It’s okay to not be digestible

[M0rute]

Writing storage, wip


Poetry, prose, journal entries…

Inspiration will be credited to each piece of work, if an author’s piece has inspired me to write something <3

If you catch yourself reading what I’ve written, I’d really love some feedback, even if it’s constructive criticism !

[M0rute]

Table of contents

[M0rute]

[pieces redacted]

Put me on display, a found artifact within a museum.. give me attention and let the future generations pull me apart from the string, my lineage will be watching

What am I to do, restrained amidst the jaws of tightly bound silk?

Eventually I’ll rot away, this string is dwindling thin, the attraction seems to be losing its relevance. Names fade into inexistence, trends fall out, popularity dies through the scarcity of attention.

I’ll be staggering forward, with only the fading memories of what I’ve seen along the way. Isn’t it ironic, that I can’t seem to erase those visions of moments that hurt the most? [redacted] I can’t seem to communicate what horrors I’ve seen clearly, not until you’ve given me a pen;
Once you have, I’ll eat you from the inside out.

[redacted]

[M0rute]

Limerence swaying in a gentle
Pale yellow wind

I feel a part of me that’s been here before, a nostalgia for the pain of my teeth in my own hand

I wonder how I got back to this place
Hadn’t I escaped? Navigated the labyrinth of understanding?

There’s so much love inside of me, it seethes through the pores of my body in this sunken field

I want to be evidence that there’s light in this world, that I’m more than what I came from

I want to be like the sun, shining so brightly

Sensations of pain glide over me as I ponder what I may mean to the people I encounter.

I love myself, I do, I cherish this world
I want to spread love in every waking moment of my existence, I want to bring and mend them two steps closer to feeling like an epiphany

Am I quite there yet myself? Or, well, is anyone? My tattered state amongst this field of ties I’ve been roped to in the past, a graveyard of who I’ve connected with

My eyes gaze hazily, scanning for the next victim, the next object of my own serenity.

It hurts horribly, being this way,
But if I could at least make someone else, even just a little happy, then wasn’t it all worth it? I already know that it’s not, and it’s foolish to allow myself to get caught up in waiting games of affection that are notably baseless.

[M0rute]

a crimson flood of scattered flames wisps about my chest

i cough on the smoke and ash, my lungs swirling in rebellion

my arms remains bound, body forced to move. forced to clean up the mistakes of others, caught in the crossfire of their leftovers.

the ocean of thickening charred fog stings my eyes as i persist

each day seems to differ. shall i be direct? haven’t i been direct previously? it doesn’t matter. the wretched smog seems to drag me down as i attempt to fulfill the expectations bestowed upon myself singlehandedly

and yet, despite my efforts
this is not the way it is meant to be

[M0rute]

For such inexplicable depths of precaution in which I have cast upon these circumstances, I seem to be fondled until I disperse into several fragments of sand.

How come, the reasoning in which you entertain my need for affection seems to benefit what we had both agreed upon of what not to do?

Honestly, my ability to be swayed by such inconspicuous charm and flattery is appalling. The capability of a girl who has lost herself and form in the midst of a rambunctious, swirling storm. Trifling through all trials, inescapable errors to follow her on foot…

Petite fingers lifting up to beckon an approaching taxi a bit closer, perhaps this unsuspecting driver may nudge her inches closer to a strengthening salvation, of what had always been just higher than she could grasp. Faces in the community beamed of their victorious reaping of such a thing, juxtaposed to the fact that it never did sum up their worth, nor did average their potential. Why should the children with absent structure be looked down upon? They are capable, too. Always few resources too short, however they always seemed to be the most vital ones.

Now, does the driver of this taxi have any reason to expect any form of trickery? A lingering trail of [redacted] pummeled through the crack in the window, tugging at the invisible leash around his neck.

A game known as tug of war, it’s no more complicated than what the name suggests. However, this principal applied to the nature of human relationships becomes diversely advanced. Where is the morality, in a game where the target it to fulfill one’s own personal need for victory?

What defines a human relationship, if not power and strategy? Obviously, this suggestion would be laughed at in the face of many. A philosophical wreck, some may argue. Pulled by the tendons of inner redemption and sophisticated appraisal, humans fall apart more often than not when any of the key ingredients are lacking. Morals strung high and low are bound to shift throughout one’s childhood, no one being remains the same forever: not one with a brain that is so malleable to every oncoming experience.

Love is largely more suitable to be argued of what human connection is built on, but it can’t be forgotten that, simultaneously, power and ego sinks its fangs into the core essence of what care and comfort rely upon

[M0rute]

An inner complexity of workings within the buildup of an antique grandfather clock, surely about a hundred or so. A child stares upon it, pondering how the physical object’s mechanical structures miraculously combine together to form something so otherworldly? The elegance and grace of a machine like this seems far beyond the capabilities of a child’s mind, at least, generally speaking or so.

There are these grandfather clocks strewn about this child’s life, from one room, to another.. multiple clocks in a room, standing tall solemnly. If it had eyes, eyes that could see the world from the child’s perspective, they’d be rested beneath the glass casing. A thin veil of reality and experience, conditioning, to create a distance between the efficiencies, the classes of the younger and the older. One is wiser, one’s perception is deemed as lesser, simply because of a ‘lack of experience’, as if that didn’t provide an entirely new portrayal of life from a valuable, unique, and what should be, cherished perspective

The chimes to the clock ring in specific moments, structures around the beats and seconds all organized throughout a daily system of life. A mature approach, one that’s developed across varying lands for as long as the earth has stood.


(Author’s note: It’s meant to represent adults, and how their seasoned approach to life conspires in and out of the systems that build up life. Adults are the grandfather clocks looking down upon the children, speaking confidently and with logic and sense. With more tact and precision, it’s a representative body of what lies ahead, the inevitable of aging. Of gaining experience, losing pieces of you and your childhood innocence to time. Existing as another complexity within this world. )

[M0rute]

In the years in which my age were still single digits, I lived in a basement underneath my grandparents

I don’t mean this as some kind of figure of speech;

Circumstances that I was blind to ruled my life

innocence is a folly gesture that only lasts for as long as other people choose. Fate isn’t something often spoken directly, but implied through the means of other words.

I’m lucky with the way things have worked out for me, or maybe that’s the optimistic child within me finding reasons to remain positive; even if that means feeding on delusion to foster a life that I can continue to live from, several years from now

All throughout my youth, I heard the rocking chair of my grandmother going back and forth

The hum of the television, their voices, the sickness of their coughing

Staleness in the air was something I was far too common with, and even now the aroma of dust and dry rot reminds me of where I came from

I’m not there anymore, they’re not here, and I’m here now. But, for some god forsaken reason, I can still hear the rocking of the chair

The beating of the clock;

The muttering of their voices amongst themselves

the rattling from the television going silent after being shut off.

Why am I haunted by these subtleties of my youth? Is it reflective of the good things I carry with me from my past? A family that could usually meet my needs. Or, is it something more of a haunt

Tracings of these years are distorted, like looking above a fire. It’s hazed, you aren’t quite sure if what you’re noticing is accurate, or even there

I hope that it’s neither of those things, good nor bad

I pray that life and fate isn’t black and white, just as I was taught as a frail child

I desperately hope that the reason I still hear the rocking of the chair is because my body remembers it, not the emotional crevices of my mind

[M0rute]

With all of the credibility of a caterpillar within a cocoon, transforming into an entirely different entity.

Unfolding beneath the fleshy mounds of transformative blood and matter, only new opportunities and potential becomes unleashed.

The hardest part always lies with the consistency of emergence; if caterpillars had to re-emerge from their enclosure every day, do you think that they would survive every time?

The process of escaping one’s self made bunker is excruciating, it’s not unusual to see a chrysalis that’s mended around the developing life form permanently. A daily struggle of emergence, from what one has engineered due to the nature of circumstances.

Although, the only way to continue existing for some is to emerge. Continuously, again, and again.

Despite every survival instinct in their body urging them to stay within their gooey walls of comfort, mistakes must be made so that the root of the issue may be allowed to surface.

How will the butterfly know that it’s safe to leave, when they’ve given up an entire part of themselves that has previously kept them safe? A pounding heart strikes tribulations into the essence of one’s mindset, being exposed to this cortisol-inducing frenzy repetitively are sure to urge the growing creature to a sudden halt, taking steps backwards into its casing. But, that is where it dies. It’s so difficult to crawl out every single day. all out, into a world that is completely different from the one that’s been taught since birth.

[M0rute]

Being cursed with open and accepting arms
A denial of fact, a dismissal of reality
With the hope for something brighter, a reoccurring theme in the trails of one’s bloodline.

Never cease adornment
Rather, think sharply;
in which choices and individuals reap and extend your time.

Remain there for people that need you. although, there is a righteousness in ameliorating your own struggles with foresight. Prometheus never regretted his actions, not even as the liver is urgently plucked from his living corpse.

Again and again, he protected his creation, even through the means of trickery. His creation’s struggles became his own struggles, all from associating with the embodiment of hindsight.

Who was at fault, Prometheus? Aiding the clay he sculpted with his own hands, then breathed life into? Yes, a monstrosity was erupted through mighty flames that man pursued for power, rather than warmth. However, was Prometheus foolish for showing devotion and compassion?

Your open arms must cradle your tired and sunken body,
Lest you want to pull yourself inside of your mouth, then eat your existence from all angles-
To a pile of an obsolete somebody’s bloodied belongings.

You can’t ignore what it takes to succeed, the effects of progress track you down like a hungry dog on the hunt. Aid yourself further and further along, stay selective in your approach to your path. Not everything is so polarized, learn to accept the grey area that Prometheus found himself catapulted into.