Fuck this feeling. I wanna write poems on cheap paper with a bad pen and scribbled half cursive and mispelled words. Nothing is real without my definition of Reality and reality is not including me without some higher being currently. Coating emotions with food and fears with sleep. Hours wasted on thoughts running alone. Thoughts stifled by absorbing media as was intended by the providers but perhaps not the makers. This version of myself self prescribed as okay or bad or good or something. Typically a thing to change. Do I make sense? Can one understand me? Can I make a living on art and creativity or is art and creativity in spite of my living? Caused by my living? If I was freely roaming could I freely create? Would I hate would I dissipate? To reply. To do. To think. To create. To exist. Complicated. Like a facebook definition of a relationship of a high school student who thinks they are practically engaged to the dude they once locked eyes with in a lecture. “It’s complicated” No set reality. No set definition. Which is itself the definition. The reality. A paradox we only dream up to make sense of things with. All is nothing. Nothing is all.
I hope this poem makes you feel things. I just wrote it because I needed to stop.
Throwback to an intense season of depression. Written by Winter Burnett November 13, 2016
Here I walk. Alone in the moonlight. My shadow my only comfort. My shadow a twisted ugly version of myself. My shadow the evidence that I’m alone. This bench has so much room. And I just need a shoulder to cry on. Someone to bring along On these suicidal night walks, But that’s not how this works. The path I can walk alone. I say that’s fine. But I lie. Some can see through that, But I don’t think I can see the truth anymore. So my life’s now a lie. I make rhymes And I sit and I cry. This poetry does not make any sense. Like the rest of my emotions. I was done with this, But apparently not. I’m still searching for love. When I have enough. So many lines written, And not one mention of God. That’s because we don’t talk. Apart from emotional engagement I’ve given up on him. I “know” he has not given up on me, But I need to feel rejected now. I need to feel forgotten Because I need to match these emotions. And I’ve decided this is how. I’m still searching for labels Of these manic depressive moments. I’m still pretending I caused this. I’m still alone. And I fear. I’ll always be alone. I want these words to hurt. To crush others’ hearts Just as much as these emotions have hurt me. I’d go on. I could write depressing words for ages, But it’s getting as cold as my heart out here. And I’m still pretending to be alive.