words ill never tell you #1

They say that being sensitive is a tool of the weak. I say it takes courage to feel everything.

Welcome Mat

My voices falter in the presence of those I love

My autonomy, my passions, my endeavors

I grieve for them through the shedding of my outer layers:

My namesake, my belonging, my identity

Who am I, if not a servant?

Crawling upon hands and knees as I plead to obey

Licking the crumbs at unaware feet idly stepping on my hair as if I were a welcoming mat

I’d give it all up to be loved.

-lauren a.p

A little excerpt from something unknown (04/24)

“This cannot be real, can it?” 

She had questioned him as though he were pansophic, omnipotent and all-knowing far beyond what was capable in the realm of mere humankind. In a world damned by lustful sin and sensual greed and an otherworldly pleasure that could never be experienced in a haven devoid of wicked nature. Living on Earth, as a slave to temptation and morality, was a double edged sword as  hedonism was almost as sweet as the possibility of a golden life-everlasting. 

Her fingers pinched the rough skin of her own elbow to see if she’d awake from this seemingly dream state she’d succumbed within for the past five, fleeting days. Had she slipped away far into a dissociation that’d fail to relinquish her from its grasp, and instead enveloped her into a psychotic episode that’d confused a fictitious want for reality? Was she lucid dreaming, having only had her eyes closed for five minutes, and it was truly only Wednesday night with her numb body laying horizontal in an unmade bed? Or was this an actuality, not a figment of imagination conjured up by that villainous mind that had cursed her to a hopeless truth that loneliness had become her shadow and plagued every step she took, rain or shine? Regardless of this moment’s existence in the plain of modernity, she prayed she’d never awake nor escape the embrace she currently resided within. 

“I am still here, aren’t I?”

He always responded to her questions with another inquiry, as though he knew she understood the truth to what she was investigating with intrusive thoughts. 

-lauren a.p

What is it to know better?

I have slept with a loaded gun under my pillow since you've left

To remind me of your ironclad, torrid presence

The safety aching to turn as I held your red-hot remnants with steady hands pointed at my reflection in the mirror

There should have been more consequences to loving you

I was blood-stained and wounded

Self-inflicted and yet alluded to your copy-cat style stolen from some grey-faded, even older man who was supposed to love you

And I shove my hands in deep into my insides desperate to find the last of you haunting my body

But it was only my intestines that fell to the floor

And my dignity, that i'd rip myself apart for 'just some boy'

Soon i'd find you had already slithered your way to my mind

Atrophying my prefrontal cortex for dinner like a snake suffocates its prey in a serpetarium -- cowardly and given and all for show

I was hauled away for chasing childish infatuation for the notion of a twin flame

When, in actuality, it was a game of cat and mouse

You, this impression of a divine being with an omnipotency that had been painted with heavenly blues i'd never comprehend

And me, impressionable and small in your looming stature, desperate to be led by a calloused, clawed hand

So, you watched with those large green eye amongst the shadows until you pounced upon me

It was agonizing for you to be the only victim

And I now wait behind these padded white walls that I swear I could see your tiny face within

A solitude they were all so desperate to lock me within

So I couldn't run my mouth about those fabricated blues that were sworn true by sticky tongues of motherless boys too old to be playing with their food

Boys that will never be old enough to know better than to wrap needy fingers around girls

Little girls that'd never be taught what it is to know any better

-lauren a.p

love's half-life

Does love have a half-life?

Cause I swore I've felt you amongst my bones the minute my feet trailed through those salty waters

Serene as the salt stung the scars that danced upon soft flesh

Forever and evermore

Those feelings painted me a fool into the picturesque background of stoic complacency

A chaotically delicate stranger in the midst of familiar faces chasing your towering shadow in a blistering heat

Vying for an unobtainable attention that belonged to the blue eyes of someone center stage

And i'd pray for sinful desires

To have what should not be mine and your Midas touch upon my surrendering body, hot and heavy and deplorable and sweet

A melancholy only discoverable in the afterthought of pleasure

As i'd watch you walk into unsurety in my rear-view mirror

"Don't trust no man" aching within my core

My unrelinquished hold upon your fading hand

My inability to lose something that'd been taken from me:

A disrespected personal vow of humanity

Lust and clementine hues emerging from July's rainy summer afternoons

A constant reminder of my still-beating heart and filthy conscious and greedy needs

and your unrecognizable face

But no sweetest taste or glaring moon or rough grasp could compare to you

Nothing could wash away the bruises that licked the nape of my throat

Oh what will I ever do with these hungry thoughts?

-lauren a.p

A journal entry from 09/09/22 (aka an abrupt author's note)

Look, I just had to write this down while it's still fresh. Allowing yourself to feel is the most liberating experience you may ever endure. Angst and melancholy and selfishness and apathy and laughter. All of it. Solitarily and all at once and in random bursts of hot tears or ladened thoughts or clenched fists or smile lines. It's terrifying and awful yet scandalously enticing. A fragile hope for normalcy outside of dissociative thought.

My mind has yet to try to escape since I met him. It hasn't yearned for the stories that'd never be spoken due to their non-existence. It hasn't craved the spotlight of an unreliable narrator and a broken storyline with a happy never-ending. It's complacent. Unmovable. As though it has anchored itself to this very moment, like it has something it's dying to tell me, but its words can't be heard.

Happiness? It can't be. I have never been so stressed and confused and exhilarated and horny and immature and grown-up and feral and up-and-down and lost. Emotions that have been strangers to my thoughts have become involved with a tumultuous affair with my impulse control, hijacking the station and forgetting to switch to autopilot. Everything is in my hands: I've never felt so in control of a disorderly enigma.

I'm reveling in the skepticism.

I'm collecting bugs and reading memoirs and making detailed connections between Lolita and Nobokov and butterflies. I'm doing pilates and dancing and crying and spiraling, all with a smile upon my lips and tears in my eyes

I'm everything all at once.

Is this normalcy? A reality outside of my own fiction? A world exhibiting raw truths and vivid emotions?

I don't know, but i'm excited to find out. I think.

-lauren a.p

Hello all fellow readers and writers and observers alike.

I’ve been trying to find the right words to express a sincere introduction to my page and my presence on the poet/writer side of tumblr, and I hope this suffices (funny how I’m some form of a makeshift author and yet struggle to write a simple welcome note). So, I figured a quick awkward rambling and greeting would do the trick!

I have been writing since I was a teenager, and have kept all my deepest thoughts, feelings, desires, humiliations, confessions, etc. in multiple moleskin journals over the many years I have been spilling my guts upon their lined pages. Long has there been any source of outlet for my creativity, such as classrooms and clubs, that has surpassed the confinements of these hard back diaries. Recently, in an effort to express my thoughts, poetry, and mini excerpts in a manner that both brought me out of my comfort zone and allowed me to join a community of individuals who sought the same thing I did: to write and to read and to revel in the creative power that an author can emit through written word, I created an online form of a diary: accordingtolauren.

So, I guess all that wordy prose is to say thank you for taking the time to read my work! I definitely am not in any way a professional or educationally trained in the art of writing, but there is truly nothing I love more. My name is Lauren, you can call me that or lauren a.p, or accordingtolauren, or just another hopeless poet that will happily listen to your own vegabond thoughts.

Anywho, I truly appreciate each and every person who takes the time to check out my work during their scrolling. Please feel free to reblog, like, comment, or leave your own thoughts (even the random ones) as feedback and discussion is always accepted.

Welcome to my online diary/pocket journal. I'm glad you are here with me, and I hope I can produce something that brings any source of meaning or feeling or thought to your browsing here on Tumblr!

I use #lauren’swriting as a tag for all my works on my blog.

(Copyright © 2023 Lauren A.P. All rights reserved.)

Sincerely,

lauren a.p :)

the grounding of the five senses

She tells me to ground myself

In an order to escape the realities that scream perversion into apathetic ears

Five sights, Four feelings, Three sounds, Two scents , One taste

A tree, a bottle, a child, a pen, a bed

My skin, its scars, a permanent frown, the age lines of someone far too young

A simple song, my uneven breaths, static

A fading cologne and fresh nicotine

Blood upon my tongue

-lauren a.p

11/19/22 (I regret you.)

I don't think I'll ever lose you.

A nameless presence haunting every faceless name I meet

Vilified by my own doing as their own soft touch reminds me of the scars you left in the shape of golden fingertips

A faulty Midas touch that brings forth pain to everything it graces

And though I was far too innocent

A bright-eyed youth plagued by a burnout so bright

That sent everything but you up into flames

I hate myself with every fall of ash upon the bed we'd lie within

Made up by predatory lies and societal fails and my pink baby blanket i'd never part with no matter how far your hand would creep beneath my dress

Now, I just want to drown into ultraviolet light

Screaming along to a poetic angst in an electric key

And i've been hurt with the might of a rapture that has taken everyone but myself and has sentenced me to an eternity in hell with nothing but a mirror and my thoughts where you you still freely roam

A permanent nightmare behind closed eyes

No one will put up with my bullshit anymore

And it has been so long since i've been touched

Or better yet, heard by another empathetic body

Kicking salt into the wounds you have left with those big brown boots you'd always wear

I flounder in the garden of Eden

Plotting a rage only known by those fooled by the notions of love

Phasing in and out of memories i've never lived

A mechanism i've mastered as a substitute to living in a world where you may wander

A world cursed by your presence is one I will never want to know.

-lauren a.p

a reckless father's harrowing daughter

It strikes a certain chord within my heart when you say I'm just like you

The chord that sends an intolerable, dull ache to the center of my chest

Into the cardiac organ that was born from a sliver of your own being

But you never thought of it in that regard, that you had fragmented what was once part of your whole

When you broke it over, and over, and over again

And when they declare that I remind them so much of you

With that juvenile sense of humor and complacent sense of vexation for all that lacks logic

How I was stained with your darkened locks of ebony hair

And inherited that ivory skin that bore the reverence we both chased like children to procure

All I could manage to sheepishly murmur was

"I got it from my father"

That and the siren eyes assuming the same hazel tone that resided in your own pair of iris', vertical and resembling a viper

And your venomous tongue, words laced with a false narrative and deceptions far beyond a white lie

And your fear of commitment to something, or someone, that had the power to hold you still, that harnessed the potential of making you content

And your bottle of unsolved feelings lodged so deep within your being

A container of egregious notions and unfelt tenderness that inhibited your ability to touch another's skin without shockwaves of repulsion building within your system

Without the tick of that doomsday timepiece, that warning of a constant self-destruction in the pit of your stomach

As well as your beauty, and that performative knack for coercing those around you to stay and witness your own demise

However, though only a segment of your entire being, I think my mother's genes were overshadowed by your own

As every laugh and smile and wrinkle and blemish and conviction is polluted by you

In the ways of my musical intrigue and philosophical theories and open-minded tenet

And my vagabond spirit that grew jealous at just how easy some people settled into a singular home

I just only wished I knew what it was like to be a drifter who could leave calamity in his wake without a single care for those he maimed

To wash the mutilation off of his hands with that identical smiles on his face

And shove all of the harbored pain and regret into that bottle, pressure threatening to burst the glass

When you say I'm just like you, I hope its only the good parts

The gentle advice, and comical demeanor, and intelligent mind

The simple things that make me proud to be my father's daughter

As I shove my own anxieties into an even smaller bottle, same brand as your own

Placed deep within my tender heart where no one could ever discover it

-lauren a.p

I do not know how someone so careless could produce something, someone, so drenched in fear. An impulsive worrier.

the necromancer and the beautiful, living dead

She was ice cold. Pallid flesh upon thinning bones, stretched so taught that a heavy touch could rip it as though it was a seam. A skeleton dressed in a sickly attire of paling skin and grim, decaying garb.

Her beauty was not worth the devastation that the years of burial promised.

She had hair like snakes; unruly, long trestles cascaded down the bones in her back, a fiery red hue still reminiscent in its dry, dirtied state. Her hollowed eyes spoke symphonies of endless memories, both glib and eventful, all of which he desired to learn and relive from the tip of her tongue. And her lips, oh her lips, still plump and mauve, although chapped and downturned seemingly permanently. (He could swear she still had the brightest smile when she was still living).

She resembled a willow tree in all its weeping demeanor as she stood before him, hanging in a fashion that allowed that pillow of hair to decorate her frame. The strands showered he figure, obscuring his gaze form her frame with each step she took, bones creaking as they awoke once more. Swaying in the cemetery's wind she met his line of sight, breathing in a new breath of autumn air as her lungs rattled like an old car that'd been rusting away in a garage, safe and sound and forgotten.

Her name was once Arabella.

-lauren a.p

That day he'd cursed his immortality for all he wished for was to rot inside that singular grave with her for eternity.

My carnivorous heart

My heart is carnivorous

Making a wreckage of my rib cage

And lurching through my chest

With a red hot desire to taste the blood within your veins

And listen to that constant beat underneath pale skin and thick flesh

To burrow itself through your own bone and cartilage in an effort to locate the life source

Of another lonely heart

Oh how my pen only ever years to trace an outline of your name upon my paper

Those syllables that could write their own poem

A stand alone exposition, climax, and denouement

That presents itself to me on repeat in my mind as bursts of color in an otherwise drab environment

Now, I only ever want to be alone when I’m not with you

-lauren a.p

"a prophesy"

Those worn eyes sought it.

Craved it with biting teeth and a carnivorous appetite

Lusted for the illuminating show in back-alley lights

Like a sinful dweller hooked upon the next hit, inhale, high

Addicted to the climactic downfall

Prophesied to repeat itself

-lauren a.p

to be seen, to be heard, is to be loved

The way in which he came and went was eerie, yet ineffably comforting. Like flickering prophecies or an aurora plagued by solitude, it was a captivation with an indescribable feeling only managed to be harbored by those whose chosen fate was to lose. Those with cursed fingerprints and skeletons that danced amongst near-empty closets and an ephemeral name that would never be theirs. Macabre was the weight of his lips upon bare skin, a premonition of an aching heart and empty bed in every stolen touch. A personified ardor that'd yet to be stoked by late January's biting attitude dripped from his embrace.

Maybe he was simply just a side-effect. A dissociation that leaked through the fabrics of reality and stained her present with a warming rouge. He was Norman Rockwell simplicity mixed with the oddities of the late sixties. Mismatched yet almost perfect, a thrift-store buy with a warehouse charm. Or had it been the other way around? Either way, she had an addiction to that ceaseless feeling of the blues he ignited within her.

And he could see her. And just for that, she loved him.

He saw every inch plagued by a fragile decay and baseless faith. Heard every syllable from that tired tongue. Understood all the angsts and desires and outdated apathy. Wrapped amongst her tear-stained, baby-pink sheets, he'd crack a smile that took her back to a youthful careless careful. A glimpse of meaning in a savior-less world unable to be purified by even the most innocent hands of a promised keeper.

"What's the point of getting everything you have every wanted anyway?"

He'd always whisper this as she would turn the news on and off and on and off and on to reveal the next city a higher power had engulfed into flames.

-lauren a.p

12.8.22

My dying wish.

All the cemeteries

That plague these neighborhoods

Are overrated in their standing

Who would want to curse their love into the ground?

A compact grief forever etched in stone

Tied to the lands that have been cursed by an unforsaken hand

As the bouquets wilt amongst their partners

Mimicking the dead that lay beneath them

Six feet under

If it was the end of the world

I’d ask you to flay my skeleton upon a flame

As all the life would reduce to ash

Speckles that once were remnants of a past life

And scatter me amongst the seas

So I’d drift away with the roaring tides

Pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling

Succumbing to the salty waters

With nothing more than the sound of a child’s laughter

And the crashing of waves

Would you do this for me, my love?

For I fear I may rot within a casket

During my untimely demise

Lost between the underground and another plane of existence

As I trace my fingertips upon the wood, counting the imperfections

Unable to let go for the worry that I may remain

In an unmarked landmark

A rusted grave with overgrown ivy

Envious of my neighbors

And their dwindling visitors

I will never have peace

Trapped under the ground

Unless you crawl in beside me

And embrace me

During my slumbers

-lauren a.p

Poor girl

What do you see when you look at me?

A broken girl with a need to bleed herself of foolish thoughts and meaningless impurities?

A thief running away with the others' hopes and dreams that she wish were her own?

The credit's applause and validation her drug of choice

A woman who took a step over the line too soon

But not quick enough to keep him there, with her, with them

Someone longing on the irreversible past, hoping and wishing for what cannot be

time, peace, forgiveness

It was never hers to manipulate between her parted lips

Parted thighs

Poor girl.

-lauren a.p

to love a playwright is a dangerous act

He had deemed her a tortured soul amongst his pretentious monologues.

His character had been etched upon decrepit papers from the late nineteenth century: seductive and yet laced with a stolen innocence, she roamed villages in a vengeance for what she would never be able to have. She was overcome by a lawless loneliness and sold into a life that required her to become a stranger, an enigma. Pieces of a woman that lay desecrated upon a porcelain floor, stained by the blood of suitors who failed to ease her pieces back into a whole.

Until. Until. Until.

Of course, he was only acting. The words that fell from meaningful lips were poised for an audience every evening, and she wasn't the woman formulated by a playwright in the 1800s.

She was, however, incredibly narcissistic.

But, on certain matinees, or over the late-night dinners, or half-asleep in the dim hours of the morning in which he'd practice, she couldn't help but be moved by the ways in which he enunciated poetic literature into a chaotic silence. The ways he would always find her eyes under the scrutiny of a darkened auditorium, the move of his brow in certain phrases, or the hum in his tone in fragile descriptions of gore and romantics almost brought tears to her eyes as it resonated far into the abyss that lay at the bottom of her stomach.

It also reminded her of how much she hated theatre.

-lauren a.p

"DECOMPOSER"

I press my ear against the dirt of the lush Earth

desperate to listen, anxious to hear another life form beneath the surface

insects dwelling amongst the grime, a hidden universe or your beckoning call

ushering me from out of the frame, ornate and baroque

and into the soil, to fester within the dirt and the loam

to retreat back into the ground and burrow myself into the depths of the world's soul

so I may see you once more, banished six feet underground

How am I to live amongst life, when the one I love is beneath my feet?

I need to listen more, I tell myself as I overfill my coffee cup with a solemn stare

So, I now find myself lost amongst meadows abloomed by buttercups, primroses and daisies

a scenery of a lithe body bathed in silken, pastel pinks

and soaked in northern light

nestled amongst the dirt and the blossoms with my faced pressed into the grass

clawing through the sod with bloodied nails in an effort to escape the golden hues, the elaborate imagery

Could I find a purpose within the ground? Could this bring me closer to you amongst the roots, the rocks?

I shall morph into a decomposer, create nutrients from what has passed on and put it back into the air that wafts into busy skylines

seas that inhabit roaring tides, serene depictions of summer

and green lands stretching across the country-sides

Maybe this way I could be half of what you were

somebody with a meaning so grand, invaluable in the greater scheme of it all

for that was what you were to me, my own detritivore

feasting upon my decaying limbs, my rotting attitude

producing a love as vital to my organs as the oxygen I breathed

-lauren a.p