m-o-ckUp

m-o-ckup:

euo:

It’s an extraordinary feeling when parts of your body are touched for the first time. I’m thinking of the sensations from sex and surgery. 
Jenny Holzer

Wow

still wow

m-o-ckup:

Why are Providers within the the Mental Health Care System trained to treat patients in certain (and often problematic) manner that provides proper (or in proper) care that results in the destabilization of their patient’s symptoms  by not providing them with a voice and a strong role in their medical treatment. 

6 months later, i feel the same way about patient care. I feel things that are started to make sense. at least i can finally say that., 

I left my(self) so many notes 8.28.2012

I don’t know what im doing or where im going

But I suppose nobody really does

Im thirsty all the time

quenched with poetry and crackers

I cant afford this anymore

I never quite understood

Earn your living

Earn your living?

Earn a living?

That is it

And I guess that is why it is so off putting

Earn a living

Not your living

But a living

And we humans aren’t cut out for that

What a disconnect

breathing isn’t enough to supply you with a right to life

You need to earn it

But how

With what

I still cant seem to accept the fact that in order to live a life you love you must sacrifice

You must re-learn everything you were born knowing

The methods of the know

Are now tied to means you can not afford

Financially

Emotionally

Spiritually

And this makes you uncomfortable. To say the least.

Each day I awake to a morning commute

The air smells of working class angst

And I cant remember a  sunrise without the sounds of our signs

We are stuck

And it only 5pm, and im only 25

Only

Only

Clock out

Would imply freedom of time

But it is only Monday

I arrive home

Everyday

Feeling as if I lost something

Looking back on the years

With a sense of regret

I was there

Making these choices

But I still cant feel present

As if some ghost in my image turned the wheel

As if I gave the permission to do so

so I do not feel cheated or deceived

with nobody to blame

im left

guilty

just guilty

only guilty.

I found more notes to myself…

February 2012

who are the knowers of the know

of the now
of the then
of the to be
who are the knowers
that do not know me
i search for them 
in every window
and door
call their names 
at each unhinged dream
and whore
who are the knowers
of the know
the now
the then
to to be
who the knowers 
that dont know me
Don’t be seduced into thinking that that which does not make a profit is without value.
— 出典:Arthur Miller (via wordsnquotes)

My closest truth

It will not come

Up

Or

Out

I’ve unsown every pore

Ingested aisles of

Expectorants

Still no budge

So, I dream

Dream of

What it would look like

Outside of this skin

Drenched in semen and blood

Hollow, at times transparent

 And missing a core

Porn (for) Physicists

What it would smell like

Cafeteria floors

Seconds after the janitor

Mops up the remains

Of a school girl’s

Bulimic display of affection

What it would taste like

Mouths full of

Shattered sand filled hours glasses

With no water in sight

What it would feel like

Freezer burn

Making love to

The deepest

Darkest

Nothingness

On Christmas Eve

What it would sound like

Musical boxes

Capturing

Ghastly whispers

Repeating

“I’m coming back”

The Day I learned my body was a commodity

i fuck you in hopes to keep my secrets safe in the folds of your skin
but i fear i know where you go 
when your mind holds you hostage

peripherally 
i can see your fingers tangled in the remains of her innocence
though you know the only way out
is to fuck her
and i wonder
in the midst of the moment
can your ears
hear the whispers
of my long lost
lies
can she taste my shame on your tongue?


i beg of you to kill the messenger as
our bodies begin to mangle
and in the weight of the ruins
your goosebumps transformed into braille
so we can longer
make love
without feeling confession
and
the misplaced emotions entrenched 
in my story
that i tried so hard
to tuck away
in your crevices.

My Sub(un)conscious Entries


my life resembles that of a
grav-at-ron
located at the center 
of
this years world’s fair

my lover is on stilts
i can not hear him
unless i look up

my sister sells
cotton candy
to domestic feminists
underage alcoholics
and 
overage men addicted to
crystallized sugar

my life resembles that of a 
grav-a-tron
and each time
i attempt to
change my point of view
my necks
gets stuck
to a foam wall
kept together
with electric tape

and i think to myself
well, at least something
i am attached to
has energy

Flirting With Depression: The Problem With Suicide Hotlines

babeltongues:

image

The suicide of Robin Williams is one of those permeating cultural events that’s more than just the loss of a performer who meant so many things to so many generations. The nostalgic old remember his “nanu nanus,” the Gen X’ers “O! Captain,” Millennials his fire boobs. But Williams’ passing isn’t just a feelings bomb – it’s another forum to discuss the perils of mental illness. 

Every time a celebrity dies, there’s a broad spectrum of response. There are the bitter survivors (“my dad died and no one cared, why should I care about this dude?”), the over-compensators (“blank meant absolutely everything to my life and I’m DEVASTATED #cryingforever”), the observant genuflectors (“YouTube link or obscure quote from one of their most under-loved performances”), the simple mourners (“RIP + picture of celeb looking wistful”), and so on. And all of these reactions are valid. The way we mourn runs parallel to the other ways we live and react; fluid or broken, bombastic or silent. There’s no right way to reflect. 

But when the cause of death is suicide, the chasm bursts and the response is something much harder to define and mitigate. Depression is personal, an illness all of us have either experienced personally or witnessed first-hand. And there’s an inherent desire to say something relevant in its wake. 

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Candlelit faces #sketch#pencil#nofilter#candlelight (at Winky & Blinky’s Castle)