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    Love & Purgatory: Poetry from an Unstable Mind
    Love & Purgatory: Poetry from an Unstable Mind
    Love & Purgatory: Poetry from an Unstable Mind
    Ebook157 pages1 hour

    Love & Purgatory: Poetry from an Unstable Mind

    By Genevieve Kinslow

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    About this ebook

    Poetry is a form of art either overlooked, over-appreciated, or admired for selfish or admirable reasons. Maybe I am a mix of both? Maybe I’m a liar? Or perhaps I only tell the truth. My poems include stories, ideas, memories, and hopes. I’ve been gathering all my poetry into one singular collective for years. One got me into college, one got me a hickey or two or three, one causes me extreme pain to read again, and one makes me laugh uncontrollably. I am a mixture of so many elements, so why separate these idioms into sections, when they came from a boiling pot of my torment? So keep them mixed, keep them in mystery, and keep everyone guessing.
    So taste my torment, my sopping love, my ideas, and my horrific scenarios; I am all that I create, just as equally, if not more, I have nothing to do with it. Do not think of me when you read this, inside these pages I do not exist, nothing is birthed, and yet everything breathes.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateMay 1, 2023
    ISBN9798823004367
    Love & Purgatory: Poetry from an Unstable Mind

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      Book preview

      Love & Purgatory - Genevieve Kinslow

      Prologue

      I wrote my first book at age fifteen, it ate me from the inside out until I was forced to expel it. I am enthralled with, and quite married to, horror, but to confine myself to one genre would be to define myself - which I ultimately conclude to be the same as living as an immutable and boring bolder (unwittingly free of spray paint).

      My obsession ranges as far as my interests; death, life, hate, love, disgusting and vile imagery, and beautifully eloquently designed phrases. To be one thing often despises pre-existing or soon to be lived in contradictions.

      Who hasn’t written a poetry book? It’s supposedly easy and makes an easy buck. If your name proceeds your character, why not cash in that fame in simple anecdotes you wrote in the shower?

      My poetry is different is a self-centered ideology, and selfishness is not in my nature (as long as I continue to change it), but often enough difference is obscene and freakish enough to stand alone (be cornered). My words hold meaning I must to show others, not in the way of taking off my clothes but rather tear away my skin; opening my chest cavity for anyone who wishes to observe.

      Art should be consumed, tasted, and digested. My prerogative is to be eaten, don’t you be a voyeur but rather a participant. So consume me, and let something be gained from my internal torment and any pretty words that may spill while I am being feasted upon.

      This collection varies from self inflicted love letters, to the worst pain I willingly ingested, and festered. There are narrative stories, personal incriminations, things stuck in between, and sometimes neither existing or feasible. You may guess if they happened to me truthfully, or perhaps they’re all lies;

      Either way, please enjoy me.

      A Life I Wasn’t Supposed To Keep

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      I was supposed to die

      So breathing is still very strange

      Exhalations are always followed by inhalations, it’s unfamiliar to feel security in that

      I shouldn’t be here

      I was never supposed to live this long

      My name was written next to a time that has long since passed

      A dedicated history of end dates, the punctuation of fates

      My own I have managed to escape

      But why me?

      Just because I fought with everything I have, and everything I’ve never had?

      Why am I alive?

      Why do I get a second chance?

      Could I possibly be that important?

      I don’t really think so

      And I’m not really that thankful

      But I am here, and that’s far more than enough

      So for now, I guess I’ll keep myself alive.

      Afterlife

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      After I was decapitated - I woke up.

      The pain a phantom, which led me to believe that I was as well.

      I reach out to my lover, but I reach right through their face.

      I can pull my head off my body, my neck nothing more than a table for my face to sit upon.

      Eternity waits patently for my eventual mental snap,

      Which indeed is evident.

      Walking cold halls of a house, I only knew as warm,

      Drowns me in the air you breath through my apparition,

      It’s suddenly suffocating and pouring into your lungs as if it were a liquid.

      I only know alone.

      I only understand my current, the past a distant dream.

      I live inside each and every second, who’s length is no less than a year.

      And I watch dust settle, as I move slower.

      Death is not scary, nor should it intimidate.

      Dying is the easy part.

      It’s living afterwards, lost in perpetual nothing, that should be feared.

      AHHH

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      I have let myself get in my own way for my entire life.

      I allowed pain to cloud my inner judgment, and I let my creativity soak when it should have burned me from the inside out.

      But it all got so tiring, always feeling so bad for myself, always feeling so terrible.

      There was objects of my affection of which I could have turned to, but I starved myself of them too.

      Why would anything be so gracious as to allow me to enjoy it peacefully?

      Silly self deprecating thoughts, plague me like an illness and eat my insides, won’t you?

      I’ve wasted so much time.

      The years I spent pooling over myself, laying on my bed and staring at the ceiling like I was spiting some god.

      I could have been writing for so long.

      Those days I did nothing but cry, break down, hurt;

      I could have been spilling the overflowing stories in my brain, yet I let them sink and choke under my own suffocation orders.

      Alone With You

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      Alone is something I am used to,

      It’s something I thrive on.

      Social execution becomes so tiring after so little.

      But being alone with you,

      Is nothing like I’ve experienced before.

      Alone I am free to be anything my mind wishes.

      I may scream on my own, sing, dance, and cry.

      Of my own prerogative, I am allowed myself.

      I’ve never been able to be like that, not alone.

      Alone can be between two people.

      Alone together.

      I’ve never understood anything that makes sense resolving that idea.

      But I understand it thoroughly now.

      I don’t how I didn’t see it earlier.

      But I also absolutely do.

      Comfortable isn’t something you think about, it just exists.

      We know anxiety like we know the friend who just keeps talking and will follow you until you can escape.

      But alone with you, anxiety only appears in elation,

      Or maybe hysteria is more accurate.

      Alone Without You

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      Having never slept in

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