I thank you kindly for following the dribble that slips from my mind and out of my fingertips. I am seriously pursuing a writing career at this point with all the fear, nausea, hope and gaiety that goes along with it. Part of this step is that I am moving my blog to a tumblr account and giving it a go. I would be both honored and humbled if you would like to follow me on. The start is just some of my musings from here that I transferred but it will take life soon. The new account is
http://my-literary-bulimia.tumblr.com/
Much love and improper snuggling!
Eleanor Flynn
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
You are not me. Although I have not an inkling of what exactly I am, I know for certain it could never be you. You hold riots in closets. Shout out at shadows and clearly I have no time for any of that. You stagger into battle while I have never had the fight in me. I look through it all, absorbing fragments, filigrees of the world. Halcyon dreams taunt and fulfil me. You see only surfaces, creating jagged points of smooth situations. It baffles me. It weakens me and I can no longer carry us both. Collapsing, suffocating, I can no longer play the game that over the years has so cruelly played me. My foundation has suffered and you refuse to acknowledge the cracks.
Where we have been and what you have become fails to hold me fast. I held out, clenching to memories and loyalties that evaporated long ago. All it would take is one smile, one honest laugh, but you have none left in you. I look into lifeless eyes and have prayed for a resurrection but that was always the child in me. Clasping hands with lowered head searching for blind salvation I knew would never come. My sacred breath in whispered pleas float, washing away any sign that you had ever been. Nimble fingers picking at asphodels avoiding images that were all fancy to begin with. This is where I remain, sniffing at death, breathing in wisps of life, fortifying my road with words slipping from my veins like trails of inky epiphanies.
We are past our prime and I can not allow you to lead me out to die. I have struggled to be what I am just as I struggle to figure out what that is, but I am grateful it is not you.
Cos trains don't stop your soul, they break your heart...
and I have not the smallest thing to give them
Where we have been and what you have become fails to hold me fast. I held out, clenching to memories and loyalties that evaporated long ago. All it would take is one smile, one honest laugh, but you have none left in you. I look into lifeless eyes and have prayed for a resurrection but that was always the child in me. Clasping hands with lowered head searching for blind salvation I knew would never come. My sacred breath in whispered pleas float, washing away any sign that you had ever been. Nimble fingers picking at asphodels avoiding images that were all fancy to begin with. This is where I remain, sniffing at death, breathing in wisps of life, fortifying my road with words slipping from my veins like trails of inky epiphanies.
We are past our prime and I can not allow you to lead me out to die. I have struggled to be what I am just as I struggle to figure out what that is, but I am grateful it is not you.
and I have not the smallest thing to give them
Monday, February 11, 2013
The words are things that come to me. Fill me up, weigh me down, destroy my mind, seduce me, and reduce me to a mere shadow. They stroll through my thoughts, ravage my dreams, and deter my sleep to no end. They are concrete dragging me down, buried. They are sounds, delicately shaped on lying lips. Whole verses of flighty heroic poetry. They are my salvation and my sacrifice. I give them out, give them away until I fear they will one day leave me altogether. I bear them, beguiled and bewildered. Always awed by their fragile consistency, their staggering duplicity. They taunt me, call me out in my failure to mount them properly on the blank page. Still for all the fault I could so easily saddle them with, they are all that I am. Wit without words, songs without syllables are not splendid things. All that is left to me is to take them in, roll them about my soul and be grateful. Grateful as I purge them from my being, cleansing my meandering mind, making me whiter than snow. I can only hold onto the whimsical fancy that they will never forsake me. That my fingers will cease to move before they simple regurgitate inelegant babble.
Friday, January 18, 2013
All the time and inbetween,
the stolen glances,
things unseen.
The time it ticks on forgotten clocks,
stealing moments,
broken thoughts.
Transient,
devout,
clinging,
wrapped in in yards of doubt.
Dry wondering countance,
words ringing out.
Falling now from nimble limbs,
down on paper,
the things I've been.
Ever swerving,
changing shape,
lacking form,
and soulful gait.
My darling, dearest, charming one,
with trembling fingers,
weakened knees,
thoughtful presence,
and desperate needs.
Open arms,
tolerant embrace,
tumbling down with lofty Grace.
Fragile,
sanguine,
woeful eyes,
behind which my shattered spirit hides.
Longing,
hopeful,
for some reprise,
daft and wistful,
eager sighs.
Oh the things a kiss provides...
the stolen glances,
things unseen.
The time it ticks on forgotten clocks,
stealing moments,
broken thoughts.
Transient,
devout,
clinging,
wrapped in in yards of doubt.
Dry wondering countance,
words ringing out.
Falling now from nimble limbs,
down on paper,
the things I've been.
Ever swerving,
changing shape,
lacking form,
and soulful gait.
My darling, dearest, charming one,
with trembling fingers,
weakened knees,
thoughtful presence,
and desperate needs.
Open arms,
tolerant embrace,
tumbling down with lofty Grace.
Fragile,
sanguine,
woeful eyes,
behind which my shattered spirit hides.
Longing,
hopeful,
for some reprise,
daft and wistful,
eager sighs.
Oh the things a kiss provides...
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The State of Me
The state of me...
Washed,lost in transit.
Clinging to the thing that stabilizes me,
the thing I can no longer identify in the dark.
It ebbs and flows just out of reach,
but then again how far am I truly extending my grasp?
This I can not say.
I have been transposed so many times I feel transparent.
The inky shadows call to me,
as they always have.
Shout out my name in the dreams I wish I were having,
but alas I have nothing.
The air it fills me by words that fall from my fingers.
How else do I truly know of my own existence?
The words make me real,
make me feel,
and without them I am nothing.
Shapeless,
baseless,
crude and abandoned.
Do not misconstrue my thoughts as bland mocking misery.
I pray you don't read to deeply into me,
too deeply into a thing that the surface would easily tell all.
Give you the just of me,
the state of all I ever long to be.
I don't dabble in sadness,
nor taunt the roads of woe,
I see the world through sanguine eyes,
bleary red,
pragmatically innocent,
and devoid of staple perversions.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Greatness?
William Shakespeare wrote, "Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them." The other pale, shadow lurking group that he neglected to touch upon is the one that hikes up their dainty skirts (or their becoming set of short pants, in my mind it's always short pants) and run at the first sign of greatness. This is the rather scant questionable section that I mingle with. That is if we weren't so bloody busy being terrified and actually took a bit of time aside to congregate. By congregate I truly imply sitting, rocking in a manic fashion, stroking one anothers' idiosyncrasies and boundless excuses draped in twisted reason.
It seems that I am a class A runner. I've done it before and assume with my tarnished track record there is most definitely another sprint left in me. I can't actually explain why. I am not so afraid of failing. My turbulent life was been riddled with failure, days hardly pass without being heavily steeped in that reality. I have drank my fill of failure and wonder if my mind is able to process much else. That is not to say my life is without loveliness or merit. I believe in day dreams and I eternally long for rainbows, although in muted shades of grey and brilliant splashes of scarlet, lay off it is my rainbow after all go pollute your own mental dalliances with indigo and yellow. That being said, running from succees has never held me back, simply safely to the side. I forage through that hardly able to digest much else. Hardly having seen otherwise in my youth to ever notice the dysfunction in it.
No, I can not say that it is the fear of failing that holds be back or forces me ahead at break neck speeds blurring my mind to stay the trembling, neurotic panic of my body. If I had to face it down. Stare eye to eye with what chokes my soul and numbs me it would have to be actual greatness. Success. Now this is a beast that I can not define. I can't describe, title or blanket it in delicate words to explain its origin or effect. The concept rocks my core, suffocates me. Why? I suppose when one is so constructed of such fragile mettle, balancing on all that can be reasoned, expected, and tolerated it becomes a feat to feast on something new. How will the ideas fit into my brain? What will become of the words that I cling to, the hurt I use as sustenance? Who would I be if I ever became somebody? Would the shadows that I find comfort in lose their appeal? How would my rainbow look if they greys slipped away, would I even recognize it? What would become of all the indelicate tiny fragments that I am comprised of?
Although I despise my own reflection, I am certain of who that jaded little bit of flesh is that peers back at me. I know what hides behind the green eyes and the pallid skin. I understand the uneven beating of her heart and the great discipline it has taken for her to preserve ever minuscule stitch that holds it together. What if i fall into this unknown abyss perceived as "greatness" will I make it to the other side whole and unscathed? Would I want to? This my friends is a thing to truly be terrified by.
It seems that I am a class A runner. I've done it before and assume with my tarnished track record there is most definitely another sprint left in me. I can't actually explain why. I am not so afraid of failing. My turbulent life was been riddled with failure, days hardly pass without being heavily steeped in that reality. I have drank my fill of failure and wonder if my mind is able to process much else. That is not to say my life is without loveliness or merit. I believe in day dreams and I eternally long for rainbows, although in muted shades of grey and brilliant splashes of scarlet, lay off it is my rainbow after all go pollute your own mental dalliances with indigo and yellow. That being said, running from succees has never held me back, simply safely to the side. I forage through that hardly able to digest much else. Hardly having seen otherwise in my youth to ever notice the dysfunction in it.
No, I can not say that it is the fear of failing that holds be back or forces me ahead at break neck speeds blurring my mind to stay the trembling, neurotic panic of my body. If I had to face it down. Stare eye to eye with what chokes my soul and numbs me it would have to be actual greatness. Success. Now this is a beast that I can not define. I can't describe, title or blanket it in delicate words to explain its origin or effect. The concept rocks my core, suffocates me. Why? I suppose when one is so constructed of such fragile mettle, balancing on all that can be reasoned, expected, and tolerated it becomes a feat to feast on something new. How will the ideas fit into my brain? What will become of the words that I cling to, the hurt I use as sustenance? Who would I be if I ever became somebody? Would the shadows that I find comfort in lose their appeal? How would my rainbow look if they greys slipped away, would I even recognize it? What would become of all the indelicate tiny fragments that I am comprised of?
Although I despise my own reflection, I am certain of who that jaded little bit of flesh is that peers back at me. I know what hides behind the green eyes and the pallid skin. I understand the uneven beating of her heart and the great discipline it has taken for her to preserve ever minuscule stitch that holds it together. What if i fall into this unknown abyss perceived as "greatness" will I make it to the other side whole and unscathed? Would I want to? This my friends is a thing to truly be terrified by.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
stablization
As I look at my small red clad feet I feel the world shift under me. This is not a new thing, this is my thing. I have always questioned the foundation for which I was set. The ground has always been riddled and rocky, and I balanced, spinning like a top, spinning like my thoughts. I wonder of what substance I am made of since it is not a stable substance. Closing my eyes I can see myself flow like liquid, fitting in the cracks and flowing back out before it I can assume the shape.
The trail of liquid, the clanking of ideas, the consistent loss of footing, these are the things I am composed of. I am made of fairy tales, imaginary valor, sacred contempt, and withering will. Still I not afraid of these parts and pieces. I don't scorn myself for lack of internal normalcy, because Christ in Heaven what is that and where would that place me in the grand scheme of things? Once placed there would I want to visit, take up residence or long wistfully for the inky flow of my soul to allow me passage away?
Who cares if the I fit nowhere yet melt into everything at the same time. If my mind rides a back road and my veins drip ink what does it matter? I adore the constant inconstancy of what I am and all that I become. I should be a million things and somebodies but it is hard enough being me at times to focus on the shoulds. The am's possess me and I am happy as I am broken, battered, fearful, fulfilled, flawed, loved, scattered, loyal, and inspired.
In youth I searched for roots. Tied myself to rotting limbs just to say I belong to something bigger although never better than myself. I dirtied my temper, would forsake my desires to feel a part of this dying murderous thing. To feel the wobbling flux of a thing that I couldn't really belong to. I choked on the guilt , mocked my own heart and dreams. I looked in the skies pretending they held the answers, pretending it was the weakness of my voice that refused to part the clouds. I stared into red rimmed eyes, I stared into the face and existence of insanity clenching my fists to keep from being swept away, swept in, carried off in the waters that drown me.
Now I look at the clouds. I stare at the beauty of the formations, searching for shapes and rainbow's. I have weakly severed faith and family as one severs a sick limb, but still feels the phantom pains of where it should be. I grow, I learn, I melt into my own cracks. Christ above or mother below, I'm am still uncertain, but what am I ever certain of most days aside from the uncertain path of my thoughts and the inevitable rush of my blood, black as night pure as ink.
The trail of liquid, the clanking of ideas, the consistent loss of footing, these are the things I am composed of. I am made of fairy tales, imaginary valor, sacred contempt, and withering will. Still I not afraid of these parts and pieces. I don't scorn myself for lack of internal normalcy, because Christ in Heaven what is that and where would that place me in the grand scheme of things? Once placed there would I want to visit, take up residence or long wistfully for the inky flow of my soul to allow me passage away?
Who cares if the I fit nowhere yet melt into everything at the same time. If my mind rides a back road and my veins drip ink what does it matter? I adore the constant inconstancy of what I am and all that I become. I should be a million things and somebodies but it is hard enough being me at times to focus on the shoulds. The am's possess me and I am happy as I am broken, battered, fearful, fulfilled, flawed, loved, scattered, loyal, and inspired.
In youth I searched for roots. Tied myself to rotting limbs just to say I belong to something bigger although never better than myself. I dirtied my temper, would forsake my desires to feel a part of this dying murderous thing. To feel the wobbling flux of a thing that I couldn't really belong to. I choked on the guilt , mocked my own heart and dreams. I looked in the skies pretending they held the answers, pretending it was the weakness of my voice that refused to part the clouds. I stared into red rimmed eyes, I stared into the face and existence of insanity clenching my fists to keep from being swept away, swept in, carried off in the waters that drown me.
Now I look at the clouds. I stare at the beauty of the formations, searching for shapes and rainbow's. I have weakly severed faith and family as one severs a sick limb, but still feels the phantom pains of where it should be. I grow, I learn, I melt into my own cracks. Christ above or mother below, I'm am still uncertain, but what am I ever certain of most days aside from the uncertain path of my thoughts and the inevitable rush of my blood, black as night pure as ink.
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