On the cusp

Im about to begin a project that will create revenue. An endeavour of my creativity. But my fear of failure and fear of success are killing me.
It's been hindering me for a few days now that all the obstacles have been overcome... THAT, those last 4 weeks of obstacles to beginning this project, has been a thorn in not only my side, but my self-esteem, as well.
I'm full of anxiety.
I am supressing the urge to smoke a joint. It will slow me down. My thoughts will be jumbled.
I am supressing the urge to take my anxiety meds. It will also slow me down and I will sleep for hours, wasting precious time.
It is 2:41 in the afternoon. Everything is set up.
Ovrlock sewing machine and the table it is on all set up with implements necessary. Cutting table. Fabric. All sewing utinsels, ready and waiting. Ironing board and iron.
I am missing from the picture.
I needed to share what I'm feeling. This is the only place I can share it. The only place.
Thank god I did.
Off I go.


Going over and over why these tears seep out from my every pore. My skin is slick with grief I cannot shake away. There is not a sponge large enough to absorb the puddles of my twisted sorrow. Where have the days gone, flying by so fast like sideways rain penetrating my tattered flesh . This is life this is real this is me tumbling out of my mind and settling against ragged despair. Trying to stand slipping in puddles of weary thoughts. If I could squeeze the moisture from my water logged mind, the remnants that remain would tell the story of half fish half woman whole jumbled disaster, flipping and flopping on the jagged shore of a glass beach that holds the broken hope of ever being set free from the choking drowning of unwise dreams.

(no subject)

In a transient heart kiss
I fly with you
to always fall
in flames
do I take to the sea
let it enfold me in liquid solace
when you go away from me?

or stick to the warm earth
that holds me steady
and comforts me like a blanket
on a cold night?

my questing soul
falls deeper and shallower
every time
I want more and less
and know better
than it all
because...I don't really have wings
and sometimes the sky is empty
and the ocean can be cold
and the earth can be hard and unyielding
but flying feels like touching the infinite
swimming feels like ease
and the earth feels like home
even if it's only for a moment.
  • wymmwh

My Good Old Friend

Originally posted by wymmwh at My Good Old Friend
She was 83 when I met her, and soon Vera Nikolaevna became my best friend. I was 12 but the big age difference was not an obstacle for us. Vera was my English teacher. She was born in 1906 – the very beginning of 20th century. She had a twin-sister Mary. Both women had white hair and looked alike. When they were talking, they liked to speak French and then switch to German or English. I still wonder how they survived the 1917 revolution when almost all cultural and noble Russians had been murdered or sent off.
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  • wymmwh

Hello everyone!

Hi! My name is Denis. I write short stories and would like to exchange with other authors. I am not a native English speaker but I do my best to find proper words, to express my emotions and create something, which could touch.
I will be happy to meet new friends and yes - critics as well.
Have a nice day (or night)!
  • nnylrac

(no subject)

conceived perceived and received
my broken finger harp
sings sad songs
of edited memories
feeling the deletion
of every brittle bone of hope
that who I was
and who we all are
meant something more
once upon a time fascinating
now just fading
worn to nothing by the wind.

Turn The Pain Into Something Sweet

Writing letters I'll never send
Trying to turn the pain into something sweet
But you wouldn't get it, never got me
My meant to be, wasn't meant to be.

Pen a line then cross it out
A Rubik's cube mind of jumbled up thoughts
Paint the sky a Starry Starry Night
Do you see what I see?
I held onto hope, but you let it go.

I want to apologise, but I'm not sorry
I was nothing but a joke, a game, a fool
Here I am, a fucking cliche
A guitar in hand and an atrocious song.

But here's the heart-on-sleeve honesty
I want it all back
The horrible misery and heartache
The angry silence and yelling in the street
I don't care.
I just want it back.
  • nnylrac


I thought you were the phoenix the shaman, the almost god.
But that's what I was supposed to think, wasn't it? All too human you are.
But, you do have a kind of magic.
I met you and knew I was going to feel...something. Powerful.
And you sensed it too.
What I didn't know was that it isn't me you wanted or were falling for.
It's the audience, the adoration, the attention. You feed off of it.
So you create your illusions for an already willing audience.
I set up barriers, flimsy ones. Which you knocked down.
I suppose I wanted you to. But that's part of it.
Once you have what you want, once it's easy, you don't want it anymore.
I suppose most of us are like that.
And you haven't really shared anything with me but the show.
To this day I don't know what you feel about me, except maybe ambivalent.
What's weird is I know so many of your flaws and incompatabilities and I still want you, still think about you.
Even though I know I shouldn't.
I can't seem to help it.
And you said so many things, with a passion that caught my heart.
"you're at the forefront of my mind, most days"
"I heard this song on the radio and it made me think of you"
the look in your eyes when you wanted to jump at me from across the yard when I was leaving, but couldn't because we had an audience.
All because in that moment, for a second, I was denying and defying you, and us, fighting it and ready to fight you.
Such fire. I wanted it. I want it.
But for the most part, it's gone. Unless I find a way to provoke you again.
None of this should have been in or still on my mind.
But it still is. One day I might just be able to let it go.
Until then, you are both the fire that burns and the wind that feeds the flame of all the things that are left in my soul for you.
They turn to ash and return to be burned again.