Skip to main content

compulsions. inner urges.

Could I still stop myself from feeling and letting this wicked, inner bitch live inside me? Nevertheless, here you go: this is my mental imprint, my tiresome everyday; featuring my fucking compulsions.

——

"what are you doing?"
"typing and thinking..."
"they have become your vice."
"definitely. addictive!"
"oh, wait,"
"what does 'vice' (\ˈvīs\) even mean for you?"
"enunciate not!"
"okay, i apologize..."
"does it connote suffering?"
"it does and it does not... personally"
"w-what?"
"it is a win-win,
nonetheless";
"it's an indulgence!"

"curse it; fuck it!"

"i excuse my language!"

"omg, 'i' was not capitalized! This should be consistent."

"I excuse my language!"

"ugh, finally; relieved!"

"you are such an overreacting retard!"

"oh, well, this is irrational, I know, but... fuck, who cares about these?"

"okay, this is tiresome!"

"wait, tiring or tiresome? i might get judged for this... gonna search for it, first, before blurting it out."

"it is freaking hell!!!!"

"wait! One... Two... Three... Four...?! IT'S 4 EXCLAMATION POINTS! DON'T USE EVEN NUMBERS!!! IT'S DISGUSTING!"

"you know what? JUST FUCKING STOP IT!"

"you have to be sane; it's just a phase!"

"get over it!"

"god and your family love you!"

"wait, that is blasphemous; 'god' should be capitalized! why am I so reckless?! I might go to Hell; He is watching me right now."

"but it will just ruin the aesthetics i got used to???"

"seriously?!"

"okay, fine!"

"God."

"there, fixed it!"

"relieved? yes!!! thanks!"

"but the capitalization is not consistent compared to the previous statements?"

"fuck it!"

"they love me, I know! But, hmmm, okay?"

"just help me get out of this hell..."

"no, sufferings is a way to strengthen yourself. Just pray; there's no hell!"

"you don't use 'is' to refer a plural word... It should be 'are.' But, yeah, I am sorry for that... Anyway, yes; this is hell!"

"okay, you are now being ridiculous."

"and perfectionist."

"i am?"

"hey..."

"uhm?"

"what's a sane, anyway?"

"i don't know."

"i just know insane."

"stop it; you will be okay..."

"just breathe. be positive in life."

"i have to go; bye!"

"where are you going?"

"i'm going to disinfect my hands!"

"my hands are already 5-minute exposed on the screen..."

"i fear their invasion. i fear getting ill."

"what? whose invasion?"

"bacteria? viruses? they are smiling at me—figuratively"

"huh, are you crazy? they won't!"

"my naked eyes might be lying to me!"

"AND YES, I AM CRAZY!"

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

IHY

 The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime  and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.
Post a Comment
Read more

Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris.   Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall   where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor,   as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn   from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.
Post a Comment
Read more

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.
Post a Comment
Read more