Poetry

I live inside a dream of infancy always pushing away those who’d like to get to know me. All the wounds have healed, so why do they fester inside. Inside of me there is a world you’ll never get to see inside of me there’s a dream that will never get to the, the butterfly’s wings, cut away before it ever left the chrysalis. Silver scissors…silver thoughts of what was meant to be. All this time spent growing only to return to the start. An ingrown life.

Well poetry seems to be a thing that’s going on. In here poems are, are flying around but they’re all bad poems. Things that should be left behind.

This isn’t something that you can walk into idly. Crossing the line between yours and mine is not as simple as taking a step. There are fathoms below us where nobody knows. All that swims within. A hollow glass heart beats in my chest and it lights up the room for a while…though the batteries full the light fails every time you whisper my name. The dark… is where the hinges of the mind swing open, releasing all those that lie in your thrall for an hour or two only.

Why has everyone gotten so weird in this room?

This is what happens when you give her a load of sugar and she listens to things that provide us with inspiration.

What are we supposed to do? When the rapids come all you can do is hold on and hope not to fall overboard and be swept away.

This seems like a very active period, don’t you agree?

I agree with many things like murals of angels.

I would like to make something on that sort of scale.

Then paint. Paint away with nothing to stop you.

Nothing to stop me huh? It seems like the thought of that is more scary than the actual thing. What do you think about that?

Just do your best to make something beautiful.

Try not to harm anyone. That would be for the best and the benefit of everyone.

Listen to things less loudly please!

On the bottom of the issues, on the bottom of the pile we wander.

Of course there are things that we need to think about.

Let me reach upwards towards the sky we walk upon. Upon the earth that meets the sky a soul wanders like a cloud caught in a breeze.

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About voicehearingnotes

I hear voices and I write about that.
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