Annar in the Inbetweens

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
                              to sit on
                               lean on,
                                
                                 lay on.

In the darkness,
in search of lights,
that is where we are,
 that is where we’ll always be,
                               in the empty spaces
                               that cannot be filled.
                               in the places of the mind
                               that cannot be fulfilled.

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
           broken air and broken time dripping from the creaking fan.











 

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
is in between our dreams. 

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!”




 

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 and broken time dripping from the creaking fan.











 

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 internet has made us careless; remember, you are responsible for everything you put out into the world—that statement is limited at nothing.

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.

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.

          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 sleep; I try my best to read on the bus, but mostly I just stare out the large windows without blinking for 3 miles. I’ve missed all of my classes at least a few times—this morning my professor threatened to drop me if I missed just one more minute. I nodded my head and then walked to the bathroom and  cried. If only he knew that I have anxiety attacks most mornings before I leave my apartment, and sometimes I cry in the bathroom before class (‘cause I’m a pussy) ‘cause I have a sort of anxiety that is cured with pills that actually give me more anxiety ‘cause it destroys my ability to think and write and love—which pretty much means that I can either have a passionate, brilliant desire to live and die simultaneously or to walk around as an empty vessel, but be on time to shitty poetry classes—there’s other stuff, too.
             So, I live pretty flawed and pathetically, and the urge to write on every piece of paper, and every white space on the wall, and on my hands and on my wrists has began to tame itself. Since poetry flowed through me as a steady stream, I have fallen in love and stayed in love, I have left the police station, transferred schools, moved apartments, plummeted into a violent depression, euphoria, flushed all of my pills, stopped meeting with my psychiatrist, stopped talking to my therapist, ditched my mentor, and have achieved four months of what I believe is the first happy months of my life. Not “happy” happy, but like “aware of everything within and exterior of me, and I’m not losing my goddamn mind ‘cause of it”. So yeah, I feel like throwing up 90% of the time because of the anxiety, but I can wake up now, I can eat now, I can love now, I can think now. None of these things were achievable or comprehendible a year ago. I mean, I used to talk to the light above me in the shower, thinking it was God. I used to watch other people eat trying to figure out how they knew if they were hungry. I slept 2 hours a night for 5 months nonstop, for gods-sake. Love is the cure, food is the cure, sleep is the cure, music is the cure; enough of these things will change your life for the best. Poetry and music and literature are beautiful things that have not left me. I hear it, I feel it, I think about ‘em every moment of every day. And I am finally stable enough and sane enough and here enough to take it all in and do something with ‘em. 
          Anyway, I wrote this incase anyone was wondering where I was. I wasn’t anywhere special, or beautiful, or magical that I wasn’t at before; nothing, yet everything changed. All because someone has taught me how to love me (and you) enough to help me survive the terror of a mental illness that almost got the best of me. This post gives no justice, but I just wanted to say, “I’m back.”