Picture this, you have no fantasy or science fiction knowledge. No pop culture point of reference and barley able to grasp the concept. Then you wander into a clock, exiting a doorway to another world. Thats how my brain handles positive thought. Its alien, its vaguely scary but also exciting. New, something you, against better judgment want to wonder into blind and unprepared. There are consequences here, You know this and still go forth. Strange and utterly unexplored But there it is infront of you, reality is behind you through a doorway you know is illogical. What do you do?
Covid 19 @ 3 A.M (sad song) Saturday, Mar 28 2020
life is a jumbled poem and the late night write can't sleep, covid 19, drunkiegail, I cant sleep, insomnia, poem, rambling, sad song 7:07 am
I want to sing but there’s another part
& no one’s here to sing it
I want to know it’s going to be okay
& even though I know it is
i still want you to be here to say it
who is the you?
the one to hold me at night
the one to tell me it’s okay to close your eyes
Is it okay?
I never thought this would be the thought that kept me up at night
The worry I had about what would end it all was never this idea
Never this morose reality
Nore the probable future
I thought that it would be fire and demons
I thought that it would be the loneliness and self-destruction
but never had i thought it would be this
how did we get here?
&why did no-one listen
What flawed creatures
what power did we exude to manifest the exact thing we deserved
& oh how we could have changed it
but here we are
& I told you so’s will not fill the bellies of the crying and hungry
who will read the novels
& who will listen to the podcasts
& who will look upon the art
For all the art to be born because of our isolation
because of the last days of the now we know
Who cares if I was right
if there is no one’s here to learn the lesson There’s no toilet paper now but there might be no food tomorrow
hungry people make large mistakes
we were so worried
& i can’t sleep and it’s almost 3 a.m.
I want to sing but no one’s here to sing the second part
& this was definitely a sad song.
my Corona Saturday, Mar 21 2020
the late night write 7:15 am
I just want to see my sister
I just want to tell my brother that I love him
not in front of his friends
not in a loud bar
but one-on-one
I want him to look into my eyes and know I mean it
I want Alice to know I wasn’t being impulsive
I don’t want her to be mad that I wrote her name
That’s not my name Abby
I’m sorry
I’m sorry for so many things
I hammered up picture frames of new memories
My memories
I took out my mom’s shots and replaced them with mine
The irony of the diagnosis doesn’t Escape me
I just wish I tried harder
I wish I did more to be remembered
No it’s not even that
I wish I wasn’t so fucking lazy
I wish I wrote more of the good shit that I thought of well it was good
Instead I’m stuck writing stuff second hand
Past the inspiration is long gone
Whatever
if I die I did my best even if it wasn’t strictly my best
Good night and good bye.
Demon Saturday, Feb 29 2020
life is a jumbled poem and men suck and the late night write break ups, couples, drunkiegail, emotions, fighting, insomnia, life, men, men suck, poem, poetry, rage, rant, short creative writing, short except of my life, struggling, wine, writting 5:20 am
Your words in my head are still ringing
you called me a demon
but I’m still Feenin
for those hands
those arms that hug
simultaneously Crushing My Heart
You tore us apart
It wasn’t the drink
It was the emptiness
Not in a cup
but all of your love
A box with nothing inside
I may be the demon
But at least I dont hide
My sharper parts
They were on my head from the get go
You just didn’t wanna see them
You wanted to grind them down
So I fit neatly into that empty box
Well I am a demon
I’ll be the night
I’ll scare the good girls
And bite the hand that feeds
I’ll be be me
And to that I’ll raise a glass
To the nightmares I hope you’re having too
you made the choice
now you have to see this through
you were the one that left me
and with clawed hands I’ll be the demon writing poetry
Music, mist, and a long commute. Wednesday, Feb 26 2020
life is a jumbled poem and storys city style, emotions, in the moment writting, life, misty whether, music, mycity, nostalgia, passing thoughts, poem, poems, sad, short creative writing, short except of my life, songs, storys, struggling, subway, writting 4:52 pm
Its raining in Brooklyn and I’m walking to the train
It’s not heavy rain
It’s the kind of mist you dont feel until it rolls down your cheek
I’m listening to an old playlist
Sometimes you need the music of you’re youth
For me that was a wide range
Some of it I’d already missed but non the less were playing just as loud and often in my road trip of life
I watch my train leave me behind on its elevated track
I skip All American rejects
Swing swing is too upbeat for someone now late for work
As the sounds of a strumming guitar starts I consider skipping again
But I cant do that to stevie
My mom loved Stevie Nicks
And I over many house cleaning jams outs
And viewings of practical magic with her and my sister
I learned of her musics soothing and emotion invoking power
As if you ever did belive comes to a close
I swipe my metro and begin my decent into the subway station
Stevie leaves my ears and my hood falls from my head
I wipe the mist from my glasses
As I do this I realize I’ve been crying
I’m still crying
I didn’t even notice
a short Jewish woman is looking at me
the next train isnt comming for 7 minutes
And I’m not sure why I’m crying but now that my brain is aware my body is holding nothing back
I’m sobbing in ernest and it isnt quiet
It’s that hiccuping cry like all my sobs were late to the party and are now trampling over each other to get out first
I’m about to give in and be that outwardly emotional rider makeing everyone’s commute uncomfortable when faith hill comes on
This kiss in all its upbeat glory is blasting goofy nostalgic memories into my head and now not only am I crying
I’m crying while laughing
I’ve good from emotional to borderline villainy in the eyes of the my fellow commuters on the platform
This is going to be a long ride
Tell me The story Tuesday, Feb 25 2020
life is a jumbled poem and men suck alchohol abuse, blackout, break ups, consequences, couples, drunk, emotions, fallout, fights, forgotten storms, fuck you, I'm scared, lessions, life, lost nights, love, men suck, numb, poetry, short except of my life, storys 9:06 pm
Bitch
Fucking bitch
Fuck you bitch
Ok now that it’s out in the air can you please tell me about last night
Could we start at the beginning
Before the part where you broke the door
Before the part where I broke the rig
I know we hugged
I know you held me
But then I lose the middle bits
I drank the dregs and lost the best part
I know you hate me today but you were the only one there last night
Only you know the answer to my questions so please stop screaming
I’ll be the villain but I need to know the story
Please tell me me the story
There has to be more to the story
Two wolves Thursday, Feb 6 2020
life is a jumbled poem and men suck anger, communication, emotions, fighting, fights, fuck you, happy endings, love, men suck, symbolism, wolves 1:16 am
Fuck you, and fuck me. Neither of us deserve sympathy. biting and thrashing at each other so viciously like Romulus and Remus only one can lead they say there are two wolves inside of all of us. One dark and one light. The fattest can win the fight but what if they’re both starving? What if all the feelings were too hard to feel and the wall there behind too thick to knock down? Are we then more wolf than person? More animal than human? what happens When we cannot feel empathy. When we cannot be happy. We spent so long trying to make this an impenetrable Fort and all we made was a prison. The guards have forgot to feed us. We are starving And the first one to fit through the bars with leave the other faster than they could blink. But until then it’s dark and it’s lonely And it helps to have someone laying next to you at night. If we could just take a breath and stop this fight, maybe we could find a way. Where to I’m not sure anymore, but there has to be something else. Happy Endings can’t just be in books. The inspiration had to come from somewhere. All I know is it’s not here.
He told me to write it down Sunday, Feb 2 2020
life is a jumbled poem anger, communication, in the moment writting, lessions, life, mental helth, rants, sad, short except of my life, trust issues 11:23 pm
Some people have a really hard time talking about their REAL feeling. it’s easy to blame work or stress or just go right to I’m fine but it can feel like pulling your tooth out to say words describing what you have been so fervently pushing down. It takes a rare circumstance. when you are with the right person and it’s that time. when you either can’t hold in anymore or a leak as sprong forth from your lips. that heavy and precious truth is hard for some to release and devastating when weaponized. these things can make wild animals of us, backed into a corner hurt and ready to sever any hand that would dare to reach out for us. this may sound poetic but I write best when sad or angry and right now I am both. this is not a poem it is a valuable lesson that friends, family, and lovers need to know when trying to communicate important issues with those in their life with trust issues, the ones who cant raise as easily from their beds and say all too often I’m fine to the ones who cared enough for them to ask. words have power, keep them, and use them with care.
-Asl
4 years later & late at night Thursday, Jan 30 2020
life is a jumbled poem and the late night write death, dunkiegail, emo, insomnia, loss, memorys, morning, mushroom man, mushroom man and baby bird, poetry, raymond, sadness, struggling, the late night write, writting 6:17 am
Sometimes I think about him and I miss him so much that it hurts
and in my pain I think I’m selfish for wanting one more conversation by the river
he doesn’t even need to hold me or touch me I just want to talk to him
one more time to toast with him and talk about the universe
To scold him for some of his opinions and then listen to all of his opinions
morning is so hard sometimesI feel like it can never end
I envy the people who go through all of the Motions all at once when they lose someone
I feel like I’ve locked so many things away that all the important things are in the back
there’s no way to get to them
but sometimes the light hits them just right and there they are looking back at me demanding that they are as important as they are and that I acknowledge them
just like that there’s a crack in the bucket
there’s a leak and before I can patch it it’s spilling all over the floor
but I always managed to seal it up
for a brief moment I had to be there and I have to write
it’s the only way to stay functional it’s my only Outlet
even though I once thought I was good at it regardless of if I am currently
its part of me
it’s all the notebooks under my bed
it’s all the regretful things that I wrote down
it’s morning it’s all of it
it’s me and i really miss him sometimes.
the writing desk 