Hello! My name is Betty, my artist name is OnyX. I stopped writing awhile back due to personal reasons but Im back; guess I needed a place to speak my truth. My mind is a random and chaotic playground. I don’t quite understand why I think as much as I do but these truths are what I spend time reflecting on about experiences, perspectives and just simply shit I’ve seen. Let’s take a ride shall we?
Pen Strokes of a Distressed Mind By OnyX
These are my random thoughts and woes. Hopefully we connect through the words
Lost Thoughts @ 12:37 am —
I got tears I never let people see. Thoughts that will give the average soul headaches.
That’s what the philosophers call it. Not really into the nitty gritty of philosophy. But I do specialize in overthinking.
Im a Thinker.
I like to question everything
Some left unanswered
Others dance around in swirls
Then I cry because words cannot describe the swirls.
I don’t understand it. Can’t explain how that makes sense. But it does.
The Swirls also leave dance patterns. Makes me stay up to learn their steps. I can never quite catch all of it But I try to follow the tempo; get lost in it.
Being Found is that hard part. You see, that’s what comes with overthinking.
The Crisis to the Existential
The dance leaves you dizzy
The tempo becomes too fast to trace.
Then you find yourself on the carpet.
Comfortable yet stagnant.
Because to think is easier than to act.
To think is much more of a delicate melody.
Than to accept.
The tears are the distraction
To the distressed mind.
To cry is to aim to feel.
It’s the line not crossed towards
Numbness. That would be a much happier feeling wouldn’t it?
Emotions remind you of very deep wounds.
They’re scabbed now but the scabs don’t seem to complete the final step.
I think they’re waiting for me to finish
Dancing with the swirls.
What’s Love Got to Do With It
I can’t seem to understand
This word anymore
Feels quite foreign
Every soul puts on its display
But never do they give the full exhibition
I read about it somewhere
A Holy Book
Supposed to make you feel like life’s rollercoaster would have been a 2 seater
A cozy two seater
Half n Half
That’s the coffee order
It’s also how the 2 seaters are kept
Half warm Half cold unanswered questions
Requesting the coffee
With Half its strength
Half its warmth
I once thought the goal of
Cupid’s Arrows was to jolt Revelations
That we needed each other
So life did not
Paint a tale
Of a solo hike
Alas the arrows missed their marks
We trek alone
We become turtles
Shells are nicer getaways
The worlds agenda for Cupid arrows
Feels like the Engineer’s blueprint
To a Jailhouse
Suddenly the mockingbird misses singing in the woods;
The yellow cage becomes its trap
With the promise of a melodic duet
Loneliness is less melancholy
For the solo hike has more rhythm
And half in half is just less bitter
Ignorance is now Bliss
I once wanted to put on the exhibition
The glass over it
I’m blamed for the glass covering
Weak for the security it brings
But it protects Glass Menageries
And I preferred a full cup of coffee
Someone once told me
That life was simple
Such mundane and luxurious phrase
Seemed too unwary to be the universal Answer
How can life be simple
When the production line exists
And the pauper must make its tithes
To the religious Institutions of Existing
One must get up
One must interact
The How’s and Why’s get pencilled in
As you move along the Line
A promise of Erasure of shackles
We Lock ourselves in
The Warden clocks out
the Day strokes 4
There’s no time for a Repose
We must move along; the Plastic March continues
The conversations proceed
Responsibilities to Home, to People, to the Future
Until the cells grow heavy from
The Race around the 24hr race track
The tasks done or unchecked
Where do we find the hour hand
That points towards simplicity
Do we refuse and decide to sit still?
Despite the loss of worldly diamonds and pebbles
Stagnant — is the Étagère label
We could rip it off
To be Reposed again
“The Cotton Pickers”
“Stately, silent and with barely a flicker of sadness on their faces, the two black women in the painting are unmistakable in their disillusionment: they picked cotton before the war and they are still picking cotton afterward.”
1905 Russian Revolution