A Little History of Inner Violence

A few pieces about the twisted mind of eating disorders

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It pulls my head by my hair
lacing the chair's heartless back
forcing vile substances into a system in denial
my body says no,
begs to purge the awful liquids and monsters
monsters that crawl down my esophagus
and into my stomach
monsters that churn the acid into a boiling rain
and monsters that burrow on my bones
hiding their sweet faces from sunlight and cold.

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Logic does not exist here
Logic is twisted into tangled puzzles
that fuck with my mind and bury the roots
of my subconscious in poisoned soil
Logic was stripped naked and beaten to dust
then swept away into a porcelain sink
Logic, don't skip fuel
Mind, never allow it
Logic, destruction
Mind, good.

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Whether I run a mile or a Kilo meter,
it is the same
burning energy through wheezy tunnels
neglected tunnels
airy tunnels
turn over a Stone
you'll find me
the real me
the me that hides behind sweat(s) and memories
what weighs more, a pound of butter
or a pound a feathers?
Neither
a Pound of fat.
Numbers
Ideas
Wishes
Wants
Times
Memories
Pains
Purges
Tired
... tired.

Gone.

Memory

Listen to that purity and passion. This will literally bring tears to the eyes of most. A beautiful, moving song to begin with, and Mirusia just adds to the majestic nature of the piece. This is exactly how I feel today as well! I will be writing about this later. Enjoy! Mirusia, you are inspirational and amazing in every way.

Insomnia

3:20 am

As the doors of suburbian garage doors close, the eye lids of their owners slip and shut.
I wish my own eyelashes would meld together, and my irises hide from an unknown night.
But my time is the night.
The day is long, hectic and the sun burns into blue ethnic visionary pools.
Dark glass covers my pain and white liquid sprawls across scarlet skin.
But when the moon calls, my mind is alert, fiery, full of ideas, questions, wonders, thoughts, pains, sufferings, lust and joy.
As soon as the first leaf blocks a ray of sunlight, there is a special moment I cannot begin to describe.
Dusk settles and there is a scented wind that twirls my tendrils with sensual fingers. The hazy color of the sky dips into black ink and I am finally myself. Awake when all others sleep, alone when others find love, afraid when others at peace. But night calls, and I must obey for it be a stern master.

Welcome to Brigham Young University

Well I just started college at Brigham Young University in Provo, UT. It's a great school with a beautiful campus. However, I just haven't quite felt like I fit in anywhere just yet. No one really understands my odd sense of humor and immense amounts of sarcasm. No one dances like I do, or acts mildly insane like I do. I also found out someone I love very much would no longer be a part of my life by choice. So needless to say, it's been a hard beginning of college. But all college beginnings are hard, I must figure it out in my own way I suppose. So I decided to start writing again. Feel free to read my old stuff, mind the language, I censored nothing. Those were all written out of emotion or lack thereof and are therefore exactly how I was feeling at the time. I hope to continue this tradition in future posts. Honesty more eloquently, j.e.hinds

The Artists Hands

Fists cracking,
the first time their hideous faces noticed,
Canyons and crevices
stretch their ways
across massive knuckles,
Wide palms thick with gritty callouses,
Lines of leathered abuse
climb from wrist to tip,
those tips yellowed and beaten by steel strings.
Bulging edges,
ligaments spilling over hulking bones.
Oven hot scratches
just beginning to heal,
Her grace tore those feminine hands to pieces.
On the back of a steed she powers through,
beauty in it's purest form.
Yet when the gloves come off,
there is nothing left
but ugly, tortured,
cracked, dry, raw,
bony hands.

Rust and Relaxation

Maine roads salt her yellowing paint,

black blades try to scrub the windows 

with rhythmic, lullaby mouse squeaks.

The scent of gasoline buries itself in the exposed stuffing,

and the old radio tells stories about fishing in kneeless jeans.

Rust peels off onto calloused fingers.

The door cranks shut,

and she rumbles her way down dirt roads.

Disclaimer: Whoa mama language

A poem written for that girl, the one everybody talks about, but no one understands, or takes the time to listen to. *Disclaimer - does contain some language*

I am the girl
who can dip my face low,
and yet somehow silence an
entire hall way.

I am the girl
people snicker at,
the girl people
talk about,
the girl you all dream about,
but wouldn't admit
because it'd give you STD's of the mind.
because I'm promiscuous.
Dangerous.
"Rebellious"

But the truth is,
I'm no different than any other girl,
I'm no better or worse.
People call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar
Why can't I be a person?

People do everything I do,
I just got snatched.
Suddenly,
it's me they're talking about
it's me,
they think is keeping every mans bed
sweet
and warm.

Rumors, they turn a girl into that girl.
They turned me into
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They're just lying to themselves.
And after I'm done,
I just won't give a shit anymore.

They crack down on my honor,
on my ability to control myself.
Tell me,
look me straight in the eye,
and call me those names you wouldn't dare speak,
call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They bounce off me like pebbles on a mountain.
I'll only prove you wrong.
And there's nothing you can do about it.