When they look at themselves they see nothing but the reflections of those who they used to know.
Blank stares and empty promises left them without,
Out own hatred took them by surprise.
They should have know,
we tell ourselves,
the light across the field played hopscotch
Up then down the row of rape and poppies
A tired shine, worn and waxed
At an angle, measured and meticulous
Themselves a matter of life
Them. Excluding everyone but themselves, forever a group and forever special. The others, the ones that are not in the group do not matter. They are not spoken of and ignored, smeared into the background. The vibrancy lives within the group, within themselves. They act as though they care for each other and that they keep each other alive. But somehow, they speak of each other nastily. They lie. They cheat. Each thinks for oneself, but acts as though the truth lies within the group. But its threaded with lies, keeping the individuals stuck and desperate. The clique, the group, is all that they have. But it is also what is holding them back, keeping them entangled with pointless people and thoughts. But no one can leave. They must stay loyal to the group, and loyal to themselves.
Together, themselves apart, but not quite themselves in between.
When they were younger were they the same self?
Three sisters – no, don’t separate them. One entity
Herself, Itself, a Thing. No room for being apart when they are together
And only together are they themselves
They only think of themselves. But then again, who wouldn’t? Isn’t selfishness a basic instinct and component of survival? As I write this, I only think of myself and what I think and what I feel and what I see, smell, taste and hear. I have no regard for what others are thinking right now.
they take themselves and fold their limbs into a backpack, collapsible human, airtight vacuum bag space-saving convenience, until I make plans to go camping and I shake them loose, their limbs reballoon and they shiver a little and wander off toward the lakeshore where they find pebbles and toss them into the water.
They went there all by themselves, and when it happened to them they left. By themselves. They had experienced it by themselves and it was time to go home. They never thought about it agin.
they themselves are bones. they are the upside down amphorae in an empty basement. they are clumsy shards and chunks of rock, clamoring cobwebs and unreal windows rusted shut. they are left.
they are themselves
that’s all they’ve ever been
hiding among the average
until it is time to win
for themselves
they will bring the glory
for themselves
they will bring the peace
for themselves
they will do the honor
all
for
themselves
they were always together, even in their half-remembered dreams about ferris wheels and skinned knees at the park. it was not the sort of love one would find in a picture book, but a raw, passionate kind that would scare most away. They were inseprabable, but always themselves together.
thats all people ever think about. never anyone else, no one ever has it worse. i want to run away and escape this lack of reality but i’m not sure i’d be able to handle being around someone who isn’t as selfish. i’m probably going crazy assuming that im different when in actuality i’m probably just like them.
i am themselves i am a collection of people, ed wood says i am society ,
i reflect those around me, i am a mirror to others
i cannot help thinking of my homework codes and conventions have so many themselves.
They called themselves the Pseudo-Canadians. They wanted to be Canadians, but they were from Washington so close, but no cigar. Not even a cheap cigarette. Lots of booze, though. And one dollar candy bars.
They sat by the border on the weekends, chewing on chocolate and pretending to talk in very bad Canadian accents. One guy named Tony was pretty gross and decided to take a bottle of maple syrup with him, drinking it like it was scotch.
ourselves. are we seperate?
they are laughing to themselves
in the common room
funny, the way we use to laugh too, and now i lok at you in disdain and think
they sure are enjoying themselves
themselves
weve got ourselves
to worry about
“They can take care of themselves.” He wasn’t sure he really believed that, but he had to try to. He wasn’t doing them any favors, hovering around them like this, like some mother hen. It was hard to accept, with each new generation it was hard to accept, but these kids had to learn to solve their own problems and to make their own mistakes.
All they do is think about themselves. Can they not see. Not only you matter. Not only you are in this world. Not everyone is robots and don’t have feelings. Can they not see they neglect me and abuse me? This is not right, they need to stop thinking about themselves.
There will always be people in this world who think they are better. Who really have no right to gloat or be so patronizing, but they do anyway. Those people can go fuck themselves.
they couldn’t control themselves, they were just completely in lust. as if there was no one else in the world. the way that their bodies entwined was simply beautiful
they were themselves,
two humans
crying over semi decimal points
and observations of boys and fruits
they were
as soft
and lonely
as two grains of rice
It’s very hard for us to see ourselves the way that others see us. Self-reflection is most often self-loathing, and I am no exception. Despite my many faults and failures, I am a good person; but I cannot see that. I am constantly defined by my past. A past that, honestly, is not my fault.
Their favorite word. “Themself” is not a word. “Themselves” is. Always plural. Always together. He held her hand very tightly and rubbed his thumb over the callus on her middle finger, where she gripped her pen too tightly.
Everyone. Together. They all sat cross-legged, surrounded uno cards and go fish cards, trying desperately to think of something that might actually create a conversation and thus an actually group and not uncomfortable card players.
When they look at themselves they see nothing but the reflections of those who they used to know.
Blank stares and empty promises left them without,
Out own hatred took them by surprise.
They should have know,
we tell ourselves,
how strange
why do people think so much about
why people care about
why can’t people notice
why can’t people see
the light across the field played hopscotch
Up then down the row of rape and poppies
A tired shine, worn and waxed
At an angle, measured and meticulous
Themselves a matter of life
being is sometimes not enough
Them. Excluding everyone but themselves, forever a group and forever special. The others, the ones that are not in the group do not matter. They are not spoken of and ignored, smeared into the background. The vibrancy lives within the group, within themselves. They act as though they care for each other and that they keep each other alive. But somehow, they speak of each other nastily. They lie. They cheat. Each thinks for oneself, but acts as though the truth lies within the group. But its threaded with lies, keeping the individuals stuck and desperate. The clique, the group, is all that they have. But it is also what is holding them back, keeping them entangled with pointless people and thoughts. But no one can leave. They must stay loyal to the group, and loyal to themselves.
Together, themselves apart, but not quite themselves in between.
When they were younger were they the same self?
Three sisters – no, don’t separate them. One entity
Herself, Itself, a Thing. No room for being apart when they are together
And only together are they themselves
They only think of themselves. But then again, who wouldn’t? Isn’t selfishness a basic instinct and component of survival? As I write this, I only think of myself and what I think and what I feel and what I see, smell, taste and hear. I have no regard for what others are thinking right now.
they thought, they bought, they took, they caught, they made it all for
Themselves.
simple
I see it, I see us and them and
me
who we are is just
selves
what we do, no less, no more
the stitches of color,
the gradient of light
the decisions, the visions, the
remebrence: what is
they take themselves and fold their limbs into a backpack, collapsible human, airtight vacuum bag space-saving convenience, until I make plans to go camping and I shake them loose, their limbs reballoon and they shiver a little and wander off toward the lakeshore where they find pebbles and toss them into the water.
They went there all by themselves, and when it happened to them they left. By themselves. They had experienced it by themselves and it was time to go home. They never thought about it agin.
The people cry about
their own words
and the mirrors reflect themselves.
they thought of themselves like no other,
toying with the idea of change,
trying to do something new,
but in the end,
nothing happened.
They were all by themselves. Alone and by themselves. They did not know who they were, but they knew they were themselves.
people only think of
They are separate
Like marbles in a fish tank
Together; alone
People walk by
They don’t see me
They are invested but in themselves
People walk by
They. Themselves.
Together. They are.
Themselves.
But. They. Themselves.
Are. Apart.
How to. How do.
They. Themselves.
Make. Themselves.
Understood.
they themselves are bones. they are the upside down amphorae in an empty basement. they are clumsy shards and chunks of rock, clamoring cobwebs and unreal windows rusted shut. they are left.
they are themselves
that’s all they’ve ever been
hiding among the average
until it is time to win
for themselves
they will bring the glory
for themselves
they will bring the peace
for themselves
they will do the honor
all
for
themselves
they were always together, even in their half-remembered dreams about ferris wheels and skinned knees at the park. it was not the sort of love one would find in a picture book, but a raw, passionate kind that would scare most away. They were inseprabable, but always themselves together.
thats all people ever think about. never anyone else, no one ever has it worse. i want to run away and escape this lack of reality but i’m not sure i’d be able to handle being around someone who isn’t as selfish. i’m probably going crazy assuming that im different when in actuality i’m probably just like them.
i am themselves i am a collection of people, ed wood says i am society ,
i reflect those around me, i am a mirror to others
i cannot help thinking of my homework codes and conventions have so many themselves.
They called themselves the Pseudo-Canadians. They wanted to be Canadians, but they were from Washington so close, but no cigar. Not even a cheap cigarette. Lots of booze, though. And one dollar candy bars.
They sat by the border on the weekends, chewing on chocolate and pretending to talk in very bad Canadian accents. One guy named Tony was pretty gross and decided to take a bottle of maple syrup with him, drinking it like it was scotch.
ourselves. are we seperate?
they are laughing to themselves
in the common room
funny, the way we use to laugh too, and now i lok at you in disdain and think
they sure are enjoying themselves
themselves
weve got ourselves
to worry about
they went there by themselves, but nobody knows what happened to them afterwards.
“They can take care of themselves.” He wasn’t sure he really believed that, but he had to try to. He wasn’t doing them any favors, hovering around them like this, like some mother hen. It was hard to accept, with each new generation it was hard to accept, but these kids had to learn to solve their own problems and to make their own mistakes.
All they do is think about themselves. Can they not see. Not only you matter. Not only you are in this world. Not everyone is robots and don’t have feelings. Can they not see they neglect me and abuse me? This is not right, they need to stop thinking about themselves.
They keep to themselves
Always looking around
Never Speaking
They keep to themselves
But never look at each other
Looking anywhere but
They keep to themselves
I am like themselves. We are like themselves. Together we are a nation of themselves. How very ‘them’ of us. And you. Themselves.
There will always be people in this world who think they are better. Who really have no right to gloat or be so patronizing, but they do anyway. Those people can go fuck themselves.
Themselves dont care about thereselves, if they did they would be so occupied about themselves. I am more interrested in ourselves, book shelves and
they couldn’t control themselves, they were just completely in lust. as if there was no one else in the world. the way that their bodies entwined was simply beautiful
they were themselves,
two humans
crying over semi decimal points
and observations of boys and fruits
they were
as soft
and lonely
as two grains of rice
It’s very hard for us to see ourselves the way that others see us. Self-reflection is most often self-loathing, and I am no exception. Despite my many faults and failures, I am a good person; but I cannot see that. I am constantly defined by my past. A past that, honestly, is not my fault.
They told her he was perfect.
He told her she was strange.
They said he’ll never leave you.
He left her everyday.
Their favorite word. “Themself” is not a word. “Themselves” is. Always plural. Always together. He held her hand very tightly and rubbed his thumb over the callus on her middle finger, where she gripped her pen too tightly.
Everyone. Together. They all sat cross-legged, surrounded uno cards and go fish cards, trying desperately to think of something that might actually create a conversation and thus an actually group and not uncomfortable card players.
drop
a coin
in his cup
if you can afford altruism
they “do it for other people”
they do it
for themselves
THEMSELVES.
Are they themselves?
Are they sitting by themselves?
Who do you speak of?