alsalegend

Sometimes I think that my brain is a leg. Wait! Let me explain; I don’t mean that sometimes I wear socks on my ears - Unless I think that it will be funny. It all started one day when I said Sorry for my brain. I say Sorry about my brain a lot. Depression makes me say Sorry too much. And a friend told me that I shouldn't. If I had a broken leg, they said, I wouldn’t apologise if I was walking slowly. So I started to think that my brain was a leg. And tried to tell myself I wouldn’t say Sorry For my plaster cast called Depression And my crutches called Anxiety. Some days the cast was quite small And I could walk on it wel

I wonder what would change if I was a ghost? I would pass through the world like a memory on a breeze. Here and there as passive as a long-forgotten sneeze. I’d only be seen briefly out the corner of your eye. Gone so quick you’d wonder if I’d really passed you by. Of course I would have some fun with my little ghostly ways. Enough to bring a little smile and hoping that it stays. I’d float around at parties and occasionally say ‘Boo!’ Making people jump at this merry old to-do. Being a ghost I guess would sometimes be good fun. I would have lots of happy days to remember when they’re done. But

Smiling. That's easy.  But then it fades.   And that is easier.    'Is everything okay?'     'I'm okay, I promise.'      And there the questions       Give way to assumptions.        'He said he is fine, so why         can't you leave him alone?'                                           No!         I don't want to be alone.        But how can they tell?       How can I tell them?      That my smiles are     Only lies to make    Them all happy.   Smiling is easy.  It is harder to Make it look. Easy.

Dear sir or madam, Ever since I... No. Dear sir or madam, I believe that I would be ideal for this position because... No. Dear sir or madam, Let me tell you why I think I would be ideal for this position. I... No. NO. Fuck this. Dear sir or madam, Let me tell you something I actually believe in. Let me tell you why writing a personal statement is so difficult. Let me tell you what its like to try and sell yourself when "yourself" is somebody you hate, when every positive statement you can possibly think of can't transmit itself to paper because somewhere it instantly starts to sound hollow and wrong and all you want to do is scream "Its al

The truth, I cried Those lies, you said That fall from grace The future, dead Your cold embrace My love, unjust My heart and soul Turned to dust We are those who fall From clouds on high Alone, unnamed In graveyards lie Against your hate Upon this land I steel myself Alone, I stand.

Isn't it funny how blood flows better than ink? And skin is a much better canvas than parchment. Knives capture those slender lines better than a pen A perfect new artistic medium just for me to endure But come tomorrow this new work will be just like the rest They say that every artist is critical of his old work Do any of them hate their work quite as much as I do? I feel another work of art coming on.

She'd taught me a lot of words recently, but as we stood there and the train pulled into the station there didn't seem to be any of them which perfectly fit. She taught me that too; words need to be perfect or else they were not worth using at all. I didn't want to ruin this moment with badly chosen words because it needed to be perfect, I needed it to be perfect. I smiled weakly and she smiled back as we embraced quickly so as not to prolong the pain, although I desperately wanted it to last forever. 'Pest gegen Cholera'. She taught me that too. Hefting her bag crammed tightly with the last year of her life she boarded the train and looked

Why doesn’t it hurt? SHOULD IT? I don’t know. I always imagined it would hurt. YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS. This is kind of a big deal for me you know. It’s not every day you die. YOU SOUND VERY ACCEPTING. Of course I am. I wanted this. YOU’RE READY THEN? Ready? YOU’RE TALKING WITH THE REAPER AND YOU DON’T THINK THERE’S ANYTHING ELSE TO IT? DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT COMES NEXT? I never really thought about it. I just wanted to forget about what came before. YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THAT, BY THE WAY. So what happens now? YOU STAND UP. YOU STAND UP AND ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TURN AROUND. What happen

Her legs were the first to go You said they were too fat, no gap So she tore them off for you, Lay there in a pool of her own bloody self-hatred And the discarded limbs suddenly looked A lot slimmer, longer but still SHE cut them off, not you. Then her arms were demolished Leaving bloody stumps of her own volition They were impure as well, gently freckled Not the perfect smooth you thought they should be You saw her ravaged body on the ground And the pity that flared was swiftly quelled After all, SHE was the one to ravage it Then came her face, peeled raw By her own force of will to comply with you It had never made her pretty anyway So wa

I was looking through my dusty attic When I came upon a cardboard box It hadn't seen the light for too long I took off the lid and looked inside A pair of earrings and half a page Of the lyrics of your very favourite song Under that, the old Kodak camera Draped in memories too long gone Of how we took it anywhere that we would go I pressed the button the light came on I could have seen all them old photos But I realised I didn't want to know Was there something I'd forgotten Would the photos prove the sign? But I decided I don't need pictures I remember her just fine A few days later I sat with her dad Notebook and pen in my hand I tried t