My Word

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
No prose or poetry to it, i was up one night and so many things hit me, these are my thoughts. random and unorganized, had to tell someone. not the ususal me just...thoughts

Submitted: February 02, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 02, 2010



I had a dream I was a butterfly and when I awoke I wondered if I was the butterfly dreaming I was me.

So many thoughts are crammed in my mind. But why? Why do I have these thoughts? Are they meant to echo? But how can they if no one knows me? If you died right now how many people would know your name, or even care? Haven’t you ever wondered? Out of the billions of people in this world how can I make a difference?

Do I have to fucking murderer someone for them to see me? So much blood I’ve spilled just for attention. The blood rushing to my head and from my wrists. It is amazing, these scars. They’re from my cuts, call me emo or whatever but I call them my battle scars. The battle is in my own heart and every time I think I’ve won, I’ve lost horribly. I hate myself when I cut my wrists but I hate myself even more when my cuts aren’t here, I feel so empty.

Where do the cuts come from? Fellow cutters care to answer? I bottle my emotions, years at a time and when I break that bottle open the shards slice my wrists. The bottle explodes and I lose control. I become the monster that I’ve written, my own vigor in my heart trying to escape. But I seal the bottle and brace for another explosion.

Maybe a cut for everyone I’ve hurt. I’ve got 40 some scars just left on my wrist and when they fade…I’ll make more because when the tears melt into the blood I feel something…indescribable. But my mind floats on…

I am what the poor have, the rich have, and god fears. I am nothing. But to them I am a creeper, a weirdo. Why do I feel like more? Like one day, in 17 years (random) I’ll be known. Famous or infamous I don’t care; I just know they’ll know me.

I know…there’s gotta be greater truth. Greater than the bullshit the spoon-feed us. A door…literal or metaphorical, somewhere a door to truth. They say life is the path so is death truth? How can one peak at truth, death, without dying? Dying and then come back? Glimpse at death without dying? I will find truth, maybe I’ll die. Maybe I’ve already died; maybe I’ll die and come back. Maybe we all have power, in our “metaphorical” hearts. Maybe our power is in our dreams, maybe when we’re asleep; we’re living our lives and when we’re in this bondage. This is all fake; I swear to you this is fake. How can a true world dwell in such apathy?

I want to know what’s real; I want to know what truth is. You and I must transcend the bullshit. Fuck wait why am I saying these things, speaking these words? People say I’m good but why do I think I fail? Why do these words come out of my mouth? What if they’ve been said 1000 times before at the exact same time? What if there is fate? What if no matter what you do you can never escape it? Sit there and read this, go out and dance your fate stays the same…I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my own life

I think therefore I am. I am in control because I think I’m in control. I am he as you are he as you are ma and we are all together.

Estoy loco. Te amo.

Random shit hits me and I just have to tell someone. So I told you. And I’m going to keep telling you. I’m going to tell everyone until they listen. Until they understand that there is no fate, there is no right and wrong, there’s choice. There is no good or evil, there is point of view. All that exists, is the life you give to it. Nothing exists without our permission, even our demons.

That’s my word…

© Copyright 2017 Atton Brown. All rights reserved.

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