Byron

One last time:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003059415926

Goodbye LJ! It was pleasant.

Just backing up some older entries....

I've decided that I'll actually be deleting this journal tomorrow, as I have plans to use some of the material in here and don't want it to qualify as already being published. I'm thinking of collecting some of the better entries and just self-publishing it as a collection on Amazon, titled, of course, Ovariancyst. I just have no idea if I can make it cohesive enough or if I should even bother trying to do so. I mainly just want it to be preserved in some way, as I arrogantly believe that some of this stuff is worth saving.

I'm not really good at positive vibes and all that, but I really do have to think you all for giving me an excuse to write for all the years that I've been on here. Sorry I've been so neglectful for the past few, as well as so frustratingly indecisive. Trust me, it annoys me to. If you ever see me in real life, you're welcome to say "hi" or to bunch me in the face; whichever you prefer.

As I mentioned before you can still find me here:

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003059415926&sk=wall

And I'm attempting to pretty much be the same on there as I was on here (minus some of the more gratuitous perversion), I'm just bringing my family and friends along for the ride this time.

Bye and thank you.

My life could've added up to something if I had only held on to the various things that I thought at the time didn't matter. The things I didn't think I needed. The loose change I took for granted. You lose these things in short slips. A gradual slide. A series of dismissive gestures. There is no cataclysmic event to mark their passing. It's a gentle gasp of time. A blink of days. A dream awoken from in tears. Sight and mind are a captive state that you can find no way out of.

I remember catching leaves as they blew off a tree in fall. Rainfall was an invitation to play. As was snow. As was ice. The heat. The cold. There was never a wrong time, never a wrong place. Every moment always contained something for me to make of it. There was always trouble, always problems, fighting, violence, and pain; but there was also this unrelenting resilience. I could cry then wipe the tears quickly and move on to the promise of the next moment. The pain was harsh, sharp, and brutal, but it was a solitary infliction; an isolated incident that ended exactly when it ended.

But at some point in time, pain began to take on a reverb...an echo. Memory took over and made all present senses and perceptions invalid and secondary. People were replaced with ghosts. A filter fell that refracted everything into distorted misinterpretations of a past that no longer exists. I'm responding to things that are no longer happening. Defending myself against threats that are no longer present. My whole life is a delayed reaction. An afterlife in purgatory.

Yes, this is another, very graphic sex poll. Just as before, no one can view your results except me and I am duty bound to never reveal anything. This poll is kinda fucked-up, but my curiosity beats the shit out of netiquette every time. Answer if you like. If you think it's creepy and weird (or stupid), then beware this space, it only gets worse. I intentionally left out any questions about homosexuality or bi-curiosity since I don't think it's appropriate to put those things in these same categories.

While this can include things that you've actually done, the main focus here is what you fantasize about.

Poll #1738080 A test of deviancy
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: None, participants: 12

Check those that you have either done or strongly fantasized about doing.

Check those that you have either done or strongly fantasized about doing.

Check those that you have either done or strongly fantasized about doing.

Check those that you have either done or strongly fantasized about doing.

Anything that I may have left out.

( Read more... )

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

strange little thing
alien mishapen cocoon, housing skin
forming a mystery
like a stalled metamorphosis
semi-larva semi-type
non-entity
shake like a seizure, vomit and foam
the birth of neurosis
wings wet and atrophied, shiny
and new and useless
stammering limp and
wimpering it's way through a maze of razor ambition
competent but snow-blind
ripped and leaking

that hardened skin you left becomes nostalgia
and looks like home

I just cut all the journals that haven't been updated in over a year and it's made me realize how empty LJ has gotten. Kind of a shame, but it is what it is I guess. I'm still hanging around.

I'll be doing the 100 poems in a 100 days challenge given in this community just as a surrogate motive to get my clutter together. They'll be new and revised old ones, so if you're adverse to my bizarre pseudo-poetry, you might want to look away now because it's gonna be a daily basis type of thing. You've been warned.

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(expired.tears are the wound draining, a gap for flooding breeding strange genetics in its electric depth
and living only not for dying and waking to accent memories of sleeping, this giant in slumber knows
only its vulnerable state of repose in weeping, crying out to hunters disguised for keeping, cloaked in
shepherd's robes and upright creeping to the form of strength remissed and heights dwarfed unseeming,
what little hope there is in growth when the exhausted joints lust for bending and the weakened muscles
cease for mending)


resist orders to stand, so sit, never sleep, always in a fleeting state of waking that's never fully realized but
for a day lived in an hours time crunched with speed tight between the minute lines, i think on mind my own
is crazy, i think on task my own is jade and staid captive in the reigns and pulling you wherever you will
have me, where i am lost as long as you are found, and i will return whatever you have lost in the process
of finding your self. my bones are for picking, a feast of carrion freshest rot for reaping, sowing new crop
for wasting, i am all chaff in you for burning, this little wild is your eager hopeful slave. i think on you you're
a hunter disguised for keeping, cloaked in shepherd's robes and righteous words i'm eager for believing.
i think on escape my tired joints lust for bending, collapse for the sake of safety and living only not for
dying, keep me awake even if for only the pain of your consuming the tender parts of me for which your hunger
tastes. a monster of love starved ponderings and taunting absent touches near missing upon intent for the cause
of longing, what is there wrong when the victim is consenting, yet i fear on we the us is gone,