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4 March 2009

All these things

All these simple things Are brought to bare Upon my mind

I shall sing in dispair Of all thats gone never again

All the dreams I knew fading fast way to soon

Screaming out these words that no one hears Lost inside

Reaching for you minds To show you wounds too deep inside

I am weak from this Asking for help you never hear

Pleding with myself for freedom freedom

Fear

5 July 2007

Not a Proper Job

My Marternal Unit communicated with me via the talking bone and thus she informed me that my poem was crap becuase it did not rhyme – infact that it was no poem at all. Then she went on to demand to know the break down of our financies – I wouldn’t mind if it was too lend me money to sort things out but no it is just too tell me I must have made a mistake and she’ll redo all the calculations.

Then to my new job/contract/comission (not sure what to call it), she started off umming and ahhing about it and then she asks how much I am getting. I find myself explaining royalties and that I wanted them rather than a flate rate but her response to this?

‘Well if you are not getting paid properlly its not a proper job is it.’

Not a proper job? Oh yes thats right anything I do that is creative is a waste of time – so sorry I forgot that there for just a minute and I thought I might actually be able to scrape back my life. Well at least she can not hide my paints anymore or ban papier mache or the such like anymore.

I am wasting my time according to her – my websites, my writing, my drawing my music all of it, no purhapse I can not save humanity in the same way as the scientist in me could – but I CAN’T Do that stuff at the moment so what is the point of freting about it, should I langish away doing nothing at all becuase I can not be a top scientist??

Or should I be out crippling myself furthure doing jobs the dr has said will make things worse? I’ve found something that I can do – mostly at the home with the Lady and King and it is fun and I am mixing art and technology even if it is just that arty people are scared of Geeks and feel more at ease telling me what they want from the technology – functional and pretty rather than one or the other which is all they’ve found previously!

But why do I have to be striving towards a greater agender – why do I need to think of everything I do in terms of success? Her critasism is on par with the Ancestor who tells me my paintings for the Lady are inaccurate – jelly fish are not white they are transparent and what is all this nonsence with faces and glasses on crabs?

FUCK OFF!

I hide my pictures from the world firstly thinking they were something to be ashamed off as they are a waste of time and then thinking they were no good but things have changed – I need to paint and draw and make things and I sent letters rich in doodles to the Shining Light whilst she was sick and when I later went to her grave her mother and father made me feel like those pictures had help and they said they were good and so with the Kings help and the Talking Therapist I have been exploring this repressed side of myself with suprising results.

My mother once said to me – ‘why bother doing what you’re naturally good at – there is no challenge and it is a waste of time you will just get lazy.’

I am so angry now when I think of this and I marvel slightly that my Father still persavered and regullay bought me paints and paint brushes and ignored the fact that I was making papier mache mountains and volcanoes at night under my bed.

I had a chance to go to art college – I gave it up to become a scientist and I still want to be that scientist but I am the artist too – how dare she say that it is not a proper job – if I get money for it and put time in then it is a job and as for her accusation that the websites are just me imitating the King – I can only say that he is not a web designer he is a programmer but she has no concept of the difference nor does she comprehend that I am trying to bring in income too.

I wish they would leave me alone – last time I was painting lots the Walking Skeleton a.k.a the Ancestor let herself and the cats in and proceeded to walk over all the pictures I had drying on the floor and I heared her knocking and I explained that there were pictures drying on the floor – but what I do what I creat or accumplish is yet again as nothing in the eyes of these Haridens.

I am so fed up.

3 July 2007

Angsty Poetry

I have been wondering looking back in old diaries why it was that though I have been self harming since a stupidly young age that there are periods of greater destrustion that doesn’t seem emensly linked to how stressed or low I am feeling.

As a teeneger I was writing poems continuosly, a couple a day and lots of whiny diary entries but then my mother tried to get hold of it to read and that release of emotional prressure was suddenly blocked and so the self harm frequency begain to rise. The same happened with a room mate at University and the invasion of my personal space, all be it creative, was intolerable and so I stopped writing and drawing – especially as the demands of my course rose to consume all energy and effort.

I begain to look back on what I’d written and see it as pathetic teenage angst, dark and brooding and depressing and descided that it wasn’t for me. My mother had found some of the poems and just refered to them as too depressing rubbish and so I thought they were no good.

But the poems are good – they probably are bad poems and depressing and whiny and dark broody gothic; but as I write them once more I find the process almost akin to self harm, I can express the pain, the longing, the confusion – there on a page or screen and it is suddenly real. I can shift things around, make it better or delete it and this is like seeing the pain made physical in my self infliction.

Therefore the sensible course of action I feel has been to write the angsty poetry and though I think of it as so much bildge rot, it is expression and I don’t particually care how good it is – besides if I keep going I’m bound to find I’ve writen something worth while – well maybe.

6 June 2007

The Process

Slash burn rip tear All this not to care

Shame hate lost scared emotions twisted bared

numb sick cold shock turn the key in the lock

Potions lotions pills creams writhing pain slumbring dreams?

Shout cry moan plead how can I ignore his need?

Hug kiss slience freed passion bandaged emotions keyed

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