Vous Pouvez M'appeler Alice (You Can Call Me Alice)

Vous Pouvez M'appeler Alice (You Can Call Me Alice)

It all started when I was three
this babysitter put his hands on me
Twice
Thrice
A million and three
times I've been told "You're lying"
They say "You were only three"
So, I usually don't tell this story.



You might as well call me Alice
because I fell down the rabbit hole
at the ripe age
of 10 years old
but beyond the potions, and keys, and doors
I found no palice
Though, you still may call me Alice.

In the rabbit hole
I met The Hatter no less
and yes, I will confirm
his head was quite the mess
His personality's baffled me so
Hatter was like no one I've ever known

I met Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dumb
Two faced
with a problem of spewing words
they cannot erase

And I met the Red Queen
but her hair was brown
Yet her pink lips were set in a permanent frown
The Queen's eyes were blue
and between me and you
She was just a sad girl
mad at the world
through and through

I met the Rabbit
with all his inadequate habits
and clinquant white fur
tick-tock
always on his mind
everyone's got a dugeon
his was time


And the hole's a lot darker than it seems
with no one around to supress the horrifying screams
The characters and scenes
are much different than the way they are sold
Covered by publisher's in tinsled gold

See the true fault in the plan of the infamous Wonderland
was never the terrifying wrath of the Red Queen
No, it was something perfered not to be seen
No one dies- at least not here
Instead we boil in eternal fear
and though so many of us want to die
we sit under the floresent lights
boiled in our agony
and fried in solitary misery

Two years I spent climbing back up
Thinking it was better up above
and I saw people were just the same
The only opposing componets was they held less fame

And with tears of defeat in my eyes
I fell back down the hole
Whispering "At least its somewhere I know. My Hell- My home"
Now here I lie
With no tears remaining to cry
everyone's got a dugeon
if you'd like to know mine..
You must know its a secret
and you must promise to always keep it

Everyone's got a dungeon
Here's mine:
My dungeon
is my mind.

-copyrighted S.R. 2013

  

Raise Your Glass for Everlasting Life in Everlasting Philistinism (A.K.A I battle with a brick wall)

Its sort-of ironic that I’m writing this at school since it’s the reason for a lot of my pain. Not just mine you know, school puts a lot of people in pain. I’m sure that’s not what was originally intended, but that’s the way it has become. School is a contest. Your personal intelligence is defined by your I.Q., by tests you take that are only made to conform to certain people’s brain, and I wish you luck if you can’t understand something fast enough or if your teacher’s way of teaching doesn’t work for you.

At school they expect you to drop all personal problems at home, as if your feelings are some sort of light-switch in which you can turn on and off. You can’t. We are no machines. Sometimes we lose focus on the fact that the person to your left, and the person to your right, the children you teach and the adult you are trying to one-up, that kid that you only sort-of-kind-of bully, are living, breathing feeling human beings, your own kind. We see them as we want; As The Football Player, the Hot One, the Goth Girl, the Nerd, the Asian, the Bad Kid, the Prissy Chick, the Dyke, the Gay Guy, and so on. We see each other as friends, enemies, challenges, but not as the simplest term, fellow humans built with the same basic anatomy as one-another, the same bones that can break, the same hearts that can stop, the same skin that is flawed, the same brains that control our thoughts. Whether they go home to fights and bloody lower lips, or posh dinners and comfortable living, or both, it is not something that you will always know, for you can never tell what goes on behind closed doors. Yet students, your teachers put you down, teachers, your students smart off to you, peers, classmates, they will make you feel like a king or a peasant only worthy of scraps, they see it as their choosing. Most schools have seven periods, we have eight here at Schrade, including advisory or home-room. We take math, English, science, reading or a second language, history, gym and others, these are only basic classes. Many of us take more than this. We get homework from most of these classes, we go back home to our comfort or pain. We are stressed, scared, questioning ourselves, curious, depressed, anxious and nervous. We are trying to become who we are; all while being told who to be.

To the students, be strong. To the teachers, love what you do, be even stronger. To the school system, you know you’ve messed up when teachers and students alike don’t want to walk through the stained, cracked, beat up doors.

-This started off as a suicide letter

this ended as a speech to fix the problem.

-Pintsized

"Everyone should get a stand ovation....because we all overcometh the world" -Auggie Pullman

  After reading a book and finishing, I often don't even know what to do with myself. I wish I could call up the writer and tell him/her how amazing he is. With many books I have actually grown as a person while reading them (i.e. The Dove Keeper, Reason To Breathe, Wonder, The Sisters' Grimm, The Umbrella Academy Part 1 and 2, The Velveteen Rabbit, Bruised, Run, The Game, and so on.) These books make me want to have them forever, because is all honesty they have added a piece to me. They were a part of the stepping stone of who I am right now. For this, I love reading and writing equally, and I hope that one day someone will read my book and have that moment of almost nostalgia as they look back on the events of my book. I hope that in this life time I can bring that impact on someone.

  On a different, yet still happy note, I am pleased to tell you that this year, is eons better than the last. I have better teachers and I just feel better all together. Don't get me wrong, it is still school and it is still very boring and life sucking but it is SO much better this year.

  Lastly, on a more saddened note, I must tell you a fear that I have been feeling for a few days, maybe 2 weeks now. School started around 3/4 weeks ago and I am starting to feel like it is stripping away my originality and what I stand for. I can feel some of my pacifism slipping away and so I feel as though I am betraying some unknown source. This is the reason my blog has been so neglected. I have started around 4 entries, but not finishing one. I feel the same loss of motivation of last year and I am hoping I can overpower the depression creeping up from behind me.

Note: I miss -A my little Anonymous commenter.

Comment. Share, and Email me please! Motivation is what I need!!

With love, happiness, and lingering fear,
Mayhem

Wake Up Lesson- #3 Us and Them

So, I have decided to make 'Wake Up' as a feature in which I bring everyday issues to your view. Today, we have Wake Up Lesson- #3: Us and Them.

      Since about the dawn of time, we have always been told, or at least always heard, it's us and them. You know, the "populars'" against the "Nerds'", the "Jocks'" against the "Geeks'", the "Gays'" against the "Cool kids'", and inevitably, the "Goths'/alternative kids'" against the world. To a certain extent, I guess the term is nice when correctly used in the right content with the right intent in general. I don't understand the whole "Outcasts" versus the "Populars". I don't know if you have a friend who is Goth or Alternative styled, but one of the biggest complaints is being stereotyped, (You know, Mrs. Walker next door swears she saw you sacrificing virgins.) but we are hypocrites by hating the "Popular" kids.
       Popular, by definition, is someone who's company is enjoyed by many people (Synonyms: Well liked, friendly) so why by our definition is popular considered such a bad thing? Why is it bad to be well-liked? More than once, I've seen someone deny being popular like it was something to be embarrassed about. Why do we consider popular people as our enemies? Sure, we all know the rich, popular asshole, but not every popular kid is a little twat.

      So here's the 'Wake up' part: Pinch your arm, slap yourself, drink some coffee, and wake up. It is not you against all the jocks' or popular kids. I am friends with tons of popular people because they are nice! Who cares if they are rich, poor, small, big, popular, nerdy, social, awkward, those are all just labels that we are given, that doesn't mean that everyone there is the same!! Times in which it is okay to do 'us and them' is here:

Scenario 1: You are a starving artist, no one will buy your work, you and your lover are just skimping by and you feel a heavy burden. Someone tells you that you should give up. That, is a moment of 'Us Against Them' because at that moment, you are battling the world for your place.

Scenario 2: You are not aloud to try out for the school football team because you are a girl, so you and your other friends who play protest. That, is 'Us Against Them'.

        So don't let some one's label make you not want to befriend them. That's just a waste.

"You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions" -The Breakfast Club "People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting godamn sick of it." -The Catcher in the Rye "You can't ever find a place that's nice an peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck You' right under your nose" -The Catcher in the Rye Xo -Mayhem

I Hurt In Places You Can't Fix.

"It's like you're screaming, and no one can hear
You almost feel ashamed
That someone could be that important
That without them, you feel like nothing
No one will ever understand how much it hurts
You feel hopeless; like nothing can save you
And when it's over, and it's gone
You almost wish that you could have all that bad stuff back
So that you could have the good"

-We Found Love



"You destroy what you love"

-The Dove Keeper





One day maybe you will see me the way I've seen you.

The swoon in my stomach when I saw you.
The race of my heart when we touched.
The days when you called me crying because you poked your thumb on her thorn again.
Those days we cuddled for comfort.
The painful feeling of being so close to you when we lay in bed, yet knowing I can never touch you.
The way you woke me up every morning, peppering kisses on my face, and we'd cuddle until we were ready to face the world again.
The way you kissed me.
That time you straddled me in the chair, skittering across the ugly tile, just talking of our future.
The times you told me that I was too much.
The fact that you were right in front of me, and snatched away.
How we just sit in each other's company, and are content.
Those days we spoke of marrying one another.
The fact that you will never understand the pain I feel, because you love her, instead of me.
Frequent moments we share that I know I am in love with you.
My body hurts so bad from heartache.
Some days I hate you for it.
For not loving me.
For not wanting me.
For teasing me.
But that is always replaced by love.
I wonder if you know that you can work me like a puppet.
Then there was the day I coughed out the glass shards slitting my throat.
Black smoke into our clear sky.
and what's worse is that I couldn't tell if you'd came to stare or wash away the blood.
In the end I patched my own corpse, and the scarred tissue remains.
Your icy fingers encircled around my neck.
You smile at me as my eyelids droop.
And you blow the sickeningly sweet red dirt in my face.
The wind carries your essence on my being.
My dreams' carry the hope.
Love still has the reigns.
What's worse is that I still don't hate you.
I hate myself.
You suffocated me in pure ignorance.
Red frost under your lips and a poison label on the outside of your cherry lipstick.
I was born a hopeless romantic.
I was born a faithful lover.
I wonder if you can guess this is about you.
I'll confirm your thoughts.

It's about you.

But it always has been.













 

A story about a man, a women, a bottle of wiskey, and the Xanax that helps him fly.

FLYING WITHOUT WINGS

 

Some days I feel like nothing

I always feel like nothing

And I drift away

They take me away

And I lie
You all lie

And this is my finest act
To pretend I'm fine

And I can’t breathe
No one can notice

That’s not that much new
Nothing's ever new

No darling, I’m fine
I only want to die

I swear
Maybe

Just let me lose myself in the bottle
Tell me no

And until I feel the pills
Take them away

I’m dying
But I never lived

But I’m beginning to fly
While my feet touch the ground

I feel the red one
I'm scared

Its working
I'm leaving

Yes doll
No doll

Oh yes
Oh no

Life is great
My life's a wreck!

No worries dear
Please save

Just let the pills take me away
Just take the pills away

Let me fly away
Don't let me go

Take me far way
Don't let me leave

Let my feet escape the ground
Keep me on the floor, your my gravity

Fly
For I have no wings



-Summer Rains
8/20/13

The Adventures of Summer Dust

Night Terrors
A short story written by: Summer Dust
Inspired, and dedicated to:  Sarah (PkmnLadySarah)

 

Italy wakes up, shaking, sweating, stomach swooping, mind racing, in her dark, and serial-killer free room. She sits up, breaths coming shaky and scared. Her legs tremble beneath her as she lifts herself up to turn on the light switch. The light is blinding as it illuminates her white walls, a few pictures and a Batman poster, but mostly blank, scarred white walls. Her breathing slows, steadying, and her body calms. It was just another nightmare.

She hasn’t had nightmares in years, not since she was a little kid, but lately she has been awakened by horrible scenarios that barely ever even cross her mind. She doesn’t watch much horror flicks, (and when she does, she sleeps like a rock) and she isn’t easily frightened. She doesn’t get spooked by things that most girls her age are scared of.  You know, spiders, camp stories, horror reads, listen to music most people fear, all those creepy crawling animals? Those she is volunteering to hold. So she can’t understand these nightmares. The most frequently accruing night terror is the one she’s had tonight. It goes something like this: a serial killer is dumping women’s body in my dad and I’s backyard. I see him and call the cops, but the operator keeps joking, though my life is truly endangered. The serial killer breaks in and I always wake up after the first time the axe hits the door.  Now, like clockwork, I take the next step: calling my best friend.

Three rings later, I hear a sleep ridden ‘hello?’ like every other night.

“Jessica, its Italy.” I said. I always felt bad for waking her, but she insists it is fine.

“Another one?” Jessica asks, now sounding completely awake.

“Yeah, the one about the axe guy.” I sigh.

“Again huh?” She ponders.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I am seeing a recurring synonym in your dreams.” She informs me.

“Really? What?” I question.

“Think Italy. Every one of your dreams stars you, and your life being endangered, but you always wake up. Have you ever wondered if it is your brain subconsciously telling you something?” Jessica interrogates.

“No?” I say, the idea never crossing my mind until now.

“How long has it been since you last cut?” She asks.

“2 months since the relapse.” I answer solemnly.

“I think you brain is telling, or in your case, proving, that you want to live.”

“How so?” I ask, confused.

“You are always put in a situation of death, and you always wake up before death comes to you. You are like the operator that puts your life in danger, you joke around with suicide and death by cutting yourself. You put yourself in danger like the operator does, but you always live, because you don’t cross the line of death, but you get so close, like the killer does. Note the axe; he makes the first ‘incision’ into your door, a step closer to you, to your death. Every time you cut, you are taking yourself a step closer to your death. So when you wake up your scared, because of the situation you were in, but also because that situation was that you almost DIED. So I think it is your subconscious telling you, at the time in which it has most control-sleep-that it, as a part of you, wants to live. So, I guess it is a painful reminder, trying to remind you why you don’t cut. Go to bed, goodnight.”

“Crap.” I say after moments of silence.

“Holy crap” I said again because seriously. Why can my best friend interpret my nightmares better than I can?

I lie down on the bed and close my eyes. Before I drift I promise myself I won’t cut ever again.

It’s been a year since the nightmares and a year and two months since I was a self harmer, and I haven’t one had a nightmare since.

 

 

By the way guys, I started a tumblr (not in continuation of this blog) and it is going to be the adventures of my life! So if you are interested in what goes on in my daily life, go there! I am new, so beware serious  newbie ness, I haven't posted, but will today! This results in me changing my screen name from 'Mirror Mayhem' my Killjoy name, to 'Summer Dust' a mix up of my real name, and my google name 'Dust Rat'. The link to my blog here: The Adventures of Summer Dust

With Bravery, and Intense Feeling of Mortality I Bring to You: The Tortured Arist.

I think I am learning what exactly being a 'tortured artist' is.

 Imagine, that everyday something inspires me, and I have all this inspiration and all this potential- and I have no where to put it.

Too young. Too stupid. Too dumb. Too ignorant. Too inexperienced. Too girly, or not enough. Not enough tits or God too much.

So I am forced to try and squish this inextinguishable fire down inside of me and silence the thoughts of pure genius that fill my brain.

And this brings us from inspired, smart, creative, to pressured, stressed, silenced. This, to me, is why many of the best (Gerard Way, Ozzy Osborne, Jimi Hendrix, Frank Iero, Mikey Way, Bert Mackracin, Eminem, etc) do/had used drugs. Every waking moment that you aren't doing something your brain is working a hundred miles an hour, dissecting the world, making songs, poems, books, life summaries, astonishing break throughs', a million ideas, and some times you
Just
Want
Silence.
Drugs hold the ever beautiful front that they will give you this 'peace in the mind' and for awhile it does. But everything is temporary. We learn how to tame our thoughts and focus or minds but it is a constant battle that more times then not we are failing than winning.

 It is amplified for me. I am too young to do anything ground breaking with my life and I sure as hell don't have the money, so I must literally smash, push, shove it down and hope it stays ("And baby when they knock you down and out, it's where you outta stay" -I Don't Love You ) there because you can't take it anymore. It isn't a faint whisper, it is a battle cry, a screech for attention and it is causing you, and me, to suffer. It affects everything. In these moments of inspiration I can't breathe, mind racing, feelings exploding, head spinning, fingers twitching, eyes shut, sitting back clutching a dream I am agonizingly waiting to fulfill. Not a day goes by, not one.

It hurts, it's painful. I would consider myself a 'tortured artist'. There are days, moments, seconds, hours, weeks, months, there are years in which I want to be drunk- high on something. Just get me out of my fucking head because I can't take all this. It's too much to handle, too much, too much.

So what do I do in these times?

I have two choices to pick from, one is to suffer through it, and make it out alive, one more time, or to get high, do something, temporarily numb that burning pain inside.

Most my (conscious) life, I chose option number two.

It was so much easier, so much faster, so much better, so addicting. 

Slitting my wrists, smoking some weed, mooching some cigarettes, stealing some alcohol. Anything. Just get me out.

Lately, I have been choosing option number one.

It hasn't been easy, it has been a absolute fucking war. In the middle of the night, I think of everything, mind racing, the blood under my arms, throbbing. Waiting, anticipating that first incision in my skin. Every scar is there, I can feel them. And the desire is so drastic I am arching my back off the bed while pinning my legs to it. I am literally fighting myself. Walking in circles, gripping my hair, screaming into pillows, clawing, rubbing my arms. Eventually it stops. A lot of times in order to get me through it I listen to My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade.

So it is the hardest thing I have ever fucking done. Ever.









Be brave enough to pick option one.




With bravery, and intense feeling of mortality,
-Mayhem




And a song about this, about drugs, additction. It is good. I recomend you listen to this.

Comfort In Your Company

 Comfort In Your Company

You stare at me from across the room
in the darkness the T.V. light looms
The window portrays a full moon
The house walls protecting us from the evil and ghouls
But evil being the least of our worries
the ghouls are unimportant despite their furry
We,
are trying to find our destiny
and who we are
and contemplating if we'll go far
and we discuss our dreams
and our fears
and we hug each other to suppress the screams of our agony
trying to avoid thinking of our peers
I look into
your icy blues
Pale, freckled skin
and the feeling of comfort begins
shaky breaths
scared of the unknown
but never to fret
you have your comfort in your home
sandy hair and a half real smile
you talk of all things
happy and vile
and you feel instant relief as she trots into your life
because without this girl you wouldn't be alive


By: Summer R. A.K.A Mirror Mayhem



With love, life, and the best of liberty,
-Mayhem

Uhg. Pizza Hut man.

When I talk on the phone, I am the awkwardest person you could ever hear.

Seriously, before I call, I plan out what I am going to say.

How a normal functioning human beings do it:

"How much is the vegetarian pizza?"

"A medium is 12.99"

"And how long are you open?"

"Until 9 AM mamm"

"Thank you."

"No problem!" 

How me, the failure of life does it:

First, I have to pep talk myself.

"Okay, just say "Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?" Don't freak out okay, okay. Dial the number."

This cues the 5 minute process of me looking at the phone and back 5 times to make sure I have the number right.

Then, after this, I press: CALL

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

"Pizza Hut, how may I help you"

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

"Uhhh, uhm, Urr, Shit. Um, how much is the Veggie pizza?"

"12.99 for a medium."

"Err, uhm okay"

This, cues me hanging up and then remembering I forgot to ask how long they're open. I then face palm and settle for coffee because I don't want to bother them again.

Mayhem

OHMYGODSADNESS

I think something really sad happened recently.

 Frank and Gerard are supposedly no longer friends.

It breaks my fucking heart because they were so close. They were the sweetest this you'd ever saw.

Forget Me Not

Ghandie has said that not eating, or fasting, can help you think better.

He is right.

I didn't eat at all, my mind was too busy.

I wasn't negative though.

I was positive.

Happy.

I had learned how to be happy, something I had let myself forget.

Today waws a new lesson.

I learned how to love myself, something that took too long to remember.

   

 

 Forget Me Not
A short story by:
Summer Rains
AKA Mirror Mayhem

   She leans on the yellowed sink. She grabs an eye shadow pallet, picking a dark green and smoothly wiping it back and forth, stretching it to just reach above the crease of her eyelids. She closes the pallet, sets it down, and grabs the black stick of eyeliner, looking at herself in the mirror and smiling, going back to work.
     The black-grey eyeliner had been smudged across the top, bottom, and inside of her eyes, thin and smokey. Mascara making her eyelashes longer and darker, blue eyes sparkling in the mirror as they stare into themselves, looking, studying their face. Inspecting every element of the powder clad face starring back at them, slow and steadily. Only stopping to blink her forest green painted eyelids. She is smiling at herself the whole time, the smile never faltering, as if she sees nothing she doesn’t like.

“I am so beautiful.” She says to herself as she finishing looking at herself, grabbing a makeup brush and applying pink blush to her cheekbones.

“Huh?” I ask, dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe she had something so conceded. She was the most graceful, kind, smart, gracious, humble, and well, beautiful woman I knew.

“I said I am so beautiful” She says again, flickering her pretty eyes to mine and then back in the mirror to herself.

 She is so vain, I think to myself.

“Do you not think I am beautiful?” She asks sitting herself on the closed toilet lid. She stares at me for a few seconds, and I do the same- really looking at her face and body. She doesn’t look offended, or mean, or rude or defensive. She only looks curious.

“I do think you are beautiful” I admitted. That was true, and I couldn’t lie.

“That’s nice.” She muses and looks back to the mirror grinning. It takes me a few minutes until I finally spew the words cluttering my mind.

“Don’t you think you are being a bit vain?” I blurt. My eyes widen and she looks back to me, not phased, not bored, not angry, not amused, not mean, not defensive, not hurt, she looks calm and patient.

“Why, do you?” She asks.

“Yes,” I say honestly.

“I don’t.” She answers.

“How is it you don’t think you are being vain?” I question.

“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really want to know?” She asks calmly, starring straight into my eyes.

“I really want to know” I say.

“I do not think I am vain at all. I love myself. I love every single part of me. Even the parts other people may not like. I think I am beautiful. I think it every day. You think I am being vain, and maybe you are confused, maybe you are not. Maybe you are basing it off of what you are taught, and rightly so. A lot of times, people are told that it is rude to call themselves ‘beautiful, and if they think that they are, they are vain, rude, full of themselves’ and other things of that genre. It is true that there are vain people in this world, but there are also people who just love themselves’. See, that’s the difference. When I look at myself I see all the flaws that were ever pointed out for being ugly, and I see all the things I used to not like about my body, but I don’t see anything wrong with them anymore. To me, I am beautiful. It took me too long to learn to love myself, but some people never do learn, so I consider myself lucky to know how to love myself. I remind myself every day. I don’t think it all the time, but I do when I look in the mirror, and if I even inch to the thoughts of self consciousness, I tell myself again. I smile because I can. I smile when I feel down because the brain attaches smiling and happiness together, so I smile all the time. I love my smile. I love myself.” She answered, smiling here and there, but never trailing her eyes away from mine, though sometimes mine looked down.

“Is it hard?”

“No.” she breathed, “Only repetitive.” She smiled.

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

She stands from the toilet then, walking to me and pulling me from the tiny trailer’s bathroom floor and taking me to the rectangle mirror over the nasty sink.

“Smile.” She says.

I pull a tight, un-real smile to my face.

“Smile.” She says again.

I again, pull a tight un-real smile to my face.

“Smile.” She says again, standing behind me, arms rested on the sink on either side of me, starring at me in the mirror.

So I pull a slightly aggravated tight, un-real smile to my face. Again.

“Smile” She says, using the same calm voice, not getting at all bored or agitated.

“What do you mean smile!? I am smiling damn it!” I yell, annoyed.

“No you’re not. You know you aren’t. Your eyes aren’t lighting up, you are not getting any happier, you can fool people, but you can’t fool your own brain. Smile.” She says.

I close my eyes and try again, thinking of my naïve beliefs of my childhood, and re-open my eyes smiling and the room lights up a little bit. We make eye contact in the mirror, both of us smiling.

“You look happy.” She states.

“I am.” I said, shocking myself because I did feel happier.

“Look at yourself” She said.

I do, and I look prettier than I ever have seen myself.

“Say ‘I am beautiful’” she said looking at me.

“I’m beautiful.” I say.

“Say ‘I am beautiful’” she says.

“I’m beautiful” I say again.

“Say ‘I am beautiful’” She says again.

“I’m beautiful.” I repeat.

“Keep saying it. Breathe in between. Don’t rush yourself” She says.

“I’m beautiful.”

“Yes you are” she says.

“I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.” She answers.

“I’m beautiful”

“Your eyes”

“I’m beautiful.”

“Your nose”

“I’m beautiful.”

“Your mouth”

“I’m beautiful.”

“Your eyebrows”

“I’m beautiful.”

“Is not why,”

“I’m beautiful”

“I am the reason”                                                         

“I’m beautiful.”

“You are the reason,”

“That I am beautiful” I finish whispering.

“I do it every morning. It is quite repetitive.” She says.

“I feel it.” I said.

“Me too.” She says.

“I feel it” I say again.

“I do too.” She says.

“I feel it.” I whisper.

“You look it” She says, scaring me when she pulls me into a warm embrace, my eyes being closed the whole time through that. I hug her back. We sit down, me in her lap, legs wrapped around her waist, arms around her neck, face on her shoulder. Her arms are around my back, head resting on my shoulder. It is at least minutes before we pull back. We stare into each other’s eyes and she leans in and kisses me on my lips. Just a quick peck and I say “I’m really beautiful,” and she says, “Don’t stop feeling it, and don’t stop saying it. You may forget that you are beautiful if you do.”

 

She was 17 then, I only 14. I never forgot I was beautiful, and I never stopped feeling it, and I never stopped saying it, and I never forgot her.

 

You are only as ugly as you let yourself forget.

You are only as beautiful as you let yourself remember.

You can always learn to love yourself.

Why wouldn’t you?

You are beautiful, after all.

With beauty-
and love,
Mayhem.

"Dirty" Dancing.

 I've been forced to watch some T.V. and I have been wondering...

who in the hell made the desicions for the tampon and toliot paper comericals?

I mean seriously? The "extra plush and intricant designs"aren't going to matter when I am wiping my butt. I seriously can't understand.

Not to mention, that you lie to little girls. All over the world. This is what you trick us into thinking periods are:

 

 

What is really is:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And to the liar who has the girl going out to the club and putting a tampon in and then saying "Don't let your period stop you"

Are you serious? No girl is going to a club on her period, and if she is she is constantly worring if she is leaking through, and not to mention she is edgy and picking fights. No. Just no. That is the biggest lie ever. The last thing I want to do when Niagra Falls is eruppting in a scary amount from my vagina, is go out and dance and club.

You aren't fooling me.

 

 

 

 

So, in conclusion:

T.V. lies.

 

 

 

 

 

                                       I killed all your friends, but so did the internet,

                                                                       -Mayhem                                                   



Hey, Ukarians!

The Escape Plan.I take a breathLet it out slowJust woken upAnd now ready to goThe night may have haunted me of what I knowBut I am hereI am just slowI take a step from my headAnd the stickiness of my past stays on the unmade bedI take a breath I let it out really slow
I am awake nowAnd I am ready to goI take a leap from the bedAnd all my sad emotions are shedOne more deep breathAnd I run past the scars and sighI’ve done it againI have successfully escaped my headI am ready to goI exit my homeI started off really slowLearning how to let it goCrawling into another dayThat I successfully got away




I am learning a lot lately. Recently, I have learned how to get up in the morning. It seriously goes as the poem says.

Instructions on how to get up everyday:

Step one:
The second you wake up, sit up. Take one, deep breath. Hold it, and let it out. No matter what you have dreamed of, drop it there on the bed. Visualize all these bad things falling from your body.

Step two:
Put your legs down, and stand up. Take a deep breath and let it go. Take a step or two from the bed. And let the sticky feeling of depression and hate melt away.

Step three:
Take a large step from the bed, close your eyes, take one more deep breath and while you hold it list five people who depend on you and love you.
1.Dog
2.Horses
4.Jack
5.My readers.
Do not let out that breath until you have done that, and let those sad ideas and feelings go.

Step four:
Run/walk swiftly away to where you need to be, whether that be the shower, vanity, or closet. Let your scars peel from your mind and skin.

You have escaped your mind.



Mind you, that this is for people who can barely open there eyes in the morning with out wishing death apon themselves. Seriously do this and keep to it.







Question of the day that you probably will not answer:

 Why are all British people in Britian? (hint get your asses over here Phil and Dan and all you other amazing ball UKarians.)







Your sucker with no self esteem,
Mayhem

Teen Problems

I want to do a "draw my life" video.

I can't.

Because I am not a famous Youtuber, and no one gives a flying fuck.

If fucks could fly, that is.

Why is it that I always need things when I am fucking broke. I get money, and no good comics are out, and nothing interesting is happening. I go to the store and I have no money and:


NEW! DANGER DAYS:THE TRUE LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS!

NEW! THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY! 

NEW! EXPENSIVE CLOTHING YOU CAN'T AFFORD.

NEW: MORE COMICS YOU WANT BUT CANNOT AFFORD OR OWN


At this point? FML. SERIOUSLY, GOD HAS IT OUT FOR ME. Or the damn store owners do.


FLASHBACK:
Tralalala walking in the store when suddenly....

I realize my favorite comic is in! 














And I am running and frolicking like a effing gazel with asthma to get to this comic and I am thinking to myself..

 I finally get there, and I am wheezing and dying and shit I can't fucking breathe!
So I am there and I reach into my pocket for my money and:

I forgot my money at home.  I am mentally crying and the guy at the counter in front of me is like:



Now I am kind of praying to God, begging him to just kill me now. I apologize to the guy and go home and bask in my failure.











Can I get some comment/shares for Danisnotonfire gifs and pics?




No?



Okay ):




-Mayhem

Terrified of What I'd Be, as a Kid, From What I'd Seen

Hi, to whoever may read this.

I am not sure who I am talking to. I get views, but no comments, and no emails or tweets, so who am I talking to- if I am talking to anyone at all?

-I don't know.

I have no clue who you are, reader, and in fact, the likeliness that you have any clue who am, is just as true.

We don't know each other in the slightest, reader.

Yet here I am opening up to you, or no one, and here you are reading, or maybe no one will read it at all.

This whole blog has become a story of my cluttered mind, depressed soul, and angry way of thinking.

I am still angry.
My mind is still cluttered.
I still own depression, like a distant reminder of what I used to be,
I am still tired.
I still feel weird and awkward and different.

I am still the same person I was when I created this blog in many ways- and in a lot of ways I am not.

 I have grown such an immense amount since then. I have grown smarter, stronger, kinder, more understanding, less accusing, less impulsive. Less of depressed- more of happy.

So I am still me, I am still the young, confused, hurt, and too-smart-for-her-own-good girl who created this God forsaken blog.


 But I have grown to be happy, leaving the sticky, ugly claws of depression behind. Brushing off my negative monster in my head, ignoring the calls from my blade, ignoring the addiction craving what I can no longer give, I have risen above what I never wanted to be. I have ripped apart what I was. I have clawed my way out, climbing to the surface, from the very bottom to the  top. The two year battle coming- slowly- to an end. I have been loosing at this race, and I am finally making it. I am breathing, I am laughing and smiling and the world seems a lot more great. My mind seems so much more open, my arms seem so much more saddening, and cutting seems more and more UN-needed-UN-necessary, gone. I am thinking again. I am smiling- but meaning it. I don't hurt so bad in my chest, my stomach doesn't ache as bad and my tears aren't of sadness no more- no they are of utter and complete happiness. Since the day my life was thrown out of balance, and shit happened, I can for once say this, and mean it:

I am happy.

I am not done with this battle. I am still fighting everyday. I am still dealing with impulses and trying not to be so damned guarded, I am trying to not tip-toe through life anymore. I am going to live like I want to- even if that means sometimes breaking my back to look up instead of looking down. I surround myself with thoughts of nothing.

Nothing.

I can't see a future for myself because I have no fucking idea. I can't scare myself with that yet. Not yet. I am ready to step back into the world, opened armed, flawed, battered, bruised, and maybe a little bit scarred. But I am here again. I see that light again. I am feeling again. I am awake. Yeah. It is scary to experience something so different, but the cautious never live.









         

*Most recent picture of me, taken today, this morning. That's me smiling- and meaning it.



Hello readers. This is my first blog post, as the new me, trying maybe a little bit harder to be happy. Maybe not happy yet- but baby steps.

Welcome sinners, to my blog. I am Mirror Mayhem, I like music, reading, writing, and singing.

Every beginning starts with another beginning's end,

                                             ~Mayhem

Wake Up (Part 2)

Okay, two rants will be brought apon you today.


First Rant: Gerard Way's poem-Fireworks for the Dead

Fireworks for the dead
It's time to put yourself to bed
In the hospital, the friends you stole
surround you

did the devil sign your check
when they pulled you from the wreck
there was nothing left to recognize
about you

Let it in, Let it go
when they lift you up,
there's something you should know
what you find, it might astound you
cause the world, my friend, is big enough
Without you
This was in the Umbrella Academy's Dallas.
  'Fireworks for the dead'
Was like a big poem that left me O:

It was kinda -to me- like Gerard's way of saying what he felt ya' know?

I mean, think of it this way. Gerard spent his whole entire fucking life touring, writing, going to sit ins and interviews and signings. After hours of hard work on stage, he comes out exsauated -but here he is, signing autographs for some amazing -and some with not-so-great intentioned- fans. That is something huge when you honest to god think about. Hours a day deprived of home cooked meals and the comfort of coming home when you're upset. He gave up his life- for you. He did it willingly. He helped you fight everyday through life. Not to mention not having time for comics. So honestly? Gerard Way has kept it strong for a long time. In some sence, that could be him saying "I love you, and you love me, but everyday you demand more, and everyday I give you what you demand. The few days I am sick, or don't come to sign your things, those rare days when I am not in a good mood. those days? I recieve Hell from you, as if I have crossed a line that I have been miles away from. So you know what? I love you, but remember- the world is big enough my friend, without you"
It also just may be Gerard writing for his story and I am mellodramatic and over analyzed this by X10,000.

 I mean, we idolize the guy. How must it feel to have to be the perfect role model because you are so idolized? I mean I would have days were I would want to scream and say "I am not your best friend! I did not ask to be your fucking role model so don't be pissed when I do wrong, OKAY?!"






Rant subject two-
  Please just watch this.

What if being gay was "normal" and being straight was "wrong"?

and tell me you were not moved. Tell me what you thought in the comments.

Yes you introverted people I want you to comment on this blog because you never comment and it makes me un-happy.

Wake up (Part one)

 Humans.

We spend our whole lives striving to find our better half, watching other people live, and half the time, while ignoring the reality that life is wizzing by arround us, while we waste our time narrorating our stories. Figuring out who we are.

 We spend a lot of time just narrorating who we are, who we want to be, and why we never became who we spent thousands of restless nights hoping we'd become. We, in reality, became us.

 However, this is not what I want to rant about today- no today we talk about boundries, limitations, chains, limitations. Whatever you please to call it.

 Why?

 Why do we decide to set pointless limitations on our "freedom"? Religion? The way you were raised?  Rejection? Thousands of reasons could be pinned, but what is the most dominate? Examples you ask? I have tons.

 We have an  age restriction on age and relationships. Why? Well on one side we have that pedophiles need a stopping line. A "Woah there buddy, that is not okay" but think of it in the opposite prospective.
 There is a girl. She, is 17, underage. She, is also extremely mature for her age. Everyday she goes ti highschool, her senior year, and almost shoots herself. She is surrounded by hundreds of kids who are so stupid and immature. Mentally younger than her. She has tried, but can't fit in, and certainly can't find a boyfriend who doesn't want sex. But before you judge like "Typical girl" No she is more mature than that. She wants sex, like all people, but she wants a established relationship. She wants to make love. An unlikely relationship evolves. Both partys try to ignore the whispering, chanting, itching, screaming, yelling crying, burning,  passion-love- that surrounds the two. It was an accident. And she tries to get hime time and time again, and he turns her down, until he can no longer take it because he loves her; he kisses her back. Months later of the 'forbidden' relationship, they make love. They are in love with plans of marrige. They, are eachothers one reason to breathe. A few days pass, they are caught. The headlines write of the 27year old and the 17 year old. They hiss words that are lathered in hate and bloodsucking judgement. Of the man being a 'pervert', 'disgusting' and when the girl cries that he never molested her, she is 'manipulated' and 'confused'.

Why? Why is it so wrong? Well I understand, because at first, we are all disgusted. But as they grow on you, as you hear her talk of tender touches and the up most carefullness. The absalute agreement. No manipulation, only love. 10 years a part in days on the earth, but not a minute apart in love, hope, and mentallity. We have ruined it because it is uncommon, because it is diffrent? Because at first glance you think it is disgusting?

 Limitations.

We limit ourselves from food. Drinks. Sugar. Cigaretts. Porn. Everyday things. One day you must ask yourself why. And if that answer is not enough, ask another, and if punishment, rejection, or the hateful words of another be the reason, you must re-evaluate your limitations.

 I am in no way saying not to limit youselves from drugs. I quote myself here "...and if punishment, rejection, or the hateful words of another be the reason, you must re-evaluate your limitations." Illegal drugs are illegal for a reason. They ruin your life, change you, make you helpless. That is a reason to create a boundry.

Picture of the Day:

None today, Im afraid.

Quote of the Day:

"Too many people spend money they haven't earned, to buy things they don't want, to impress people they don't like"
-Will Smith

Song of the Day:

Soul to Squeez
-Red Hot Chilly? Peppers





                                   Wake up, the house is on fire,
                                         -Mirror Mayhem-

A Casual Day in the Factory of Utter Bullshit

Adulation Suicide 

Adulation suicide 

but not on the outside

I no longer slit my wrists

-or overdose on the pills you hide

I just died in the inside

I am a supreme actor

Worthy of a Broadway show

Though I wish this was a factor

That could help me grow

-And he acts too

He acts everyday

He fooled you

In the most disgusting way

Thousands of masks

One for every day

and the fact that you believe what he says

Captures my fait

He lies

He lies every time

-he tells me he loves me

Because what love can you carry

When he never said he was sorry

 No "Sorry for the pills you OD'd on 

(That Mom now hides)

No "Sorry for the time you slit your wrist too deep"

(The scars that make you wear long sleeves and lie)

No "Sorry that I made you die inside,

and make you become-

another adulation suicide.

An original by:

SUMMER R. (MIRROR MAYHEM)

The Game

Mr.Jacey plays a game,

with me, my sister, and little Ann McCain  

He plays when we're all alone

He films me on his black flip-phone

He tickles me at night

He is gone by daylight

Mr. Jacey loves to lie

Mr. Jacey loves to hide

He calls the game "our secrete"

He threatens bad things if we don't keep it

I would never tell-

but I don't like Mr. Jacey's game

Somedays I want to yell

Alas I must refrain

Because that I am trapped inside the game

An original by:

SUMMER RAINS(MIRROR MAYHEM)

Picture of the Day:

"I took Sarah's hopeless heart and made her ill"

(My Chemical Romance's Frank Iero holding the paper in his pierced lips.)

Quote of the Day:

 "Happiness doesn't mean everything is perfect- It means you are okay with the imperfections"

-Gerard Motherfucking Way

Song of the Day:

Bowling For Soup's, "1985"

                                         I could kid myself to thinking that I'm fine,

                                                 -Mirror Mayhem-