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Words and Perspectives

Untitled (you)

I still think about you,
did you know that?
I still think about who you were,
and why I clung onto you.
I used to think about you a lot because I missed you,
but now it’s weird,
because I don’t miss you at all.
It’s just that you come to mind when I think of the past,
and when I think about love,
and life,
and the two together.
Maybe it’s because I liked you that much,
or because you filled my past with all these enjoyable moments,
during a time when almost nothing was enjoyable.
I couldn’t tell you for sure,
I don’t even think I need to,
its been years since we last spoke.
I wonder if it’d be weird,
that despite the distance,
I said thank you for being alive.

– Priscillamf (20.9.17)

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Blue like the…

Blue like the night sky in your depressive state,
you open up and tell me your darkest fears;
Of how your blackened heart has left you feeling emotionless,
and yet your mind is cluttered with all these emotions.
Not justified, you explain to me,
“None of these feelings are justified,”
those were your words not mine.
“I don’t have the right to feel this way.
My life’s not bad.”
You bore your eyes into the ground,
into the soles of your feet,
a futile attempt to open up the earth and have it take you in,
hold you in its arms.

That night I became the earth,
clutching onto what was left of you after the flood had washed out your body,
your mind,
and I said, “this notion of having a right, who taught you that?
Who told you that you needed a reason to feel the way you do?
As if a shitty day wasn’t shitty enough without you having to explain why it was shitty in the first place.
Sometimes we feel like the world hates us,
And sometimes we realise it doesn’t matter because we love ourselves
And it’s not always enough, it’s rarely enough, but the fact that you’re still here is justification enough for you to proclaim that you hate living and that you hate being here.”
Silence was your chosen response that night,
and silence was how we watched the moon descend and a new blue wash over the sky.

– Priscillamf (13.9.17)

(I feel like poetry is a bit like self talk sometimes, for me anyway. This reads a bit like spoken poetry, and also a bit like Hotel Books, who create spoken poetry/songs)

I wish I didn’t think so much

Art

I kind of can’t make art unless I’m sad,
or unless I’m in the mood,
unless I’m happy,
hyped up,
listening to music,
high in my thoughts.
I can’t make art unless I’m down,
crying,
depressed.
I kind of can’t make art.

– Priscillamf (14.05.18)

I realised I’ve been waiting for art to come to me lately, but that’s never guaranteed, and whilst I don’t like forcing it I feel like I should chase it more.

much of anything

I want to write words to express how I’m feeling
Something to give insight into how I think
But I haven’t thought much of anything lately
And I don’t particularly hate it

– Priscillamf (29.04.18)

(A small post. I did intend to post over the last couple of weeks, but time has not been on my side, and as such I apologise)

The deep

I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to do this,
before the deep takes over,
and the waves wash all essence of sanity,
and I am left in rising waters,
with what can only be considered my true self.

-Priscillamf (09.04.18)

Young

Young,
you beg for sleep,
nothing new.
A chance to close your eyes,
to block out some part of your day
and regain who you are.
You’re close to asking for death,
also old news.
A sheep amongst the generation who embodies existential crisis,
talks about death with ease;
light hearted banter to cover up the fact that it’s all sort of true,
we’re all sort of fucked, suicidal.
We’re all tired;
fatigued by the game of life
We all just want sleep.

– Priscillamf (6.11.17)

(Apologies for missing last week, also the punctuation. I hadn’t intended to, but it ended up that way, in regards to both the punctuation and missing posting)

Hands

Hands,
yours, not mine,
hold onto something deep.
“It’s sentimental” you say.
“What is?”
Your hope for something better.
You hold onto it like nothing else.
Sand in your hands,
it’s mass has decreased over the years
and yet you hold on,
to that plank of wood,
to the last grains of sand that hold all your hope.
“It’s sentimental” you repeat.
Something from your past that never came into fruition,
your youth that you only recently left behind.
You keep your hands clenched;
nail to palm, thumb to knuckle,
in the hopes that if you still hold onto it,
there’ll still be a chance for it to come to life.
I consider this your hope for your hope;
something smaller for you to cling to whilst waiting for the bigger picture,
for your sand to become soil
flowers to bloom,
and vegetables to root.

Throughout this process,
I’ve stood by your side,
watched the years pass by you as we both aged.
Thinking back, maybe I should’ve spoken, instead of stood,
acted out and taken all of your attention.
Taken all your thoughts and focus from the sand in your hands,
the old grains of hope,
and turned them towards me,
let you hold onto me instead.
But hands, yours not mine, won’t hold mine so dearly.
Hands, mine not yours, have yet to hold yours.
“It’s sentimental” you repeat.
“It’s sentimental” I respond.

– Priscillamf (09.03.18)

Everywhere and nowhere

You are everywhere and no where at once
A reflection in empty windows
The glare of high beams on a rear view mirror
The last note in my purse
Divided into toonies
Loonies
Quarters
And then no more
You are the empty space that once was
The passenger in the blue Volkswagen needlessly changing stations song after song
Wine that once occupied a bottle
Corked
And now slowly disappearing
Some nights I think you’re still here
In physical presence
Tangible like the light switch beside our bed
And other nights I wish you would come back so that I can ask
How are you in everything around me
But not physically there?
How are you everywhere
And nowhere all at once?

– Priscillamf (20.12.17)

Apologies for the lack of punctuation edit.

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