Saphyra• Show poetry

It's been too long since I legitimately put anything up here. In my author description and my work. I don't know. I've had writers block for a while.

I've been adding more stuff over here- Writers Cafe
Check it out!

It's kinda like Myspace meets this place and it's a wonderful thing!

http://cerebralbile.blogspot.com/

Laying half on a beanbag and half on a dirty carpet, I live in the attic of a rundown victorian house. The rent is split between me, my two friends, and my boyfriend. He is currently unemployed due to the nonchalant way he moved here. Two cats speckle the odd intensity that resides here at The Forb with us. All of our walls are slanted and the windows point to the heavens. It is forever Halloween.

I nearly overdosed on diet pills the other day. That spiraling darkness came for me again. Neatly wrapped and disguised in a package that whispered "You're getting somewhere" in my ears. Tied with a well paying 12 hour job and tagged with a one-year lease. Signing away my soul to a corporation somehow in exchange for my dreams. Becoming a part of the machine rather than shooting it down. Never fear, though. I am over it. A spontaneous tragedy occurred and I am leaving this town and everything I had to start anew three hours away.

I've been breathing this poisoned air for a good 19 years now and have celebrated my existence with a series of candy-coated failures. I've wasted a culmination of 8 of those years thinking about useless things and writing them down on random objects or piercing them into the fabric of the internet. You know, the usual -paint it up with glitter, slash open its neck, drink the fluid, and decorate accordingly- of those whispers of concepts that float around everyone's cerebral fluid but are rarely used. Yeah, I use them.

I am a very reflective person. I mean, you wouldn't think that if you met me. Here, I'll paint you a mental image really quick. 5 feet tall. Pink hair on one side, blue on the left. All teased out like Robert Smith on cocaine. Tight black pants (for comfort, you close-minded fool). Stained and scarred chucks with cards. A mindless self indulgence shirt under a homemade hoodie that reads "Fuck the language barrier" half in leopard print material and half in ink on denim patches. black rings around my blue eyes, a ring in the middle of my nose, four earrings, and a menthol cigarette in my mouth. Usually making jokes that make no sense but to me and my friends, laughing hysterically just because someone said "poop". Yeah, that idiotic thing is me; the person that writes all this shit. Wow. I made it that far without profanity.

My writing styles usually vary depending on what "phase" I am going through. I don't know, maybe everyone is like this... but I am like nature, I have seasons. It's kind of like "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" with "Is it the music I'm listening to that makes me this way or is it that I'm this way that I listen to this music?" Sometimes for weeks or months at a time I listen to a mix of punk, then it's baroque, then it's swing, then indie, then goth...etc. If I'm in a punk phase, you can tell, it's all freeverse and all over the place. If it's baroque then it's structured, intricate, and rhyming. If it's swing, it's probably a bit risque. Indie, freeverse that's deep and cryptic. Goth? Well, you can guess for yourself. Anyway, that is why some poems seem "out of place". I'm an odd girl.

I think my current writers block may have something to do with the fact that life right now is chaotic. I work four days on, four days off. I barely get any sleep those four on nights and on my off rotation I'm constantly either running errands or decaying in front of youtube, just trying to escape this hellish mediocre reality for a few minutes at a time. My computer is broken and my friend only has a few things I enjoy listening to on hers. So my taste at the moment is a mash-up of everything. And this whole "I'm an adult now, dealing with my own shit, finally seeing the world for the grotesque and mutated creature that it is" thing has my mind in an uproar. So anything creative that gets shat out of it at the moment will either fail beyond belief or be a piece of incomprehensible shit.