"I've got a terrible secret"

Life just feels like an endless loop, but the size keeps changing. Like I can drop from a large loop, back to that one day in January of this year that didn’t go that well. It really was fine, but I felt, and still feel, weird about it and at any time I can just soak in that feeling.

Fighting That Special Someone

Stop,

what are you trying to prove by going on,

thinking someone makes the decisions,

and you don’t come out well in them,

that your fighting that special someone,

because when you see them gone,

you proved no one wrong.

Because you seem like everything rests,

but some hands are crushing it instead,

just to see you dead because you want the same for them.

You really need to stop and see,

there seems to be nothing you all want to do.

You want different things,

but you still don’t see.

Everything Is Always Dying

are you taking your time wisely,

doing what you need to do to find these

people that you claim are taking everything,

making mistakes everyday,

and are still walking?

do you really think you’re taking everything?

trying to change these things you think we all can see?

and nothings being done,

people telling you to run,

just because it can happen?

Are you not listening?

making everyone else seem like the enemy?

you basically want to change everything,

look at nature and see,

everything is always dying.

HEX

There never seems to be a  ….

then hearing things you’ve once heard,

shaking trees or ……..

though the sounds feels absurd

there is no ideas …….

a small square on both  …..

making itself, if only to its viewer, into false lines

Change State

Why does smell seem to be the strongest connection to memories? Also, why does smell seem to be the strongest connection to bad memories? There is a smell in my house that’s familiar. It vaguely smells like my friends house and car. It’s not good or overly bad, it’s just different. I don’t like it. It has nothing to do with the friend, I’m just questioning why my house smells like memories.
I’ve been obsessed with memories for years. I’m now starting to lean the other way. I don’t have good or bad memories, I have good or bad smells at this point. I wish I could live in the present, but I do so little day to day right now, I need to keep myself actively busy and even then that doesn’t work all the time. When I’m doing something, I find time to think about things that happened in my past I didn’t agree with. I don’t know if writing about it is the best thing to be doing.

Similar In Time

(April 30: For the last day of national poetry month, write a poem of any style and any topic of your choice.)

One day,

I’ll spend all the time,

trying to find some way to stop time. fine.

eventually everything has a ending, repeating.

I’ll find the same way,

similar, because today changes more than just time. fine.

repeating.

trying to change mine,

because it’s not the same mind as it was that time,

still not mine.

I’m fine doing the same kind of life,

writing to pass the time.

similar, because today changes more than just time. fine.

(April 29: Post an audio or video clip of a poem you wrote today of any topic of your choice)

"Tried Mind"

Understanding

(April 28: Mimic a famous poets writing technique)

Understanding everything,

changing old techniques,

before the days meet,

sleeping again.

falling asleep when,

ease make no more sense,

before what shows,

understanding the end.

Twice A Day The Light Looks The Same

(April 27: Write about writer’s block)

You know there’s this point,

where everything exists,

and nothing seems to make sense,

or keep up with this existence,

and hide the boring lies.

And the worst times, where the lies replace the names,

changing the times where I woke up early.

I don’t know what lies I’m writing anymore.

……..until……..th 

ey realized…..                                   noknownorigin

occasionally , i’f they don’t  sajfkdhfnsjkdfhrjfnjcjfjeefjer

A Few More Times Around …ds.f.sd.f.df.df.fdg.sdf.sdf.dsf.sdf.dfgdfdf.

I forgot what I was doing.

Replacing Human Contact For Themselves

(April 26: Write about writing)

I found time, years ago,

where these things could fit inside,

to find some new ideas or false time.

Writing seems to find more of mine,

or some lost, until last night,

when it felt easier to write.

Sunshys

(April 25: Write a poem, not about your inspiration, but about why you write)

I never found time,

but it seemed to make it different,

and these things I see seem,

to change differently,

basically changing makes it feel real,

in a fiction scenario.

getting closer to nothing,

but that’s everything,

isn’t it?

Sonnet 33 

(April 24: Post a favorite poem of someone you know, explain why.)

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

(Sonnet 33 by William Shakespeare)

I don’t know anyone who writes poems, so I decides to pick one written by someone who everyone knows. This poem brings me a sense of calm. Everything goes around in circles. Things have a ride it takes itself on. That’s just how it goes.

In The End (Remix)

(April 23: Write your own remix of a verse of any song)

One thing, I don’t know why,

I sleep all day and don’t even feel alive,

and I try to find something easy to keep locked up inside,

all I know,

telling everything, even the lies,

as time passes way too fast,

and I’d try and make the worst parts of it last,

it’s so unreal,

it’s starting to creep up inside,

and the lines blur between real and alive,

and the act of just being awake takes up too much time,

wasted it all just to watch me fall,

dreaming of a new beginning,

slipping my mind, but want to feel something,

and everyday changed,

making this whole one thing.

(April 22: write a poem in a public place and take a photo of it)

(April 22: write a poem in a public place and take a photo of it)

The Famous One From Hamlet

(April 21: Write a continuation or response to a famous poem)

I see what you see,

changing nothing,

but moving around enough,

to wear myself out.

I’ve never felt this specific mix,

of wanting to do nothing,

and being bored by everything.

No one tells you life is not art,

art is a reaction to being alive.

Just being used to fascinate me,

being on your own never came up though.