branches on a tree

gonna try out tumblr for a bit, so posts are going to be happenin' over there at insipid-inanity.tumblr.com.
if I decide to return here, I'll either say so over there or just start posting here, depending on where ya look.

caw, caw.

shut up.
shut up.
shut up.

creatively dead, laying in bed to feel unalive again. aches and sores and roses for stupidity down and around. the dark tells me why I want to follow a fool and be swallowed by your misunderstanding sundering and plundering.
I don't like you, who fakes like a faker faked. who cries about lies twice told by someone who isn't real, who isn't actual. I don't like you being there where I can't see you objectify my existence, and make me think twice about who I am.
I don't like you who can tear me down and stand tall, a damn dame who owns not a single mirror.

but I don't hate you, though I'd love to, though I ought to. it's easier not to. it's easier to move on and let you rot a bitter memory, than let you fester in false prominence. because I didn't lose you, you who can't even find you, yourself.

so shut up.
you're blatantly spouting foul falsities about idiocy twice gained, unaware of honesty and self awareness.
so shut up, and don't bother me until you wake up. wake up and realize the difference between who we are, how we are.
but since no one ever will, let's just leave this a bridge once burnt, and never one rebuilt.

kangaroo.
goodnight.

g'night wish.

I'm not sure what I think life is all about,
what I need or want it to be, or how I want to interact with anyone, and everyone.
I'm sure I want to smile, but how or why - I have no idea at all.
Also, I'm not sure why people can't be honest with me or themselves,
and I wish they'd stop using others as excuses for their life.
I don't know why it bothers me what others decide,
I realize everyone likes to think no one can affect how they live,
but that's a naive delusion.
Join another species, you know?

I will find happiness, I just don't quite know how yet.
But I'll try and try and try.
And I'll remain hopeful that honesty can remain prevalent.
I want people to tell me what they think honestly,
I want people to save me from unrequited honesty.
I want people to realize the importance of nurturing their emotions,
I want people to realize that what they really think, isn't evil.
That it shouldn't be hidden, it should be shown.
Maybe not to everyone, but definitely to those who should know,
or can know.

Well, I don't know, whatever, right?
I want honestly, good and bad. I want you to talk shit openly,
or say scary things truthfully, because to be honest, people may
surprise you. They may even save you from the numbness of
your own foolishness.

So no more hotheaded fools, please.

Night.

unsure why

Unbeknownst to you, the unloved staple of worldly affairs, I can read your eyes.
I can read your eyes that tell stories, poetically rather than phonetically, if you get it.
Here is where I tell you how wrong it is to believe in you, and your heart,
it's the time where I say to you, why do I even waste time pretending I don't care?
For that matter, I can remember thinking, why do I waste time wondering if I actually do?

Life is a confused mass of twisting, and constricting veins, moving emotions though time,
transcribing existence between people, between you and me. Between us and them,
we exist simply to notarize the bond between boy and girl, and any combination of.

If this is confusing for you, then try to understand.
Close your eyes, breathe in and hold it in your chest,
hold it til it burns, til the muscles in your neck flex,
til your body desperately tries scraping around for oxygen.
Do this, and breathe out. Gasp, and gulp air,
and realize how much affection you have,
affection for something you never think too much about.

Humanity is a beast so fickle and frightened, full of harsh unloving ignorance,
so full of unrealistic beliefs and practices, and woeful hypocrisies.
Yet it exhumes such beauty, such raw expression of emotion and creativity,
that without even trying it easily varies between under-and-overwhelming.

And yet, with no good reason, you've chosen.
You've decided that I'm impossible, without understanding me,
or worse - yourself. It's pitiable, because as hurt as I can
pretend to be, or not to be - it won't bother me like it will you.
Or so my humanity says,
as I walk away quietly,
slowly pulling chances
from your fingertips.

No matter how many I want you to have.

conversing with a headstone.

are you still writing?
I know you pricked your finger on the coffin hangnail, but has that meant anything?
life is a mess of exaggeration, so I'm not fully sure where to stand, lest I break something. then again, you never really held breaking things against me. did it ever bother you?
it would bother me.
I don't know if I can report good news or not. all I can say, is I'm still here - whether you like it or not, though I prefer to think you like it.

I'm alive still.
did you ever stop writing? I never could read that mixed handwriting of yours. too confusing, too cryptic. or so you may think.
right now, my soul has fret buzz. not that I mind, or that you care.

dear you,
do my changes bother you?
would it be love if you saw it?
you can be honest,
it's not like it's important.
my existence is mine to judge, can't you get over that?

is your grave clean?
do you get visitors?
would you care?
do you even have a grave?

are you dead?

when did you die?
why did you die?
do you even know who I am?

I wonder if we'd be friends if you weren't in a grave.
are you in a grave?

or is it just that you're so cold,
you may as well be dead to me.

would it be love?
no, you'd know it, especially
since you never have.

by the way,
get over it.

sex and art and sex. (and the number 42).

so I've been thinking.
but it hurt, so I stopped
and haven't posted much lately.

but that stops now! sorta.
I mean, it's not as though it really matters,
since this is mostly self-gratifying.. for now.
I do have readers, and people have talked
to me about this blog, which I appreciate
immensely.
anyway..

for one thing, first and foremost, I'm going
to talk about my grammar/typing habits real quick.
I usually spell everything correctly,
I pride myself in that fact, because I love words.
but it has been brought up to me that I don't
capitalize correctly, and format my blogs awkwardly.

to that I say, I don't care.
it's something I constantly shift between,
I realize full well it's improper, but the entirety of this..
experience?
isn't proper. it's just a mess, a mish mash, a gash of
my flooding thoughts and so on, and so forth, et cetera.

so yeah, back off my letters, hoe. ho? hoe. gotta be hoe.
urban dictionary says it's hoe, so.. safe. well, I say "safe".

anyway anyway anyway.
this has little to do with the original intentions behind the post,
being sex.. and art.. and more sex, obviously - if you read the title.



the first sex is irrelevant, I just thought double the sex might spice the post up.



I love art. drawing mostly, in fact I do the majority of my drawing in pen.
not good art pens, just really sharp tipped pens I have.
if I'd given any amount of attention to my drawing over the years,
perhaps I would have improved - if at least slightly.
so I've decided.. I'm going to draw every day, until I'm not awful.
not that I'm awful, I just tend to do crazy collage-style drawings
and I always feel like they have a very singular focus and I'd like
to do more than just that.
agh. blah blah blah, more arts.
might start posting a comic I've been considering about an abstract
bird and a little girl, using them as a medium to discover the intricate
details of life (namely the number 42 if we get right down to it).
anyway, that may happen at some point - or not. I haven't decided.

as for the sex - sex thing,
I've been watching Mad Men lately (up to Season 2) and I'm really
enjoying it. however what I've noticed in all these big budget,
uncensored television programmes is the prominence of sex,
and it's emotional misguidedness (not a word but whatever).
not that I'm booing sex at all, I'm just saying I feel a bit of a disconnect
when I see some of these scenes because when there's reasoning
behind the scenes it proves to make less sense that it would have if
they just decided "right then.. LET'S FUCK." and then fucked.
and typically all the scenes in Mad Men are result of promiscuity
and passionate urges - which causes no disconnect between me
and the characters. it makes sense in the show for it to happen.
BUT *spoilers-maybe-kinda-sorta-not-sure*
there's a scene where the main character becomes incredibly
helpless and seeks out the attention of a love interest for
sexual comforts. well.. I can't say that's TOO odd, and it's
probably me that's the odd one out, but I feel like when
a character in a show is having a crisis of emotion and identity,
the comfort they seek should be less sexual.
it almost felt like it shattered the perception that the character
is feeling weak, falling apart even, and instead of seeking
the arms of a loved one, it just kind of forces a sex scene
on the situation awkwardly.
if it were real life, I'd be like.. well the guys got a hard on, whateva.
but in a show, it's kinda like.. why does "hollywood" have to force
a seemingly great and emotional scene for the character into a
cookie cutter sexually masculine scene so it's like
"he's no bitch, he's gettin' pussy" or something weird like that.
now this is a half-rant, and seems totally baseless as I read back on it,
and I wouldn't argue it with this, but there is a disconnect in that scene
thanks to how the sex scene feels forced, and it bothered me.
it's like.. sure, sex is sexy, but if you ate ice cream whenever the fuck
you wanted you'd just get fat and lazy.
hm.

anyway.
art. gotta do that shit.

PS

there's this girl I talk to
she is the bomb
and quite funny

but she's mean to me,
she threatened to beat me.

the end <3

on my funeral.

I don't want one.

A funeral, that is (if you didn't read the title). I'll obviously think about it more later in life, but right now? I want to be cremated and mixed in with some fertilizer for a flower garden or something.
No service, nothing churchy, nothing fancy.
I feel irritated whenever I hear it's not for the deceased, it's for those in mourning to gather and find solace - or peace. I feel irritated because while I'm not against mourning, I am against an event being held under such a flawed pretense. I don't want my post-mortem moments to be awash with negativity and a memory wrapped in dark clothing and smeared makeup.

Of course this is assuming I'll find anything in my life that'd result in such a funeral, but either way.. If it's my death, I don't want it glorified in boy public manner. No food, no service. Group up and mourn on your own if you truly wish, but don't arrange something as foolish as a wake for me.

Or something. Half-asleep ramblings. Goodnight.