Onism*
Status:
:)
Joined: March 18, 2012
Last Seen: 1 decade
user id: 284627
Location: Looking through your window
Joined: March 18, 2012
Last Seen: 1 decade
user id: 284627
Location: Looking through your window
716
Quotes
19,066 Favorites
388 Following
499 Followers
136 Comment Points
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19,066 Favorites
388 Following
499 Followers
136 Comment Points
Comments
Comments on Quotes
Comments by User
Quote Comments by User
Flair
Quotes by Onism*
715 quotes; 19,617 favourites; 2 years,1 month and
2 days,
and it all comes down to this:
I feel like I've outgrown
Witty for the past couple of
months, and my time on here is coming to a
close.
So thank
you,
Witty,
for being a wonderful
site;
to
everyone that has
favourited/commented/supported me
And finally, thank you Steve, for creating Witty.
I honestly don't know what my life would have been like for the past 2 years without it.
And finally, thank you Steve, for creating Witty.
I honestly don't know what my life would have been like for the past 2 years without it.
Goodbye Witty
♥
format by Cosima2
the first program i saw on my new
television was a
warning-sign, reality-check cold-water slap
on the coffee table.
It was a documentary about a troubled family--
the boy blamed his mother
his mother blamed the father
and the father, well the father
wasn't around to blame anyone,
except in bruises, cuts and most painful
silence. sometimes, wounds heal,
but leave scars like imprints of each word
spearing the skin in anger, and even
confrontational therapy does not help,
because you don't know hate until you
hate the people you love,
and you don't know love until you
love the people you hate and,
"boys dont cry.
boys aren't weak.
get up!"
Gangmates and gateway drugs unlatched
doors to him that
let him have the illusion of free
but in reality, when the covalent bonds of
self hatred and self destruction collide
with new-found hope in hopeless plants, hopeless situations,
the result is deadlier, and more unforgiving than
your own father threatening to end you with a knife
three times in a row
"get up, boys dont cry!"
Sure, he was intoxicated but drunks words are sober
thoughts, they say, a waste of space, you are thrash;
i am thrash, the
boy scrawled in the sand, the same way
others draw hearts.
And he was angry, so angry. So guilty and full
of shame,
had a deep rooted sadness that
could be shovelled out from his chest like soil.
maybe we can never get rid of it completely
but we can change it, plant new seeds where old
weeds decomposed; they said the hardest part is
letting yourself be helped and be rerooted, they said the
hardest part is deciding what to plant, where to re-soil
yourself.
Because bad thoughts are like dominoes, kid,
one falls and the rest follow.
they are the pungent
smell of decaying words--"get up! boys aren't weak!"
Thing is, he did get up:
he got up in the mornings when
the world screamed symphonies of loathing at him;
he got up when words whizzed past, merely inches
from hitting nerves;
he got up like there was fire at his heels;
he got up when he discovered boys cancry.
Sometimes, all you need is time,
too bad documentaries only last an
hour.
(SH)
warning-sign, reality-check cold-water slap
on the coffee table.
It was a documentary about a troubled family--
the boy blamed his mother
his mother blamed the father
and the father, well the father
wasn't around to blame anyone,
except in bruises, cuts and most painful
silence. sometimes, wounds heal,
but leave scars like imprints of each word
spearing the skin in anger, and even
confrontational therapy does not help,
because you don't know hate until you
hate the people you love,
and you don't know love until you
love the people you hate and,
"boys dont cry.
boys aren't weak.
get up!"
Gangmates and gateway drugs unlatched
doors to him that
let him have the illusion of free
but in reality, when the covalent bonds of
self hatred and self destruction collide
with new-found hope in hopeless plants, hopeless situations,
the result is deadlier, and more unforgiving than
your own father threatening to end you with a knife
three times in a row
"get up, boys dont cry!"
Sure, he was intoxicated but drunks words are sober
thoughts, they say, a waste of space, you are thrash;
i am thrash, the
boy scrawled in the sand, the same way
others draw hearts.
And he was angry, so angry. So guilty and full
of shame,
had a deep rooted sadness that
could be shovelled out from his chest like soil.
maybe we can never get rid of it completely
but we can change it, plant new seeds where old
weeds decomposed; they said the hardest part is
letting yourself be helped and be rerooted, they said the
hardest part is deciding what to plant, where to re-soil
yourself.
Because bad thoughts are like dominoes, kid,
one falls and the rest follow.
they are the pungent
smell of decaying words--"get up! boys aren't weak!"
Thing is, he did get up:
he got up in the mornings when
the world screamed symphonies of loathing at him;
he got up when words whizzed past, merely inches
from hitting nerves;
he got up like there was fire at his heels;
he got up when he discovered boys cancry.
Sometimes, all you need is time,
too bad documentaries only last an
hour.
(SH)
In the spring of
last year,
we tried to grow summer
in our ribcages,
And by october, the leaves
had already wilted down
to our stomachs.
They decomposed doubly fast,
and we blamed it on the PH,
since we didn't know any better.
Come winter,
we look after everything except our
lungs,
(it burns like gasoline)
Because we're too scared of burning
each other,
terrified that if we let our happiness go beyond
What we know,
let it burst like rainbow gas through our lungs
spreading, spreading through our veins like blood
with each heartbeat the sound of your feet
on the pavement.
If we let our joy consume us,
one day, it will end shrink doubly fast,
and this time,
we won't have the PH to blame
(SH)(format by cosima2--all credit to her :) )
we tried to grow summer
in our ribcages,
And by october, the leaves
had already wilted down
to our stomachs.
They decomposed doubly fast,
and we blamed it on the PH,
since we didn't know any better.
Come winter,
we look after everything except our
lungs,
(it burns like gasoline)
Because we're too scared of burning
each other,
terrified that if we let our happiness go beyond
What we know,
let it burst like rainbow gas through our lungs
spreading, spreading through our veins like blood
with each heartbeat the sound of your feet
on the pavement.
If we let our joy consume us,
one day, it will end shrink doubly fast,
and this time,
we won't have the PH to blame
(SH)(format by cosima2--all credit to her :) )
other poets write
about unrequited love,
and slit-worthy wrists stained
and cherry lips that leave blossoms
on each cheek they brush.
other poets write about missing the
person who makes you feel like
youre on fire, and each touch just
ignites you further.
other poets write about hurt so deep
the oceans wave in jealousy; hurt
caused by men that smoke death sticks
and always leave their ashes by the bedside.
other poets write how waking up to an empty
house with only peaches as apology notes
ring like high pitched screams in caves or
maybe just car alarms.
other poets write about the clandestine loves
with firework-cracker girls tracing entire
witty novels on kitchen countertops using
only their matchstick fingertips.
i write about how peaches rot so quickly;
how missing someone who doesnt
exist is the worst form
of loneliness;
how i have no voices in my mind
but have a lifetime of undone
experiences to unravel and no words
to cut you with.
i write about unstable introverts,
who believe 2am is no different
to any other go.ddam.n hour of the day.
i write poems in the form of compulsive liars,
because truth is,
im not a poet all all.
(SH)
and slit-worthy wrists stained
and cherry lips that leave blossoms
on each cheek they brush.
other poets write about missing the
person who makes you feel like
youre on fire, and each touch just
ignites you further.
other poets write about hurt so deep
the oceans wave in jealousy; hurt
caused by men that smoke death sticks
and always leave their ashes by the bedside.
other poets write how waking up to an empty
house with only peaches as apology notes
ring like high pitched screams in caves or
maybe just car alarms.
other poets write about the clandestine loves
with firework-cracker girls tracing entire
witty novels on kitchen countertops using
only their matchstick fingertips.
i write about how peaches rot so quickly;
how missing someone who doesnt
exist is the worst form
of loneliness;
how i have no voices in my mind
but have a lifetime of undone
experiences to unravel and no words
to cut you with.
i write about unstable introverts,
who believe 2am is no different
to any other go.ddam.n hour of the day.
i write poems in the form of compulsive liars,
because truth is,
im not a poet all all.
(SH)
So I went to
download
Flappy Bird the other day and I was looking
through the Customer Reviews
section, and
I KID
YOU NOT,
THIS IS AN ACTUAL REVIEW:
"Why can't the god dang bird get lip surgery?
A bird has a beak for gods sake, you nasty bu.tthole.
How is the bird supposed to pick up his worms?
They would just keep slipping out of his mouth.
I also don't get how the bird doesn't just call a plumber to get rid of the pipes so he can get to where he needs to go.
My high score is 9 because his huge lips hit the pipe every time.
The bird is way too fat, what does he does in his spare time when he's not trying to dodge these pipes from Mario?
This is bird is fat."
"Why can't the god dang bird get lip surgery?
A bird has a beak for gods sake, you nasty bu.tthole.
How is the bird supposed to pick up his worms?
They would just keep slipping out of his mouth.
I also don't get how the bird doesn't just call a plumber to get rid of the pipes so he can get to where he needs to go.
My high score is 9 because his huge lips hit the pipe every time.
The bird is way too fat, what does he does in his spare time when he's not trying to dodge these pipes from Mario?
This is bird is fat."
It's 2pm on a Wednesday; you don't feel like
talking, so we sit in silence
staring at the static on your tv, like
it's our favourite show.
You're cross-legged eating custard creams
and milky tea,
I'm perched on the edge of your sofa, my
hands clenched in my pockets
As if its -2 outside.
But -2 is the average temperature of sadness,
And we're not sad, we're only
falling apart at the seams.
What else do you expect from
worn-out teens?
the custard cream
drops into your tea, the static screen
turns electric blue;
the power's out and the feelings, too.
You cry; I pretend it's laughter and
I laugh along
'til the noise leaks out of my eyes.
You say, "they come no matter
what, don't they?"
That's why we laugh when
the shutters rattle,
and I laugh when your fist
makes contact with my face,
at the old cracks
along your wrist,
when the tea mug
shatters,
and I laugh when our 'friendship'
does the same.
-(S.H)