The Desolate Horn

My understanding of a controversial form of art is misunderstood by the people with whom I surround myself. I choose my words carefully, when I say art I mean art, not sport. I find myself able to see the beauty in this dance between the man and the beast, and for that I am scorned.

Miscellaneous Adventures Of A Wandering, Inarticulate Mind

Turn me on my head and watch as the blood runs slowly from my feet.
Up my body;
Or perhaps you would call it down.
Whichever way, it runs and ends pooling, in my scalp,
And seeping into my mind.

~

He had eyes like a cat I know who has eyes like nothing I've ever seen, eggshell green.

I'm having trouble with my eating habits. I came to the realization yesterday that what's going on is a little less than good. I've lost my appetite. I simply don't feel hungry. I have no image problems I like my size and shape, I look good. It all started about a week and a half ago and since then I've lost weight that I can't afford. I want to eat strawberries, and peaches. Just those two things.
I don't know. They say that knowledge is the first step in change. Or maybe I just made that up, but it works. I'll get it sorted.

Birthday? Fuck...

So much for 21, a day spent alone with ghosts and demons of my past self. I feel like curling up in the closet with my skeletons, to have them stroke my hair and not worry about my tears staining their fleshless limbs.

Wild Thing

"Have a wild guess!" He whispers to me triumphantly.
"Have a wild guess?!" I stare at him coldly, my lip curling slightly on the left."How the hell am I supposed to do that when you've got me so fucking domesticated?"

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

I dreamt last night of a ship. An Ocean Liner upon whose decks, the remnants of the malcontent shuffle and drag their disembodied limbs. Spirits who long to live always, remembered.
There is a pair, a trio if you count the woman. The one with the long, loose blonde curls who watches and will watch for eternity. The man with the axe and the boy, forever locked in what was never a battle.
The man is cloaked and dark like shadow with a hat pulled low over his face. He swings the axe always at the boy who crouches, surprised and cringing before the blade as it rains down on his head as the last thing he remembers the last thing he will ever know.
And there am I, caught inside the shadow man. Watching the axe fall and rise black with the blood of a spirit boy with tearful, terrified eyes.
I can't move, can't stop watching, feeling.

Untitled

My blood is clean. My lungs work better than most people of my age and physiological dimensions, they don't work as well as they used to, as I'm used to.
I have no new information save for the whisper of life. The knowledge that this, as far as they all can say, is not the bringer of my demise. It's not going to kill me.
The knowledge that I'm going to live threw me into some temporary high, it gave me something like what I think I'll feel if we ever find a 'cure'. Happiness and relief until I realized that the pain is still there. And I fell, without a sound, back into my void. The place I built for myself. The place where I've lived and learned to deal. The place where I taught myself how best to answer a How are you? with a smile and an I'm fine when I got tired of trying to explain my indefinite struggle for a semblance of normality.
So I'm back here now, without even a straw to clutch. With more than I had, but somehow it still manages to feel like less.

A Picture Or A Thousand Words

I'd give it back, the time it took. The time between when I saw it first and where I sit now. I'd chose not to see. Not to look at a simple picture of one of them. The one that makes me feel the most. It's like being with a shadow. I miss everything.