The Me without You can't love by cosmo-anarchial, literature
Literature
The Me without You can't love
Secrets are to lies as embraces are to truths. I loved him, once. I never mention how it lives in me still, ever quiet and enormous. That's why people need therapists nowadays, you know. There's never anyone to talk to, not like in your youth. The immensity, the sheer weight of your doubt, the Fears, the despair of being yourself and of not being yourself -- there's no end to it, not an angel for you is spared. You are distinctly alone, if not but in love. And there it is, the nature of love being really the discovery of self and the love which ensues -- where we reach a crescendo, the symphony builds to reveal its plan all along. We love, an
a tragic love poem. by cosmo-anarchial, literature
Literature
a tragic love poem.
mawkish but thrilling
i think it's love
feels like good pressure
pain, pleasure,
phantom pain
and all invitation for trauma
a century nonpareil
i think it's love, but why trust it?
you can make me infinite
and that's another lie
i just miss you all the time
sick with treasure
yes, it's pressure, phantom pleasure when you're gone.
Why Capitalists Hate Marijuana by cosmo-anarchial, literature
Literature
Why Capitalists Hate Marijuana
Why is marijuana illegal?
Why are all drugs illegal, for that matter?
One reason, one big reason, is that habitual drug users, on the whole, live outside mainstream society. They don't work nine to five, they don't pay large taxes, they don't buy multiple cars or make large investments. They don't put their copious amounts of money back into the economy, so that the richer can become richer and maintain their capitalist stronghold on American democracy.
Yet, yes, while this is actually a commendable quality, there are good reasons why hard drugs are illegal. Someone needs to tell you that these are harmful to you and harmful to others. The
I look to lefts and rights and
all the things that make me happy are
tainted with my feelings of helplessness and
nothing's-ever-good-enough
than when I'm at home, walking around wherever
with you, you monster
I kept your image on my wall and
it screamed at me to keep on pining
keep on living just to satisfy you and
now everything is worthless, all
my happinesses
because I don't know what I want, but
I want you to tell me what I want.
Pick up the hour-left spectacles
wipe off a remaining tear still on the nosepiece
I feel like candy to a baby
Put on the Harvard shirt for irony
decide this and that
unlock the door to the glory of a cold war
therapeutic is hearing gate-slam on this jail
I call a temporary home
take a step into flourescence
pretend my voice has not been scratched
my nails have not been bitten
that I did not speak forbidden words
nor bolt apart this relationship
these tears took two
so will I flatfootedly stutter by
avoiding your eyes
on this side of our door again
awaiting a day I can seal it for good
on my way out.
The truth is...
I lie when I want to be liked
which is seldom, but an occurrence nonetheless
I am intimidated by those funnier than I
I am the most pathetic hopeless romantic out there
by far
I can be the most selfish bitch you ever met
I am yet another person foolishly in fear of death
I will write my life down in words to cheat it
I am most afraid of abandonment
of not being called
of broken promises
of losing all my friends and living in that box
under the twenty-year-old editorials
I have the worst social skills of anyone
I will never be the best
actress
photographer
Of Dreams and Peaces by cosmo-anarchial, literature
Literature
Of Dreams and Peaces
The words take form as we adjust the conversation
the sentences steer clear
and i am swept up in your glory
yet as we continue to ramble
and stumble upon the half-truths
we find ourselves in wonder.
how is it we've come this far,
how is it so grand,
bits of writing pieced together to form it all
with our lives separate but similar
combining the pasts to create parallel destinies
we hesitate with a curious hope
a timid resolve to uncover certain truths
along a path of neverending knowledge
eternally drinking from this well of unknown depths.
The reflected light of night has become the symbol
the standard by which we can measure
I speak of optimism
and yet I am disgusted of this world
there is so much to hate
and so much to fight
sometimes I am contorted back to
fetal positions and
acid tastes of tongues;
There exist times wherein
I can no longer feel the connection
between feet and fauna
and all bridges have been broken
without excuses nor explanations;
Sometimes there are no reasons
flavors are ashes
sweetness is lost
stillborns are mourned
and this anguish is magnified
in the eyes I try to ignore;
I love to make a fool of myself
I am the essence of misunderstood
I give off the weird impression
and am unable to complete conversation;
but so
What is love?
Possibly one of the strangest of all human emotions.
Perhaps love is just a hunger that can't be satisfied with bread.
Maybe we just have a need for a mutual bond?
Just what is it that tells us that one person is more important to us than just about anybody else? Something in the way they talk, the way they think, the way they do. It just attracts us, brings us back for more.
Some are aggresive in their methods, forcing themselves until something gives.
Others are passive, never acting only waiting and fantasizing, imagining what could've been.
Anyway you slice it, it's just one big trip, and as with