Willem Indigo
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Let truly writing into the void begin.
Stories (119)
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Getting Diagnosed . Content Warning.
...And explaining it is half the problem. Look, with the flip-flopper rapid cycling, it's hard to deny the manic tenacity once meds defogged the pursuing mirror, and no way the paranoia has red hair and a job title. The only rival being the embarrassing drool on this' first draft after the Seroquel. So, I must ask, (doctors, universe, whatever) what the shit is the RAADS meant to aid in my survival? Permanent script flipper to still stutter back into silence at the register-- 'Would you like to try our rewards program?' Huh, where? Never met her. Oh, it gets better. Got a name to google? Yet life proves no change from the shrinking quack's note pads and oh, yeah, Google searches! Fake It, right? *Sigh* It's better than song lyrics-- Seether had me medically secure by eleventh grade, but can't call them cheaters. What the fuck is this? Better Help?! What a fix, rather trust that rollercoaster with seven twists. Speaking of, death has served its purpose in a cynically beautiful sunrise manner--OOPS! I claimed death is an answer. Lordy, mental health's Kryptonite that speaks to beyond the endless night--Not an issue. All those tissues, and I'd better start researching from the first level of its continuum. Only to be given a lexicon of trivial binoculars on the cerebral mysticisms. On my shit, and still a pit of infinite conversational wit befuddlement, split between reality and the version of it that extends beyond all color spectrums. 'Calms is not an enemy.' Then why is it never enough to bond with the socialites of anecdotes', might, without reckless abandonment of--fuck this, that excuse just called! Yeah, that overstimulating thing you suggested finished the last of my reserves, and (truth alert) while I enjoyed my night with you, something pulled partially from a sitcom (truth over) has thrown me off, and if I don't flee, the bus from Speed won't have the gas the to clear the bridge. Not a mix-up, just a page of wordy links for which the reigning conspiracies sink twelve and a half miles below the flat earth. Okay, fine. I've heard worse. But the thin veil of lunacy coating from this sketch book of mine and what's typed, because I'm forever curious of what happens when speaking to the ether goes awry, and the quills keep burning through the timbers--at least it rests the humiliated vocal cords for something that combats the undefeatable. The low-hanging unmeasurable, the missing pieces that are more definable than any humans it inhabitants.
By Willem Indigo9 months ago in Poets
Twenty-sixth Find of the Meaning of Life Scavenger Hunt. Content Warning.
Wake up frantic. Not quite a panic, “it wasn’t real,” let's applaud the undoing of ten years of therapy. Appreciate the sheen, never know what it means. ‘never needed to’ lost file of the wishful thought police. Night of wisdom without a character arc that has a bark with no dog of origin. Friday night in—fine here we go---
By Willem Indigo9 months ago in Poets
Pass the Bottom of the Nothing
Creating a self that makes the sun sweat, line lured from the savage recesses, bet outside my cell are the putrids tapping on the surrounding glasses. Driver fast yet stacking a card castle full of aces. The chase, for the one that demands to be inked—for your tale vailed in a haunting forgotten blink. Better help from the pre-fucked pie of what the doctor recommends daily. Baby’s breath of Bailys, no tooth aches, no pretense of shattered glass in the future. Moistened out of focus…outside of review. Packs of me and your half right. I’m the Bandanaed Violet Knight--I need that on me. Read the groves of the life led by the effervescence of shock and awe, the brave, deaf to cries from the fall. Lockstep with self-built laws. Pause. Is that the silence, followed by violence—let it claw at the cleansing, kill your clandestine ache for mincing words. Let the walk avoid the herds, lending to hostile verbs. Be the consciousness that can’t tell what it is, but draws the love in with its iron fist. Claim no order can border you—YOUR absurdity. Flame against Demeter's dissenters with disregard that re-angles the purity for the lights to blind the dementor, yes, a pack of them. Yes, a hoard would peel the skin back of anything unsettled by the inside of the third eye. Don’t lie, you know you’re promising Leagues below the depths and hooked on climbing innovations. Sample from this building's Cosmic boiler to greet the surface with your rawest wiles.
By Willem Indigo10 months ago in Poets
Worn Feet
Brains ask for a moment, but is it really ever just that? Days of eerie foreshadowing in circumstances that climbs in intensity steps growing large and shrinking puny to a heavenly blunderbuss. It would be nice to prop for the ammo, but…you never know—I never knew this would happen at the end of that trip, done medically sober. A little over 2,000 miles with bad travel compadres and clear roads, and it ends peacefully in an isolated, nervous conniption. A rough arrival home until I entered my apartment and saw the return of a world; I didn’t realize I was hysterically happy to leave as soon as possible. Nothing a quiet like a smoke and some sleep, but symptoms seventeen through eighty, hyperactive pacing, amid hyperventilating, for example, in a fit of malice panic, kicking right in at eleven o’clock for a period no shorter than four hours. No run-through of life should lead to equivalent waiting for the meteor no one knows about and won’t know about until it goes cut-sies in front of the moon. Steady melancholy of an idle mind asking for a brain to use for spare parts. I’m compatible with no one alive in this state. More furthering the manic despair into a period of my feet leaving tracks in the filthy carpet to the down trotting effortlessly into 'why not' with a leap through the living room windows on the line. Talking in laps because, of course, I gotta feed the vibe; I numbered every pro and con for top floor window airlines, not a line, a lie, not reason to put on anything but cement shoes to strut down a short pier. I can’t write cause I can’t sleep because of nightmares, can’t make [Redacted] stop fucking haunting every waking moment. There’s fucking nothing—
By Willem Indigo11 months ago in Psyche
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Or maybe this. In case you missed god’s diss, there’s a Hostage Taker rocking a classic Ruger (respect) making calls from my hijacked mind liminal mansion, and since the police stopped being interested once, she defused the need for gunplay. Now it’s Sunday plus one, and her rings echo, cut the face, and summon my efficiency layered in Rum breath while sharing the redrum mysteries. Blasphemous a thing like her with such a human trade. All I asked for comes from lakes or streams, speaking untoward to a warden with a noble cause. (What?!?) Not an answer to the flaws but her multiplier is only ignorable because her existence is in QUESTION.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Poets
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Don’t excuse a thing; they laugh. A dirty gesture that festers…and pardon the rule breaks, the cursive demands it. Zero filter from quill to page. Never one for unique-looking words, so the Daemon powers through my Zombie form, so if they’re going to do the work……
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Poets
The Fog
Dances in the Fog. The crude sight taker, the void maker that twinkles light into luminescent fakers. An honest perspective from mother nature and their utter indifference to our screams for order and decent control. It all exists and flourishes outside the fifty-yard view distance but if you ask a child naive enough, ‘the world is gone.’ Possibly in a panic, if it’s the silent type, there could be havoc beyond the intangible barrier. You breathe it on the way to work, not an ounce feels from the ninth set. So many mornings of blithering confusion to greet the internal mysticism that leaves the rapids baffling season to season. Could it be monsters camped within the cover for easy, intimate kills or the Earth is completely gone into the ether, and your front porch is the final corner pocket of the Milky Way? No blue in the moisture; is the sky a lie? Sparkling, spinning light in the dead air where the stars are stuck behind the ceiling. I think this is what I’m feeling.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Humans
