Picture My Life

For Intellect. For Emotion. For Substance.

Posts tagged Mistake

137 notes


He was simple
A less complicated way of escaping reality
His touch routine
Like all the others
Trivial and flawed
But he hit where it needed to hurt
Like a momentary lapse of judgment
A necessary healing
The kind of fix that leaves you feeling broken
And a little empty inside
But it’s a better feeling than lost
Because for a moment you know exactly where you are
Maybe it’s the wrong place to be
Maybe it’ll never be right
But it’s a different kind of feeling, numbing
Instant gratification that makes you lose your mind
And then you end up back where you were
But at least you were satisfied
Even if it was just for that single moment

Filed under creative writing poem poetry spilled ink prose spoken word writing sex love lust mistake dear diary journal thoughts numb escape sexual hormones

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I’ve never understood how prayers are supposed to work. Is it wrong that mine are so unfocused and disorderly? My thoughts are nothing more than dialogues with God, although he seems to have nothing to say. Soliloquy’s then? I pour my heart into empty conversations, ending every verse with a question or a pleading. Is that not what these prayers are for, an unyielding need for salvation? A cry for help in some sense. I’m often arguing with God, pleading the case for my every mistake, as if to say they were all necessities. Between every psalm comes the discourse of daily routines and transgressions. And I make no apologies but I can hear the solemn sounds of my conscience, sighing, disgraced by my lack of repentance. You see, I have this tendency of repeating mistakes. They say practice makes permanent, so these faults have ingrained themselves between scruples and senses and I feel unholy without them. That is to say, every indiscretion is a learning curve, every prayer is my testament.

Filed under creative writing poem poetry poetry slam open mic spoken word religion religious prayer ramadan fasting pray God holy practice testament cry mistake empty apology

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"Come over…"

He must be drunk. This late at night, tequila tinged at the tip of his tongue. He always seems to confuse it for me when the hours run belated. My mistake was answering. Falling back into his addiction, like a relapse. I can hear it in his voice, the taste of liquor and the scent of nostalgia. His words stumbling over thought, he’s not sure why he called. He senses the disdain in my intonation and apologetically starts to explain himself, although he knows I need no explanation. I can hear him mouthing out words he wishes he could say out loud but even under the influence he lacks the courage. I do nothing but listen. Listen to the words he can’t seem to say between all the words he manages to ramble. I sit in the silence of the empty words, the lack of words, the words I don’t want to hear anyway. It’s 3 a.m. and he’s lonely. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m lonely. I’m waiting for the words that had him place this call, the reason why I even answered. In an hour we’ll be lying in each other’s arms, lying to ourselves and lying to each other. His drunken words. My sober thoughts.

Filed under Creative Writing Poem Poetry Spoken Word Story Words Love Sex Lust Drunk Sober Thoughts Come Over Mistake liar intoxicated

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"Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world…"

It was sometime between late and early. The road was clear, an empty darkness that had an uncanny resemblance to the way I was feeling. I was driving to a destination unknown, all I wanted to do was get out of the moment I had found myself in. The music on the radio was haunting, song after song seemingly aimed at my self loathing. All I wanted to do was cry, I wanted to feel some kind of emotion. I wanted it to feel like a mistake, instead of a consistency. I wanted to feel stupid instead of like a tragic mess. The hollowness inside me had been spreading causing this numbing sensation that seems to have taken over every part of me. There was no guilt, no anger. I was scared. Afraid of the fact that I couldn’t get myself to feel any kind of remorse. The flashbacks felt like slide shows of redundant stains I’d repressed for my own salvation. The instance replayed itself in an attempt to force a notion of repentance on my soul, but the frozen overcast of lost faith and despair had overshadowed the feeling of regret. I felt dead inside, paralyzed by my lack of will power and my undermined inhibitions. I was lost in my own apathy, driving aimlessly on a foreign road to nowhere. 

Filed under Creative Writing Spoken Word Poetry Writing Guilt Numb Mistake Anger Salvation Driving Scared Music Regret flashback Broken Journey Emotion Feeling