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Pride Ed
Just call me "Pride." I'm 22 and I live in the desolate state known as Ohio. Writing is my release, reading is my pleasure, music is my forever, and the alcohol just gives me more credibility! I love that fragile, thin line between darkness and light, and my alter ego which I use pretty frequently is no exception. Everything I write is nursed by classical horror, sad plot twists, and a life that is insanely painful one minute, and breathtakingly beautiful the next. I am hated, I am loved. I'm the romantic, and I'm the realist. I sing in metaphors, and play with the matter-of-fact..... Contradictions are lovely, and dreadful.
My favorite writers are Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Baudelaire, H. P. Lovecraft, Rich Logsdon, Rumi, J. P. Dancing Bear, Poppy Z. Brite, Omar Khayyam, and many others.
I'll scream for you in whispers, because I always hated being too loud...
༺ ţђεŕε'ş ά вlùεbιŕđ ιή ๓ץ ђεάŕţ ţħάţ ώάήţş ţσ ģεţ σùţ, вùţ ί'๓ ţσσ ţσùģђ ғσŕ ђί๓. ༻
→ â”±here's not much to be said about a mass of Ï‚lάץ made up of รţάŕđùรţ, but yet one must ask why ςσ๓Îţร fell to the molten surface in the first place to deliver
what was needed to generate liғε, and what are the intricacies of the scientific tapestries that make up the living map we are woven in to.
-- ┱ђε вlσσđץ вlùεbιŕđ.
A untitled poem about last summer...
closed room, all black.
a tinge of brown
still in my eyes
and i like that--
i like that i hate
you.
feels like years.
watery eyed, --
smoked night.
these shotgun brains
in my mouth taste
like your mouth;--
cigarettes, and
fireworks,
and vomit in
the grass.
and i didn't know
i'd hate you.
like the beer in the grass.
mutilated. let down.
force fed my mistakes.
and i still taste
you in my rotting
tongue as i
close the door.
made me bloody.
make you bloody.
my sockets;
the plastic of scar
tissue.
are they still
beautiful? do
they haunt your
hidden one?
do they stretch it
out?
burning holes in my
mouth...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some of the things that pop in my head at 1 in the morning:
-As dark as it may be, that's the trick!
Tame that which tortures you and weave a hauntingly beautiful work of art out of it for others to see and praise you upon. Manifest the tears you cry, the scars under your sleeve, and the demons inside your head into your own design. Make them work for you!
-So you reflected on the time you spent pining for a love unrequited?
I know the feeling all too well. And time is a cruel mistress in herself.
She doesn't care what you're waiting for. She leaves without you regardless, and that makes two things that get away and leave you behind. At the end of the day, even wondering what would have been is time's way of pushing you even further backwards. You are unable to further catch up with her through her onslaught of passage into forever, chained down by longing for something that won't even keep up with such a progression as well.
-Everyone wants a ghost to believe in. Whoever says otherwise must have died before taking their first breath. That's what it means to be alive. Non-believer or not, it comforts everyone to believe that something keeps them safe. Some just know that they have no ghost, and that ghost really don't exist. But we're haunted all the same. Fairytales fall from our heads in the form of tears, and we grow up alone. We become our own ghost, and believing in ourselves is a choice... But what happens if we can no longer see ourselves due to losing something? To failing? To being sapped and wasted by someone else trying to find something real that exists outside themselves? I'm haunted by that. Why? Look beside you. What's there and/or what isn't there should be the answer.
-Heroes don't exists. Martyrs are real, but their causes are already lost. What exactly did they die for then, if not for someone's amusement?
-My whole life is a dark comedy... Fortunately for unfortunate sake.
-I've concluded that there is one legal form of murder with a wealth of witnesses; those bloodless killings committed by wolves in sheep's clothing in the service of largely apathetic humans.
-I have so much more to write about. So few to astonish, and so many to guilt...
-I really wish that when people set out to destroy someone that they would finish the job instead of letting that person suffer from the botched bullshit that they've left them with...
-If the classical hell existed, I'd make it into a tourist attraction. The only true hell that exists is within our own minds, and enough psychiatrist have stepped around in mine!
-Happiness is dead, and I just wanna party!
-I was never truly alive. I was just less dead.
-I wish I hated more. It's a little late for that...
-All of the wisdom and guidance I have for others is of no use to myself any longer.
-Sobriety while facing my own darkness only makes me a proxy of hate; automatic with revenge and void of any other emotion. Drunkenness lets me freely laugh with it as we joke about the insanity I lazily recount in my head. This is the only time I can truly call a monster my friend.
-I've considered rebuilding some bridges, but I'd sooner believe in someone's remorse and forgive them if they were willing to walk on the water to get back to me.
-Revenge to a poet isn't revenge. It's their latest work, eagerly published for the world to see.
-One must know the importance of wearing masks. They not only hide our true motives from others, but they also hide the monster we've become from ourselves.
-I've bitten the hand that feeds me, but never hard enough to draw blood.
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