“In a more recent retrospective study of 1,629 writers, Kaufman found that poets—and in particular female poets —were more likely than fiction writers, nonfiction writers and playwrights to have signs of mental illness, such as suicide attempts or psychiatric hospitalizations.”—'The Sylvia Plath Effect' by DEBORAH SMITH BAILEY
Recent studies by a team of researchers led by Dr. Leo Spaceman, head of the Department of Gullibility and Idiocy Studies at the University of Fake University Land found that over 93% of people will immediately believe anything they read if it has the appearance of a news article. “I can’t believe how stupid everyone is. It is truly shocking. My job is so depressing. I hate everyone,” said Spaceman. “You can literally say anything and pretty much nobody will be able to recognize it as a joke if you write it like a news article. You don’t even need a source, it’s ridiculous. Everyone is stupid.” If you look to your left, you’ll see a turtle. Statistics show that you are 100% likely to be sitting next to a turtle.
my eyes are blistered with something like cement but my lungs are breathing in something like magic i wish that i could take habitat with the moon and let its shine sprinkle all over me all night long but the sun sometimes likes to take the lead and helplessly appear in order to compete for a competition with no prize
maybe i’ll go somewhere new today and attempt to find myself a million times over, because holy fuck i’ve been lost and found so many times that definition doesn’t seem to be the answer anymore, we really can’t rely on the circles and squares to tell us who we are
i’ll ask the moon to wait up for me tonight and give me just a little bit more of its precious time because i know i wont be snuggling in comforts arms any time soon and the thought of that is both frightening and exciting, once they told me that i’m always 4 different settings and i should never just pick one. dust, lies, peaches, and city lights are all too precious to me and i will never be able to decide which color i want to be at which time of day, but i think you’ll find its the same for you and all other souls of lost and found
i dont like this game anymore, this thing i guess they call living but what am i to do with a plethora of time and all these papers to write on. when do i get to divorce myself from thoughts and feelings that rarely ever match up? i heard it was one of those things that never end. only end when life ends. oh fuck, how bittersweet everything seems to be at every moment in time, how so fucking bittersweet. i think i’ll carry this inside me forever, not always in the palm of my hands or in the tangles of my hair, maybe sometimes in the back of my mind or behind my ear, maybe i’ll forget about it when im ironing or pretending to be married
but i know expelling it isn’t much of an option anymore so i’ll just let it sit where it wants, maybe even let it seep through my eyes and let the world in on the big secret that nothing is ever too full or too empty to too anything and that it is never really okay but always disguised in shuttering beauty because of the contradiction and our unwillingness to accept it
i dont want my words to dictate, i’d rather paint you a picture to hang on your wall for friday mornings and wednesday afternoons but my hands shake when the pallet is in reach and the colors never seem to fit the way i want them too. even this is too imperfect for my liking. but it will have to do. and i guess that brings me back to the beginning of it all. the moon, the peaches, the bittersweet i’ll carry it everywhere and you’ll see it and wonder why i haven’t given up yet. i can’t respond to such a question but i can say that you must know exactly how this feels, otherwise, you would have stopped reading many paragraphs ago
“No history books used in public schools informed us about racial imperialism. Instead we were given romantic notions of the “New World,” the “American Dream,” America as the great melting pot where all races come together as one. We were taught that Columbus “discovered” America; that “Indians” were scalp-hunters, killers of innocent women and children; that black people were enslaved because of the biblical curse of Ham, that God “himself” had decreed that they would be hewers of wood, tilers of the field, and bringers of water. No one talked of Africa as the cradle of civilization, of African and Asian people who came to America before Columbus. No one mentioned mass murders of Native Americans and African women as terrorism. No one described the force breeding of white wives to increase the white population as sexist oppression.”—Bell Hooks: Racism and Feminism
We closed our mouths. Each of us held back a century of troubles. We just let them sink to the graves we knew. There was nothing much we could say. We had wanted to talk our lives out loud, but neither, in the end, was fit for that. We looked at the copper soldier. We looked at each other and almost smiled. Our battles had been so domestic. They were fought in kitchens. They were fought in bedrooms. The Great War. We fought it in our sleep. To make our lives as good as the houses they built for us. To make ourselves modern. To think of ourselves as a family on the move.
The sea whispered somewhere. Our mothers watered it with their tears. The tears went to nowhere, whilst sons and lovers stood watching the waves.