Come with Me to Paradise

Come with me to paradise,
You don't need to worry about -
Being thinner,
Younger,
Stronger,
Funnier
Or More Productive there.
You can relax your soul,
Float on contentment and love.
It is a peaceful place.
Everyone is welcome!
But, I can't carry you there.
I can give you a hand now and then.
But, ultimately, it is up to you to more forward.
In this life there's temptations ~ to cave to peer pressure, to cheat, to snack, to lie, to live up to others expectations, to find a constant high, to indulge or to build a crack-less wall so that no one can get through it to hurt you.
This is not the way to Paradise.
Do not murder yourself.
Come with me to Paradise,
And choose to live.

This piece was inspired by Eminem. He supposedly overcame an addiction to illicit drugs only to succumb to an addiction to legal drugs. He then posted 'the Devil's' hand sign (I will write a post on this in Tradition and the Culture Machine to clear up what 'the Devil's' hand sign is). Although, I don't know Eminem's motivations, the sign inspired me to toy with the idea of fixes. And, by fixes - I mean, quick bursts of elevation to satisfy a craving for a comfortable place. There are many people in this world who want to find a more comfortable space to be with themselves. Although, I am lucky to have not struggled with the stigma and challenges of an illicit drug addiction, I do know what it is like to be so uncomfortable and numb so as to succumb to self destructive lifestyle habbits to try and ease those feelings. Unfortunately, the habbits themselves were making it more difficult for me to find that nice space in the long term.

*I'm sorry - I edited what I wanted to write a few times because I felt that I couldn't quite capture exactly my thoughts and feelings in the original posts.

I Do What I Want

He fired a shot.
He laughed.
It plunged.
Into her.

This isn't a song about sex.

I'll do what I want.

You're old.
You're ill.
You're worthless.
It's my time to shine.

This isn't a song about fame.

I'll do what I want.

She ate little.
She lay still.
If she withered away.
It might be ok.

This isn't a song about self pity.

I'll do what I want.

She writhed.
On the ground.
Her baby.
Her baby.

This isn't a song about pleasure.

He took away her freedom to be a Mother.

She felt old.
She felt low.
She felt worthless.
She had been used as shoe shine.

This isn't a song about pimping. 

She took away her freedom to be a human being.

He cried.
When no one was watching.
Because as she withered away.
He cared.

This is a song about other people.

She forced his world to revolve around her.

This song was inspired by Feminism, individualism, selfishness and by the shootings by Syrian soldiers performing out of conduct (their target was pregnant women). It also touches on eating disorders and a celebrity feud. My idea is how we choose to behave can drain the freedom and choice from other peoples lives.

The Emperor's Secret

Good Morning?
How are you?
I'm fine thanks!
And you?

Rep- rep- rep- repetition,
Of so called decisions,
Don't be the division,
Be the best of the best,
Of the same old thing.
Claim you are the king of the ring.

It's a warped kind of craziness,
That you will deny,
Because craziness scares you,
And, you'd rather live a lie.
An 'eccentric' wanders in,
She says your jokes are naked truths,
You pretend to pity her,
Tattoo crazy on her face and throw her to the swarm of gnashing Lovers.
After all, the throne is near,
And when you get there it will be glory.

You can't accept laziness,
Gotta be chill,
Just fake it till you make it,
That's how to be real. AHAHA.
These tortured feet, the surgeries and the rib binding,
No, they don't hurt at all;
They ooze confidence; empowerment -
You brag to the wide eyed girls.
It's natural baby. I've never had cosmetic surgery. It's only natural baby.
Natural perfection.

Quinoa lunches. Beauty. Star Children. And, praise.
Quinoa lunches. Beauty. Star Children. And, praise.
It will be enough. It will be enough. It will be enough.
You are good enough. You hold your arms to the crowd.
You hear them roar. You are their trophy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One day you're coercing the toddlers' to violin practice,
An Ethical bag of luxury balanced on your yummy tummy.
You see the Eccentric. You stroll over for a self esteem booster.
She has a crooked nose, a big, flabby ass, no job and no children.
You go over to smirk. "I'm a trophy baby!"
She stares in the horizon reflectively.
"I'm a trophy baby!" You say a little louder.
"I'm not" she whispers. "I'm a human being".

This poetry/story/song is inspired by Miley Cyrus, Mental Illness, Perfectionism and conformity within Society and the length that some people will go to - to deny themselves to be themselves from themselves. One of my personal views are that I think Society is too caught up with trying to be good, normal and achieving (even if it is at being bad) and that when someone truly fails - there is this kind of underlying cruelty that exists there. Another one of my views is that there is a kind of self destructive fear of mental illness that exists. This fear of being branded a Psychopath, a Schizophrenic, a Narcissist, a Depressed Parasite, a Psycho, an Eccentric ect - this fear of being truly different, of being a bad person. And, how this fear can be transforming. The labels created for mental illnesses are created for the benefit of treatment, but traits of mental illness can be found in every human being that ever lived.

Eat Grass

The sugar's like crack,
The chicken's like hormones,
The rice's like carbs,
The sausage's like cancer,
The banana's like radiation,
The stawberry's like a flower,
The water's like toxins,
The cheese's like mould,
The bread's like yeast,
The yoghurt's like bacteria,
The chewing gum's like laxative,
The nut's like a mental illness,
The milk's like fat,
The fruit juice's like sugar.
Like, eat grass!

Burnt Love

This is an abstract song that I wrote about four or five years ago. At the time that I wrote it a lot of people around me were suffering from the pain of infidelity/betrayal ~ one person of which that I loved very much in particular. However, the song also has personal significance to me for a very different reason. The imagery described is metaphorical and symbolic; not literal in meaning.

Do you think I'm a fiddle?-
-Stop playing my strings!
Do you think I'm an iceberg?-
-And I'll just melt away?

No way.
No way.
No way.
No wayayayay.

Today.
I'm flooding your house down.
With all the memories I'd bottled up inside.
Today.
I'm burning your house down.
With all the ashes from the burning pain you caused to me.

Don't play with me; don't play with me; it's wrong.
Gone from you gone from you; I'm strong.

Cos.
I'm not the violin you play behind my back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that's crying for you back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that plays sweet melodies.
I'm a drum. Drum. Drum. Drum.
And, you can't hit on me!

Yesterday was a bad day, I cried.
Yesterday was a bad day, I died inside.

But, tomorrow when your home is gone,
I'll take away your fridge,
And with it your hearts and guts,
As you did from my skin,
And play the thought.
And play the thought.
I try.
That I am stronger - stronger than your lies.

Today.
I'm flooding your house down.
With all the memories I'd bottled up inside.
Today.
I'm burning your house down.
With all the ashes from the burning pain you caused to me.

Don't play with me; don't play with me; it's wrong.
Gone from you gone from you; I'm strong.

Cos.
I'm not the violin you play behind my back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that's crying for you back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that plays sweet melodies.
I'm a drum. Drum. Drum. Drum.
And, you can't hit on me!

Do you think I'm a statue?-
-With no emotion?!
Do you think I'm a doormat?-
-That you can stand on and forget?!

No way.
No way.
No way.
No wayayayay.

Princess Petite vs The World

This poem is about eating disorders and distorted thinking and it is about a sickness that society has.
In this poem a woman is sick and society encourages her illness rather than supporting  and nourishing her. Thus, society is, in a strange way, sicker than she is.

An animalistic moan raptured from her tunnel of bony ribs,

As she wound round the pink binds,

“It’s not torture,” she reasoned in sharp, petite breaths. “It’s culture.”

And so, she bound her waist like women used to bind their feet.

“To be straight, to be thin, to be white, and to be clean is perfect”.

It’s just a figment of western culture’s imagination that perfection does not exist.

Her bones arch in mathematical angles that must satisfy pi.

Those western whales of anger would crush her pretty space out of jealousy that they could not have one to call their own.

“They are not as valuable as me”, she reasoned in private. “They are jealous, ugly beings who disgust me”.

She wanted to vomit the vile experience of meeting such insidious creatures out of her system. But instead, she muttered spectacular words to the world; because princesses don’t speak of the putrid.

She picked up a bag of chips and licked them with passive aggressive glee.

To prove that there is no problem here; to prove that she is naturally perfect; to cover up years of starvation and pain; to say “fuck you” to the bullies who claim that perfection doesn’t exist.

Her allies of vapid admirers crow to her disordered thinkings in confirmation.

“You’re so pretty; you’re so perfect; don’t listen to the naysayers; thin is in.”

They flocked around like frenzied vultures, fanning the dying women’s dreams.

Hungry to be good and perfect too.

For what would a vulture care about a little extra skin and bones to devour?

Dark

This is a metaphorical song about being bullied.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
My white shirt is stained with tears,
And blood drizzled from the point,
Where vampires sucked me out of joint.
I pulled out a knife from my back blades.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
Gripped me with the claws of fear,
A werewolf bit me on the head,
... Said she, “You talk and you’ll be dead”.
I nodded my head obediently and listened.

But, I’m not afraid of the dark,
Where the monsters hide like spiders,
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
So that they could point and leer,
So that they could bring me down,
So that I could be their clown.
I changed slowly into the unrecognisable.
Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
They asked that I adhere,
To their nasty, twisted rules,
Where we would hunt for happy fools.
Much that was good in me wallowed in guilt.

But, I’m not afraid of the dark,
Where the monsters hide like spiders,
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.

Of the gossips and the spies; of the rumours and the lies.

Mama,
An angel brought me out,
When I was full of doubt,
She cut my shackles free,
Held my hand; said she: “Come with me!”
I was surprised to find that angel was the better side of me.
The better side of me.