Sometimes, you’ve got to lose everything to see what you’ve got sittin’ in front of you. It was all smoke ‘n’ mirrors for as far as I could see, back in my mind; back in my memories. It’s all felt like distractions ‘n’ tricks coated with enemies and newfound failures tinged with disappointment in this empire I thought I built, I thought I...
We stood there, in search of lights, with eyes bloodshot. peering into the blackness and disarray of the inbetweens, bug-eyed and self-aware of every breathe, lungs detracting and the loudness of one’s lips parting. souls sifting, tapping with energy, like fingers, for walls, tables, earth and chairs ...
In The Stillness, Everything Reveals Itself
annarverold: Still nights, when the howling of the wind and the barking of the dogs and the broken air and broken time are cut up by the creaking fan. when the ghosts begin to touch your face and you can’t digest the blood you’ve shed, while the bastard dogs keep howling, and you’re sitting up gawking at the ...
For so long, I felt as if I was a fading light, growing dimmer and dimmer with each thought, each movement, each beating of the ocean waves, of my mind, of my heart. Sometimes, we get lucky and just as we’re burning out, we find a love that saves us.
I think you matter and I think you’re beautiful. And I have a hard time lookin’ at most of you in the eye, ‘cause my mind’s always racing and my mind’s always foggy, and I can’t see or hear anything past the haze and loudness of my thoughts. But I know you matter and I know you’re beautiful and I am sorry that the only time I ever have the courage to speak...
Catching Fire Like The Stars
Be still, be still, be still— so I can sing and show you how to shake off that despair and dream of flames and touch the things that soon will turn to dust. So you can hear the Gods scream: “We need to leave and let this die!”
In The Stillness, Everything Reveals Itself
Still nights, when the howling of the wind and the barking of the dogs and the broken air and broken time are cut up by the creaking fan. when the ghosts begin to touch your face and you can’t digest the blood you’ve shed, while the bastard dogs keep howling, and you’re sitting up gawking at the broken air...
Lost Like Ghosts
Walking in the direction of the cigarette smoke, that’s how we’ll get home— like the dragging fog exhaled from our lips, that moves like ghosts; that moves like us; like holy gems and prodigal sons, with no moon, no moss.
I only want to share heavily edited pieces on here. No more rampaging carelessly with words, no more creating white noise and unnecessary friction in the world of art or literature—or any world at all. This is a craft and excellent pieces are edited a thousand times; each word and space and punctuation is intelligently thought through—I’ve created enough, but all of it noise. The...
I am human and I am a writer. These are the simplest realizations, I know—but we still manage to forget who we are and why we are here. Thank you Wolfruns.
I have admired you all for so, so long.
It took me a long time to realize that the most beautiful people are the painfully humble ones with an exuberant artistic talent that lingers in their scent, in their silence, and exudes between every blink and gesture.
Quick, Flawed Update
I don’t really have anything to say in any poetic form. My ideas have kind of spread into the life I lead—not that I lead a good or great or flawless or decent life by any means. I still buy a slice of pizza on my way home sometimes, I still lie to poor people and tell them that I don’t have an change or time to listen to their stories; I never call my mom; I hold my breath to go to...
This is me coming back.
These fits of melancholic despair often result in writing poetry or bingeing on classical music or writing orchestrations or sitting in the darkness, in the silence, and pretending that I am a world famous hornist or that anything I have ever written or thought or said means or meant anything at all—but they don’t. These fits of melancholic despair carry on an air of shame. I feel...
“We are,” I said among the ocean that beats to the rhythm of my frantic mind “unsteady and fluid and fading.” blue lips touching; hands clutching hands we will die right here, together, but alone— unsuspecting, uncertain, unloved. We will die like this, in darkness.
I put away the music, I put away the tracks, the novels, short stories, the poems that triggered, triggered, triggered those thoughts that chained me, but set me free with a bang, bang, bang! I stepped away from literature, from practice, from exploration. I placed both feet firmly on the ground and refused to lift my head above the horizon. Why? Fear of madness. Was it worth it? No, not at all....
As a writer, the hardest thing you will experience is being edited to shreds. As a writer, the hardest thing I have had to do is be edited to shreds by someone I admire in talent, intelligence, and romantically. But this is how we will both conquer this world and every other world: mercilessly in love with the art and with each other.
Long hours of the day that somehow bleed into summer—where the light is always a familiar gold. The air is of a heavy heat which you breathe in and afeel every inch of this atmospheric summer whistle through your throat into your chest in a warm and shallow pathway. Yes, today is one of those days where you can feel summer months comfort you upon your disappointments, promising to help you...
The Perfect Medium
The deep end, I tell you, is not as cold and lonesome as you’d imagine while your feet are rooted in the dark sands of the shore—staring at the untrodden waters of the inbetweens. Once you get there—and it knows you—once you’re trapped and there’s no where else to go; our body accepts it’s fate, and the cold learns to swim through your blood. This...
How Nineteen-Year-Olds Love
Nails clawing, hip bruising, lip-biting love, With ears detecting the Hungry howls of an aching beast sifting, craving, calling obliterating the frequencies of the moon. Hearts filled with Gnawing vulnerability from the teeth of El Cucuy. chewing with a passion, desire; without shame drenched in toxic saliva,...
IV. Strangers come and pounce, ghosts, knowing that we see them. lights blinking, speaking, flashing before us. about us but we stand there, still and smile without a wave goodbye.
III. Secrets unraveling, minds detaching empty, hollow places in your chest being filled by drugs you never wanted. But you are resilient, and everything that comes will come, and everything that leaves will leave but you are resilient.
II. Bedridden from insanity, plagued with despair, and the only thing you crave is a kiss from the only person you have ever loved.
I. Red lips and thick brows, philosophy degrees while composing masterpieces that are destroyed in the middle of the night out of despair because Kafka, Nabokov, Tolstoy and Hesse said it better.
In the stillness of the night the dark hour of the soul ’three A.M’, they say when ‘the ghosts come out to play’ My limbs gravitate and lean and spin up towards the creaking ceilings that I pay to live beneath. ...
(thank you) I whisper into your face (because you don’t have to love me or acknowledge I exist or kiss me on the mouth I’ll stain your lips of red but you do) (thank you) (thank you) Thank you.
Together we cried, beneath the willow trees as the gold hue of the sun thickened. He knew what I was—But he let me cry, in my despair, and let me slip and hide into the places which I was too strong to go. He let me be a child one moment longer than I ever should have been. And now I cry, “hold me, hold me”, every time the wind blows; I’m a swaying willow weeping louder,...
I walk with my chin high, watery-eyed, red-lips masking the words I dare not say. Courage drives me to silence. Pride is the inspiration behind the awful things we do at night to keep us doing what we love— the things we slave for and blame on a muse. A muse that exists no where but in us— the ghosts we claim to see, the scientific theories we know can only be found in books or...
Seas Made By Man: The Songs We Sing to Keep Afloat
I sing, I sing, the song of the steady stream the cries and dries and flows into the gaping mouth of poisoned seas made by man the things it does (society) to keep us afloat, to keep us going by (and by) but the beating of our waves go on (and on) and sing, and sing the song of the steady stream that cries. I am drowning.
It can all change in one second, you know. Everything is much more fragile than it seems, and that isn’t necessarily a horrible thing. No, not at all.
I think all of this is a distraction from what’s going on with our insides— the frequency we cultivate and why and how. And by “all of this” I mean everything that enslaves or blinds you. Most of us are so damned.
Annar in the Inbetweens
I know that I have missed you, and that I miss the way things used to be. This outlet, this template used to be something different. When I joined over 3 years and 4 months ago, this was more of a creative outlet— everyone wrote, everyone shared their photographs— things were different. I still intend to post here, but this blog is now highly accessible and for the sake of my...
It happens you know suddenly. It happens abruptly. I blink and between the opening and closing of my eyes, my breath is stolen by a glance of where I was, where I am supposed to go and I wake up again, and again over and over wondering the same thing every time— where have I been and what just happened to me? It fades, that realization. You forget about it by the end of...
I need reality to be uncomplicated, because the interiors of my Self are (complicated). We seek balance— unfortunately, we’re in a time where the foundation of our selves can collapse at any given moment. Or perhaps that’s just me. Some say it is our society, others say something along the lines of frequencies changing; the universe is expanding. A friend of mine told me that...
Anything worth a damn should save you and stress you.– A.J. Miranda
It may take you some time before you begin to get the first inklings of who you...– The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse by Ellen Bass & Laura Davis (via healingquote)
We’re convinced that there is always a reason, always a source to sadness, depression. The saddest of us all are the ones whose sadness has no source— born this certain, damned way— and have no cure. No matter the will; no matter the strength, how they fight it, they will never change. They will die this way, some by their own hand. The beauty of it is, there is a species within...
And You Learn
“And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,” In panic, I recite poems to myself in my head to avoid facing the situation. When we left each other, my mind looped “You Learn” by Jorge Borges. When I came across this phrase, my...
When they fall in love with a city, it is for forever, and it is like forever....– Toni Morrison, Jazz (via alealealea)
Sadness comes from having too much, expecting too much and being expected to...– - AJ Miranda
Our words and our thoughts, they belong to us.
I belong to no one now. There is a terrible vacancy that plagues me. It is filled with nightmares and longing and despair. Everything interior of me surrenders to fear. I belong to no one now. The world is vast. Music sounds sweeter, colors are more vivid, my fingers remember my horn, my mind recalls poetry. Everything exterior of me is filled with light, filled with hope, and warmth.