paranoiawilldestroy
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Status Replies posted by paranoiawilldestroy
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K. Need to get rid of that cunt first. The curse wait lol
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OK so the greatest medical minds on the planet can't solve this problem. Meds block it.
This is all I got to go on:
https://music.apple.com/gb/playlist/soul-asylum/pl.u-JPAZEk9CWb8peq?ls
Predates recent events again (the playlist). Dunno what else I can do right now except recover my wits after that horrifying experience. And try and escape the yoke...
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Fuck I literally know nothing other than that this might be a thing, how to heal oneself... And what awaits. But what the fuck is it? Any friendly psychiatrists even half convinced by this? Does it make any sense to what we know about mental illness progression? Mysticism aside?
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Fuck I literally know nothing other than that this might be a thing, how to heal oneself... And what awaits. But what the fuck is it? Any friendly psychiatrists even half convinced by this? Does it make any sense to what we know about mental illness progression? Mysticism aside?
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Probably the silliest question I've ever asked. Guess I'll be studying psychology (unguided haha), writing a book, raising a son, a newborn, learning the fundamentals of synthesisers (can't sing over the top of or write music to otherwise), defending myself from rampant maniacs, and keeping my wife happy. Oh! I've a full time job too. And a mountain of debt, like every other bastard (credit being a form of systematic control, thanks Margaret Thatcher). I'm fucked. And I'll have to dodge an extended stay with the NHS. Could the CIA be an issue, at this stage? Hmm. I'm definitely fucked.
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
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The fucker in Jim's day:
Ethereal Bodies.
Imagine a course where no waters flow,
An essence that only in death we know,
Imagine a rhythm, thundering with joy,
Or a source that no disease can destroy.
Already ancient when our race began,
Observer now while nothing goes to plan,
It meshes with skin, meanders through veins,
And brings blood to boil to ignite our brains.
It can be seen in wisps or heard in chords,
Is the instinct lunging hands onto swords,
It gasps as we press lovers against walls,
And shares our sorrow as the curtain falls.
To a lake bespattered by dying light,
Where laughing children splash, so quick and bright,
To the twitch of swift tendons at the sound,
Of the Maestro’s chubby fingers as they pound.
To the sudden, heady surge of power,
As the Führer entwines strings of flowers,
To the awestruck gasps of sheer elation,
As Moses flees from Pharaoh’s frustration.
The insurgent responsible for war,
The infinite connoisseur of all lore,
Superior to the monarch of kings,
Requiring nothing, bar the gifts it brings.’
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
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If this helps you... have it. I give in. Just start being kinder to us please.
Blessed Bodies
The moon seeps its shattered children
Meting justice into open arteries
With blessed bodies pining parsons
Cannot pray for twining passions
Hope lies in sheltered skies
And every succoured tongue should flag
For clinging arms and clinging legs
Yet death defies
And life be-cries
With hope
Without shelter
Shall every single angel sing
For the Lord of Mornings voice to ring
Whilst careening ships find jagged rocks
And capital ventures rend bones and kin
The moon is all
Her children swept
Through sweet acceptance and belle’s embrace
Shall life’s long promise and gifts be kept.P.s water of life only poetry fans.
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
A blazing bell,
Tolls;
As a rampant river,
Rolls;
Through the sand swept city,
Sparkling and snaking,
Streets lie baking,
Along it’s frothy folds.
As a misty maw,
Sighs;
A rude boat,
Rides;
Across undulating schemes,
Slowly approaching,
The beckoning opening,
Of the tranquil sea.
While the ancient sun,
Rests;
The open sky,
Quests;
For lights to shine,
As drearily dripping,
With ripples shimmering,
The ship set sail.
A sudden swell,
Slides;
As the jealous moon,
Climbs;
Out from it’s lonely home,
Silently gazing,
On man’s innovation,
Reflected below.
Inky clouds,
Grow;
Whilst gentle winds,
Blow;
Into billowing furls,
Under senescent stars,
Into natures arms,
The ship set sail.
-
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Adyta
Flies batter off Adyta’s face
Swooping and buzzing like saw-blades,
As she scrapes at the block of wood
She has been labouring over for the last nine hours.
The damp and fetid factory
Awash with the filth of humanity,
Groans with the strain
As the blazing sun sinks below the horizon.
It is a disease, a cancer,
Yielding no answer,
Wasting the youth
Of our world’s resource.
The fly finds a festering sore
Like a bonny bee to a flower,
And plants its eggs in there
Meaning more flies
Less of Adyta.
She is unaware of her fate
Thinking only of the food she must take,
Back to her brothers
A pittance of bread and dirty water.
The whistle blows
The work slows,
Grinding to a halt
And Adyta scrabbles to her feet.
She pushes and shoves through the milling throng
The day has been over long,
And wearying
As she is jostled onto the street.
A dangerous place in the hours of darkness
As rapists and stranglers haunt the blackness,
Searching
For little Adyta
Only nine years old.
As she makes her way to the family home
The only place she can call her own,
Amongst the dilapidated sewers
And slurry of the city.
Where her brothers wait
One is seven, one is eight,
Her father was conscripted,
And in a desolate field his blood seeps.
Her mother died one year ago
Victim of the seeds our country has sown,
Penury and scarcity and poverty
Reach from the grave
With fleshy fingers to possess her bones.
Have I ever met her? No.
Will I ever take her from her joyless world? No.
Will I contribute to a charity? No.
Will I wrestle with the government to share world wealth? Not on my own
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Every thread
Brings me further
Unravels quickly
Takes me closer.
Who can doubt
The wisdom in having a spouse
The glimmer of a light
As a cat plays with a mouse?
I wish I had
A plan to hold at bay
I wish I was
I pluck at edges tattered and frayed.
And so it seems
Prudence falls apart from the seams
Every day brings new breath
Bruised, battered, betrayed.
And I laugh at intelligence
The brainchild so deceived
That those whose lives are measured beyond days
Are not broken, bullied beyond bursting and I said,
“If this is art,
Lap this up,
Every fragile second,
Pours forth from a broken cup
Rail and shout
Cast about
Maybe, just maybe you know
Romance is so perpendicular
It has a soul…”
I got away,
from my pattern of despair
Think I’ve realised
That I’m going nowhere.
It only matters
It never seems
That love has no boundary
Hate has no means.
And this is so,
This is so
Note the page turner
As I turn to go
Art breaks in the message
Mystification is not my meaning
I hope this is clear
Within, without,
Light cuts like the thorns of a rose
The moon fuels each swell of the sea
I was born with the data
The sorrows I suppliant will away from me.
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
-
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.