My psychosis unravels to the 5/4 pulsation of life

One  I am a being, imperfectly improper like this fraction of a musical beat, pulsating larger on top, my breasts are too big, my mind thinks too fast– being, larger on top because I stress too much and there’s thoughts raging my mind. I am one of twenty thousand, a mere number in a campus of beings, we are all the one in this improper ratio, exponentially expanding  in class size; congratulations to the class of 20**, the smartest, largest, most achieved— we are improper beings, the way we train our minds to believe we are such flawless, achieved, perfect beings. One, I am one.

Two I am a lover, no boy has ever held my hand or graced his lips upon mine but life makes me blush, the way leaves change color so picturesquely in the fall, or the way people can heave such genuine laughter from the deepest crevices of their stomachs where mine stores nothing but bile– I am a lover for love itself and nothing more, and nothing less, but the absence of love leaves whatever’s left of this one soul kind of hollow, few ever give it to me, and thus I feel obligated to conceal mine from the world, in a façade of poker-faced coolness, but I am a lover of life and love and the beauty of everything around.

Three I am anger, I am fucking rage and irrationality and it’s here that my life loses it’s beats, because for each microcosm of love that sparks inside me, tidal waves of rage consequently follow. I am fury and irrationality, you make me hurl the way you glare at me with disapprovement, condescending tones and sarcastic glares, everyone’s got them, everyone’s got them for me. Everything’s aimed at me, and my defenses are up; I could unleash at you all just as horribly, if this porcelain shell of calamity ever begins to crack.

Four I am prodigy, according to you I’m the reason we’re here in the first place, the reason English was my first language, the reason I’m voting democrat, the reason  I live in 5/4, the reason I took such hard classes, the reason I am talented has become my mantra. I’m a dream. A prodigy you’ve managed to construct of your own aspirations; bricks of talent and well-roundedness, liquid cement of academia; I’m some poorly built castle of prodigality, watch me cascade into the ruins of ******* *************.

Five I am nothing in this house, close the door and preserve the memories of my existence, maintain the pristine locations of where footprints and DNA remnants used to be, where the hairbrush was the last time I’ve used it– preserve it almost as though I was never gone. I’m back though, hollowly returned in my impromptu timing, restoring the heartbeat of this house into irregularity.


All I want in life is to be loved and happy and successful.

Deadly living.

I used to fall asleep to visions of my own funeral; we’re sorry to inform you all, but she was hit by a school bus on her way to school today, but no, something more heroic; she died here in this kitchen because it was the right thing to do, because nobody gave her a chance, listened to her, I’d imagine the way mom and dad would sop up my blood, laughing, saying there’s one off our hands, let’s focus on what matters now, and nobody except the three remnants of this family would remember anything, even notice the empty desk in the classroom, nobody, nobody…

I was six years old at the time.

My funeral would be small; nobody would show up except the school principal because it was mandatory he show his presence with respect to the loss of such a young, bright soul, but even his face was twisted into some forced expression of sorrow that was anything but genuine. My funeral. I wouldn’t want anyone there anyways because I’d hate that pitiful attention, people mustering small oceans that would roll down their cheeks and they’d dab at them with their overpriced handkerchiefs—who even uses handkerchiefs in this day and age? And all ten people in attendance, including the gravediggers, would just toss me and bury me and move onto something more enthralling, a movie perhaps.

A movie. Some replayed reel that spun through my mind every night as I tried to go to sleep, and it plagued my mind all the time until I grew a fear of dying because the idea of their laughter, or the impending need to watch movies, was so painful to even think of.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die and yet dying seemed like the right thing to do, you never listened, I was living in fear, fears of what I don’t even know but it was fear. And thus I sat in silence; twelve years later my soul’s dead, I’m an empty frame going through the animated motions of a triple major college student.

Making you happy is the only thing that’s ever brought pleasure into my life. I live vicariously through whatever makeshift grin can grace your wan face, and every so often even when I do well, I’m still not awarded. I don’t know what well is anymore. I’ve failed these last few years trying to understand what success is, slaved away at internships and classes to satisfy you, thinking that somehow that would satisfy me as well. I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know what I am anymore, other than a poorly warped projection of what you’d want me to be.

I’m dead, you know? I sleep through the days, and at night my mind races in bed, and when I talk to people my mind whirrs with the thoughts of whether you’d approve or not, whether I’m making the right decision or not—everything I do is to please you. Quitting is bad. You told me it’s what losers do, backing out of the challenges of life because they’re not strong enough to face them. I’m strong. I’m weak. I’m existing in a façade of your ideals, persevering through everything that’s brought me hell, and let you down along the way. I don’t want to die because it’s the ultimate quitting. More than dropping AP courses or bailing from a Finance major, or settling for a safety university. I won’t quit because I know you’d be sickened by me. I won’t start living because you’d be sickened by me. Enjoy your hollow shell of a daughter, because she can hardly enjoy herself.

Shitty poetry for your entertainment.

I like living on the hill, it gives me a sense of
security like I’m up
high far away from all problems of the earth, sort of like the way the US was
founded, some idealistically holy city atop a perfect
utopian hill, that’s where I live, in a
fucking utopia where garbage receptacles
overflow and yet every day security is
promised, the world
looks better in utopian-tinted sunglasses to block the picturesque
setting sun, and it was atop this hill that my life started
rolling down and for this I
blame security, why are we
friends, why do your grins make me
vomit, why wouldn’t you ever
know, why is this whole
rant about you; I was
given five minutes, five minutes out of my entire life to
spill garbage from my mind and thus this paragraph was
constructed, but the trash bins outside my apartment were spray
painted with the words no bodies, please, and perhaps this garbage
involves no bodies, we are nobody, no bodies, just souls
floating around because according to the philosophy class we
identity is nothing but soul, but the falsities that people
identify us for are our exterior appearances.

[new here]

It might be crazy, but I’m the closest thing I have to a voice of reason. Irrationality swims around me in currents, sometimes when it seams that the water’s entirely still it just falls apart, rips at the seems like the way we did when your personal insanity took over; it’s not you, it’s me, seams they slowly tear into pieces and drift to the cafeteria floor like confetti falling from the sky on new years,..
I miss holidays, holy days, days I’d look forward to but I’d lied to you all these years, mailed a sealed envelope to some heavenly divine obese figure residing in a fictitious place, how do your seams hold together around an entire global populace’s cookies and milk, how do you store it, how doesn’t your belly button pop and cookies and milk just flood the earth, a typhoon of joy sinking into the minds of youth like your words sunk into mine, it’s not you, it’s not you… it’s not me, I’m just another believer, drowned under the weight of a bursted knot of a once tied umbilical cord,
I used to envy outie belly buttons. Mine was an innie since day one, perhaps the doctor stitched that one in too far when I finally washed ashore in july 1993, my presence comes in waves, political analysts say democracy comes in waves, calculus artists or mathematicians or gods of the numerical universe say that sine and cosine come in waves too. The universe operates in a back and forth motion, sways in, falls out, and thus I fell out with an innie belly button, tying these parallel universes together, and therefore I was stitched.
And I envy outie belly buttons because you look slimmer, as though your waist isn’t exploding with the plagues of the universe, swollen lipid cells expanding and never shrinking back, it’s the one evil of the world that doesn’t come in waves. Fat grows on, expands cells, and they remain that way. You diet and pray to some higher power that it’ll someday shrink back down to the 23 inch diameter once stamped on a piece of paper, but for now we are nothing but swollen cells of lipid. Coagulated fat cells melted together, not stitched, because it can’t burst the way I can.
And yet I’m bursting, it’s me, it’s me… things spilling onto the floor like confetti falling from the sky on new years’ and they spill from my mouth but it’s not you, it’s me; it might be crazy, but I’m the closest thing I have to a voice of reason.

Horribly written rant on happiness.

It’s funny because i’ve spent my entire life reaching for the intangible and trying to achieve happiness and it’s never happened. it’s not even that my life’s dismal or anything of the sort, but it’s just never been gratifying. i abandoned success and talent for mediocrity because i found talent to be humiliating. falling into failure was even more shameful, though. i had no friends, achieved friendships, but what success comes out of that? i thought if i escaped from my problems and tried alcohol that would resolve everything. it made things worse. i thought if i lost weight, it would make me happy, it just raised my insecurity even further. i’ve done everything in my will to try and be satisfied at last, but maybe i’m just destined to be miserable.