The Writer's Bloc

En La Soledad: Twinkle Little Stars

Twinkle Little Stars

I remember when I had this little globe that could project the stars. I would point at the ceiling and lay down on the floor. My read hair spreading before as if fit was on fire. Looking at the stars made me wonder of how small we were. How insignificant we were, my thought not original. We all think this, we all realize how small and non-important we are. How meaningless our life is and how we try to fill this sense of importance through our religion, our beliefs.

Twinkle Twinkle little star
Ahh the stars so giant that it might one day eat me.

Spreading and expanding like the common cold.
How I wonder what you are

I twist and turn to see if the stars will change. They never do, they stay the same in this projection. Life is so simple. Grow up, go to college, become in debt, graduate, pay off college debt, get a mortgage, and pay it off. A cycle that we created, a symbol only those with enough power can break. Oh my wonder stars please help me. I look at you all and see the wonders that have you to be created, discovered.

We are the plague.
The black holes are our own hearts.
Up above the world so high

I guess in a way the stars are our gods. We are made from them, from stardust. They created this universe and everything in it. From us to the aliens everyone is scared to admit are true. Its okay lowly humans will never comprehend. One day I will be gone and the stars will still burn. One day the Earth will be gone and they will still burn.

The human race—destined to destroy themselves.

(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)

En La Soledad: Princess

tragicallyfiction:

I am the sleeping princess. The adorned innocence in the broken mirror, the angel’s heart that was destroyed. The beds of thorns biting into my skin, making me bleed the color of the horizon. Touch me with your scarred fingers, hands that have stolen flowers. Delicately bring me to oblivion,…

(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)

Devil

ordinarywonder:

The Devil was trying to drown his sorrows in whiskey and solitude, while contemplating changing professions.

Initially, he had really wanted to become a rock star, but he lacked musical talent. Oh. He did have a special way of inspiring others to compose incredible songs, which made it more frustrating when failing to produce a hit of his own.

He also tried being a painter, but he was too vain. All he ever managed to paint were lack-luster portraits of himself. Photography proved to be disappointing. In fact, he experimented with several mediums of art, finding no satisfaction in his endeavors.

Although, he never tried his hand at writing. He was a moody guy, but he wasn’t a miserable bastard — which mean that a literary career was out of the question.

So, a bit defeated, he settled for the position as The Prince of Darkness. Which got him laid frequently, but damn it all to hell, if he wasn’t sick and tired of nailing slutty goth chicks.

Plus, it had put a wedge between him and his best friend, Death. He could do with a bit of variety. He needed something fresh and innocent…

Damn God. He always got the virgins… plus all the slutty goth chicks, and other reformed whores. Talk about variety. He lifted his glass to the bartender.

“Can I get another?”

Jazzy’s note: Just fucking brilliant. I love everything that comes out of her.

thefinalsin:

Sallow cheeks and sunken eyes search listlessly for the source of the noise, that incessant tap-tap-tapping at the edge of perception, threatening to break the fragile grasp on sanity to which his mind feverishly clings. The room is darkened and dim, like the pallid shadows which adorn his features and mark his state of being, a tenuous existence that, like a candle aflame, threatens to snuff out upon the whims of an errant gust of wind, unwelcome and uninvited, an intruder from the outside world, beyond the confines of these walls and the hazed cloud of smoke the clings to the air, plaster yellowing and cracked under it’s cloying breath. He rises unsteadily and, with a drowsy gait, ambles to answer the door.

Jazzy’s note: the prose is so vivid!

Three-Way

lifeencoded:

As she opened her legs, he sighed. As he slid inside her, she moaned. As he wrapped his hands around her throat, he moaned. As she dug her nails into his arms, he shrieked from delight. As she passed out, she started thinking bad thoughts. As he bled, he strafed her half-dead corpse with his cock. She awoke to the life blood flowing through her and came in tidal waves. As he passed out from blood loss, he gushed across her stomach. She licked the knife, tracing the blood from his neck with her teeth marks. They peeled his face off and she wore it as a mask as she slid her plastic fury into her. Her face contorted in ecstasy as her/he fucked the last moisture from her. Then she growled fiercely, a wolf in heat under his guise growled fiercely. Their skin merged in a nuclear fusion of sweat and lust. Their energy fueled a thousand black holes.

jazzy’s note: wow!

(via lifeencoded-deactivated20120701)

whisperingdreamsdecayed:

When I write my words for you, now - I feel vulnerable and dirty. Like I am stripping my clothes off in front of you, but she is on your mind, instead. Maybe it is her you are getting hard for, her you are wishing to “make love” to. I remember you told me you had a strong dislike for the word sex. Is that why you starting asking me if you can fuck me? The beauty in your words lost from me, making my heart ache in an empty feeling that never goes away. Your camel smoke lingers on my clothes, still. I scrub and scrub the smell away, but it never fades. The warmth of your strong hold on me will not part my skin. I suppose it is my fault for letting my eyes wonder to your words that no longer belong to me.

My words will always hold traces of your name - my ink will always spill for your lost affection.

Jazzy’s note: i feel like this often.

(Source: whispered-dreams-decayed)

eleveneleventhintent:

Old mentors and friends, their stares made strange from their intimacy with poverty, marginalization, humiliation, violence, censorship and loneliness; a possessive, familiar crowd that has urged them to seek dark corners and cliffs as they stand now distanced from the chants, calmly looking over the edge of insanity, perhaps knowing what lay beyond; perhaps they intentionally lied to themselves by thinking that those eagerly awaiting behind them would not follow, for the sake of some peace of mind, at least during the second before their bodies hit the ground; the lie that they would somehow forget all, or lose all sense after, as if they had not already been driven to an alternative of no alternatives with their steps into thin air; perhaps madness was not a destination, but a indefinite transition with a definite end coupled with their certainty; no more than a line to cross.

As I gazed into their eyes I wondered if they recognized me, not from the shallow desire to have been remembered, but in recognition of someone whose eyes wordlessly betrayed the same of what I saw - hiding in plain sight. I wondered if their eased smiles were true, if their inquiries honest; If all that I had thought to have seen was simply an incorrect assumption to have found someone who could relate, a voiceless desire to know that I was not on my own, leading to realize that everything I had imagined was everything that I was.

(Source: reinsurreccion)

Turkish Royal

kissthebeehive:

I had my first cigarette when I was 16 years old, and I think that’s when my procession started as well. I could imagine the black wool coats, and the coffin keeping me from everyone else. Winter had come early, and all five of my friends stood across the street from our school. We were definitely living in a wasteland, but it was my wasteland, I loved it very very much. The school was falling apart, and looked no better than the town. I could see everyone inside falling apart like a decomposing tree. I could hear their screams and their shouts all the way from where I was standing. I was next.

I’ll never forget Chris teaching me how to light my cigarette, “You have to inhale as you put the flame to the end of the paper,” he lit his first then I lit mine.

“Fuck man! Why am I coughing so much? This is awful… why would anyone want to smoke these?!!” I didn’t throw my cigarette to the ground as you would expect, because it was nice to finally have something to hold onto.

“Because you like it and it’s good for you, man!” He took a drag and shot out the smoke in a perfect stream, “Anyways, we have to finish up before class starts.”

I kept smoking and I kept coughing, but I never did let go. He was right, I did like it very much. I imagined my lungs black, my heart black, as well as my eyes and my fingers. I even looked at my fingers to make sure they weren’t black. Sometimes I imagine things so much I begin to believe them.

We were late to class, but I reveled on my first cigarette.

Jazzy’s note: This fills me with nostalgia!

(via 872134-deactivated20121225)

for all your landscaping needs, call…

jambu2525:

after your ridiculous mud baths, i just want to pull the weeds out of your mouth. uproot them from deep below the topsoil, toss them into the pile which is wheelbarrow bound for the compost. maybe i’ll burn them just before winter. along with your brittle olive branch hugs. one thing’s for sure, those are getting chipped first. on second thought, maybe i’ll mulch them around your rosy briar. i don’t know how the skunks can stomach the petals’ pheromones or how they duck the thorns. pungency loves company i guess is how i can justify it. maybe i’ll just take a machete to it altogether and feed it to the goats. the backyard has a date with the rototiller on saturday. i can’t wait to utterly eviscerate the turf. aerate it so she opens up like a guilty catholic waiting for the father to drop a eucharist in her mouth before confession. only i’ll drop poison pellets in to extirpate the grubs. and if that doesn’t snuff out the infestation there’s plenty of gasoline in the shed. your favorite weeping beech at the foot of the koi pond, has always been just that, coy. crying for herself in an attempt at unwarranted pity while constantly blocking out the sun. she’s going to get kissed by my chainsaw as i intend to lop her off at the fucking neck. oh, i’ll leave the stump, for sure. it’ll make a lovely seat from which to ogle the new spring fish.

Jazzy’s note: I just fucking adore this!

Why Can’t You Love Me Like I Want To Love You?

savageleewriting:

She rides me like a racecar, or some other form of sexy palindrome. She sounds me out like I’m a long string of syllables she can’t quite spit up or swallow. She enraptures me, like the word’s a whip she can entwine about my being.

“You want to come to my bed, you’ll have to clean the corpses out of it first.”

She’s just like that, a strange killer instinct wrapped in whistling whispers and hurtful little love-notes. “Fuck me like you’re putting jam on a piece of toast,” she mutters offensively. “Lick my genitals like you’re trying to paint a house.”

I’m trying, and succeeding, to paint myself into a conversational corner, this way. I’m letting her know exactly how I feel, so she can tell all her friends, and make lewd jokes about me behind my back.

She was neither mistress nor mother.

She was both port and storm.

She was the ship I rode in on, the sea it sank into.

six-little-milk-teeth:

they say it takes 21 days to make something a habit. this means that, after just 21 days of life, we have made crying a habit. this means eating, and sleeping, and waking become habits.

but, we program ourselves into other habits, 21 days at a time. people, places, and actions. i’m making ridding myself of you a habit. one day at a time. 21 days. no texts, no emails, no words going to you.

if you can build a habit in 21 days, you can dismantle it, as well. and i’m on a mission to dismantle you.

Jazzy’s note: Habits are hard to break.

(via knives-of-summertime-deactivate)

To the sea

rain-owl:

The sea will never be sufficient or strong enough to wash away this flotsam, to carry it back to meet the bodies of the deceased. Too heavy, dragged down by sand and mussels, feeding off the surface. You minuscule scavenging leeches, clinging to the dead for sustenance. When will you learn to let go and let what was once treasured return to where it came from? Given you don’t really have many brains, I can understand why you haven’t. Merely shells with giant tongue-like feet. All the better to suck the garbage from the bottom.

(via mizmongoose-deactivated20121229)

I’ll Tell You This in Second Person So You Never Have to Go

noconsensusonaname:

Right now tastes familiar. Smells familiar, too. There’s the highway on the far side of the fence, and there’s the trees and the sky unmolested by the upward clawing of yuppies’ condos. Even looks familiar. The metropark is five miles down the road. Highway, really, and you can hear its burden whispered through the fence.

The metropark of your childhood. The metropark that meant jogging and getting ready for soccer. The metropark with the stone steps that you could run up and get to the edge of the golf course and, if you were quick and lucky, scoop up a ball and abscond back down the steps with it.

The deli across from the park’s north entrance. One wall a mosaic of fifths and pints and half-gals that, as a kid, was mysterious and now, as you, is conflicting. The deli counter that ran the whole back wall and made the subs of your summers. Carrying those hulking brown paper bags to the car and then unloading them by the boat launch. Picnic tables and reading under the trees while Mom stalked along the dock.

Her saying how much she just wanted to sail. How the sailboats were majestic and beautiful and all she wanted. By then, you had outgrown your Oedipal Complex, so you weren’t jealous, were willing to even let your father fuck her if he wanted (he did not), and you even passively wished a sailboat for her.

The kitchen of your childhood. Sprawled on the floor, and the macaroni and cheese is burning, and it’s raining tonight, and drinks are half-off at the Green Lake Lodge, and you’re crying because you can only control one of those things, and it’s the one you don’t give a free-flying fuck about.

You and Dad have a brown paper bag from the deli across from the metropark’s north entrance. For the first time, you saw the place’s name. Holden’s. You hate irony, and it makes you confused and sad and sick, and you can’t remember what kind of sub you liked, so you just got what Dad got. He gets the same for Mom.

A picnic table behind the main building, where we had to sign in, and they went through the bag. Looked at the chips. They even opened the plastic tub with the grape leaves Dad got as a gift. They even sniffed them and almost said no.

“If I knew they were going to be a problem, I wouldn’t have fucking brought them in.” Dad is not making friends there. Dad does not like to go there, but Mom wanted to see me, and she wants to see you, too, but not right now. She gets her grape leaves, and she really likes them.

She is holding you by your chin because she can’t hold you by your cheeks because you’re not eating, and she’s telling you that these are not the places to make memories.

(via noconsensusonaname-deactivated2)

Color Sketches of Two Women