I am appalled by what I do to alleviate the pain.
My hands always smell like smoke.
My stomach always hurts.
My brain is always foggy and then not foggy enough.
My smile is growing faker, even though I never mean it to.
I am avoiding and regretting.
I am people-watching and hoping.
I am always late and always in a hurry.
My moods are a tower of cards and I can’t stop picking my nail polish.
My heart is always racing, and I am actually worried as to why.
I am busy, occupied, sorry I can’t make it. Next time. Sorry, I am busy, occupied, I can’t show up, maybe next time.
I am tired. I am always tired.
About the Creator
daphne gray
i like sylvia plath’s unabridged journals and franz kafka’s letters to milena. i would write more but i realized im allowed only 240 characters and that's far too little. some other time though!
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cure for better days
I don’t know how to write about the beautiful parts of life. I hone in on my pain and my despair and I forget that there is beauty in everything. I sit outside to remember. It’s a sunny day. It is such a sunny day and the breeze provides the most wonderful cooling. I can hear crickets chirping over my music while I watch the bees pick their favorite blades of grass. Tree branches above me swaying lightly but constantly. A breath of fresh air, hold for four, and an exhale through my mouth. Repeat. In the light of the day there is so much. So much to watch and so much to miss if you do not pay attention. I watch the golfers in their carts and I watch them play and I hear them cheer. Hip hop in the summer. A week until fall, on the dot. The leaves around me will change color, as some have already started. From vibrant greens to luscious oranges and even prettier reds. Yellow will fall from the sky onto the ground and brown bark will be all anyone will see. And it is still beautiful. When the snow, still far in the future, falls, magical and peaceful, making the days quieter, there will be beautiful white coats on each tree. Naked branches beneath. I can see the yellow flowers on the big tree by the parking deck. They are here but they will go, and they’ll return. There is so much to miss if you do not pay attention. The sun can cure and it truly, always, does. There is no better medicine for sadness than the glories of this life.
By daphne gray2 months ago in Poets
A Little Taste of Glamour
Lorelei panted as she fell through the gateway between worlds. She stumbled, gasping, looking over her shoulder through the half-rotted doorframe leaning against the alley wall. Through the splintered, rotting frame she saw an overgrown world of vibrant green, the branches and vines doing their best to imitate a cityscape. The illusion fell away the further past the door one went, though, and beyond the skeleton of a bush that looked like an Oldsmobile, and a line of trees with vines stretched between them in imitation of telephone poles, there was only the dark, angry green of the Hedge. The branches waved, and something roared as it came closer.
By Neal Litherland4 days ago in Gamers
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