Tag Archives: art

Y (oct.)

— to others, nothing
but an empty vase
waiting
to be filled
with sorrows and
worries, when albeit
i am already brimming

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(untitled)

Your words,
spreading like wildfire,
set each fibre aflame.
The smoke,
engulfing my insides,
is suffocating me with shame.


Do not.

BPD is killing me.
Once again,
[Don’t touch me.]
rage, so violent
[Don’t come close to me.]
hatred, seething through these veins
[Don’t talk to me.]
bitterness, too venomous to ignore
[Don’t be here.]
are running through my pores, sticking to my skin –
[Don’t touch me. Don’t come close. Don’t talk. Don’t be.]
leaving a trail of
fire
[Don’t.]
behind. If only tearing
my body apart,
[Don’t.]
exposing these insides
[Don’t.]
helped for more than mere minutes.
[Don’t.]
Yet these minutes
[Don’t.]
are keeping me alive.
[Leave.]


C(over)ed in paint

I shared the following already on my art-related instagram (@ notebooksofarts, my personal one being @ othertypist) as well as on my tumblr, however, I feel like it actually also belongs on this blog. Especially because it’s been awhile since I shared anything on here.

Tried painting again, but it didn’t work out. Instead I spent my time stuck in my head, now left with a hand covered in paint and a mind messier than before. So I’ll just share some of my current thoughts:

when I say that living with mental illnesses is a challenge, I’m obviously understating the circumstances. Each step is pure exhaustion, there are days when I can’t get out of bed, when I feel like something is pulling me down (down, down, down — six feet under.) From one moment to the other, it’s impossible to breathe; in the next it’s like I am no longer here. Living with those demons is painful. Right now, I can’t even find the right words to describe them in a way that would satisfy me, but I know that, unfortunately, there are many who know what it’s like. Currently, my BPD is acting up the most, leaving my mood, myself – me – torn apart into pieces. When I’m stuck feeling like this, it’s like my skin got burnt all over, each touch is painful, each slight caress too much. I wish there was a way to really explain what it’s like, to make others understand that there are too many days when I fear people being near me, while at the same time needing them to be there. Days when I am nothing but a fire breathing dragon asking to be held, and above all, days when I have no idea who I actually am.


(c:overed)

Bruises
coloured in black and blue,
this body is no longer
a piece of art. The frame
ought to be burnt,
too broken
to be fixed.


Follow @othertypist.


I pretty much only rely on myself and my writing and art. It‘s all I have and hopefully one day I‘ll either find peace within written words and layers of paint or be dead and gone so I won‘t have to care anymore.