Smoke, No Flame
I want it to hit me like glass
in the face;
I want to hear it shatter and splinter my skin
with abnormal quantities of desperately
homocidal shapes,
quivering
as they draw blood.Oh I want to feel torn,
and yet high as a bird.I don’t want to feel at all;
where’s the Novacane to set my teeth on edge
and numb my heart
from ravenous vaccines,
deeper than the needles already
probing my stomach?My gums are afright with shards of whatever
hit my lungs. This
is what destroys the gross excess of canvas life,
and this
is nothing at all.I want it to hit me hard,
and I want to feel like a ghost.
"God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering-"
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via thechocolatebrigade)
"I am
a series of
small victories
and large defeats
and I am as
amazed
as any other
that
I have gotten
from there to
here."
Charles Bukowski, “The People Look Like Flowers At Last” (via cavum)
(Source: larmoyante)