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20 November 2013 @ 09:44 am
secrets from the quiet room  
I trace bleeding circles under my eyelids in the lost hopes that maybe, just maybe I can blind myself from these haunting images called life. I pinch myself hoping to wake up from this twisted, tormented nightmare. I welcome the breath of death as it breathes intensely on my neck, it's haletosis clogging my nose and bringing my spaced out head back to hit my bruised feet on reality the end of my tortured, bleak,black life happened so quickly, so abruptly, was thrown into my face with no mercy or compassion. Then with my heart still beating, still soldiering on, all those fools with their expensive educated minds said that I was so broken beyond repair that I'd never blink from the blinding sunshine again or feel it's stifling warmth tanning my pale, almost translucent skin, well back off with your fancy medical degrees you are NOT above God, besides I sure showed them. Then these same fools had the dismal audacity to doubt me and conclude that I would never again utter a word. Well I'm sorry to tell all you non-believers that this voice is as strong, outspoken and loud as it's always been, just begging to be heard. but i'm still left with the same burning question of how can I settle my never settled, forever meandering and lost mind when all bets are against me? yes I sing and yell from the rafters that I am the amazing, subtly confident Kayla motha fuxin Cole. I may have dug my own selfish grave without thinking twice of myself and others as well and now I'm stuck in this paradox, this limbo called brain injury hell and i jokingly ask myself to ease my pain oh kayla isnt't this just nice? and all those terrifying, grusome goblins riding the pure horses in my dreams remind me subconciously that absolutely nothing is as nice, quiet, or easy as it seems. Things are not at all going as planned, they are morbidly spinning fast out of control. Am I going insane? no I'm just dealing with it. However upbeat I try to maintain, I'm still lost and drowning in flower petals and skin eating acidic, sulferic rain that turns all of my foreboding emptiness and hollow rooms into a psychotic insomnia and paranoia and I unleash my beast to run rampant and explore the night. Stealthy like the heavily cloaked home invader from your wickedest nightmares yet with love hanging in the expanding distance with the spark of fire when his lips brush mine. When my eyes, my almost celestial being, hell ok my everything hopes to seek and find his broken, battered soul and help my first and one true love on his quest to regain his last wisps of control. But I guess since death don't want me and fate done chewed me up and spit me out I'll always feel like I'll always have something to prove to others, to this heavily judgemental world. It's almost as if they whisper about me, questioning the fact of why I didn't die as anticipated, final destination style, now I am stuck constantly looking over my shoulder, paranoid into a sick motivation to prove them all wrong. Is my life and my very existence worthy? Will my newly found but very welcomed sobriety finally occupy the front seat pushing all the substance abuse to the back in this party of a ride called justified karma and life? And last but definately most important one of all, will Ripsi ever get her mother back? The mother she deserves? I may have the world to prove but I have the willingness to do just that and break on through, yes to the other side. But my words and language remain a cage and my ming is forever stuck in this delusional maze. And my heart may still be beating with unfailing tenacity mocking my survival with the mere fact that all I wish to achieve is to reach into my chest cavity to clench it's beating, relentless tissue so hard until it burts and ruptures to alleviate me into a stressless oblivion which in turn will ease me away from all these responsibilities and heartache. But not only do I have too much to savor and live for, I am also a coward, albeit a morose, morbid coward, a coward non-the-less and these have all been carefully crafted, and most definately secrets from the quiet room.
Current Location: at the NR motha fuxin C
How I'm feeling, Bizatch: fux its frosty!!!!
Tunes: snow tha product