God's Voicemail [22.11.2023]

God's Voicemail [22.11.2023]

god's voicemail [22.11.2023]

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poetry poem original poem rumos poetry paolas don't really like this ... need to post the old stuff before the new stuff though

More Posts from Rumograph and Others

rumograph
4 months ago

started playing disco elysium today

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personal this will be fun ! i think
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rumograph
9 months ago
Attempting To Make A Collage

attempting to make a collage

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my art art traditional art original art collage fish mixed media havent done a collage in ages think i did a fish last time i did one too
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rumograph
1 month ago
Have Posted Some Of These Separately But Dont Think Ive Posted The Whole Page :)

have posted some of these separately but dont think ive posted the whole page :)

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my art art traditional art i think pencil tw blood
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rumograph
8 months ago

could you draw ringo with a rat maybe ... or any beatle really

Could You Draw Ringo With A Rat Maybe ... Or Any Beatle Really
Could You Draw Ringo With A Rat Maybe ... Or Any Beatle Really

Ringo the boy and ringo number two the rat

Neatest starzapple post

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it’s beautiful Rat the beatles
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rumograph
7 months ago
My Mother Sends Messages To Herself [11.05.2024]

my mother sends messages to herself [11.05.2024]

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poetry poem original poem rumos poetry
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rumograph
11 months ago
More Old Art

more old art

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my art art traditional art paul mccartney Devo difficult marc bolan mark mothersbaugh dont like drawing marc
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rumograph
5 months ago
People don't understand what I mean when I say that I've died a million times. I'm in a train and in each carriage is a dead child. They are dragged off the train, one by one, and I can do nothing but watch. It's hard to tell a dead child from a living one sometimes. I get off at Camden and think about what casket they'll sleep in tonight. When I get out of the train station, my mind is full of nothing but the dead. I think about the suicide pacts I made with my ex. I call her on the phone, say it's been a year since I last touched a blade. I spend the next morning prying the blood out of my fingernails. I revise the ways I'll die over and over. Three bullets in my throat, one for each child I missed. I light another cigarette. I stumble through the market like I can't see two steps in front of me - in many ways, I can't. I spend too long looking at the wrong things, trailing my hands across the painting of Bowie, buying orange juice instead of the record I want, walking across the rainbow crossings over and over; there is a dead child in me and London makes him sick. His body hangs limp in every window I pass; you learn to deal with it, eventually.
Every twelve steps you take are someone's last. I stay at the Lockside until I'm gagging on my words and I can't feel the rain on my back. I taste it on every breath; I am dead in ways people don't understand and I will die in ways they wish they couldn't. Outside there are bodies floating in the river and only the ones already standing with one leg over see them. I stay inside for another hour or two. On the way home, all I can hear is screaming. I've always hated the underground. The screeching dies before it can reach me and all that hits me is the sobbing behind it. The underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery. There is nothing in the windows but my reflection slumped and rotting in the seats across from me. I wish I could find it in myself to mourn but you can only die so many times and still feel something towards it.

camden market '07 [13.01.2025]

(first piece of writing of the year !)

Tags
writeblr writing oh well I tried rumos poetry parasite days not sure how good the image is on this one what do i tag writing with
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rumograph
2 months ago

does anyone want to be friends on goodreads. maybe

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im also rumograph on there its lonely out here ....
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rumograph
3 months ago
rumograph - is rumo real ?
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my art art traditional art original art pen pencil rumosona
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rumograph
1 month ago
i cradle festering wounds because don't i have to? at the end of the day, i was the one who filled myself with some kind of rot that can only be fixed by clambering over barbed wire and begging please, please don't let me go on like this i carry the bullets that should've been theirs because god knows that they should've went more peacefully than they did. the blood i choke up means nothing compared to what i could have spared them from

the bullets i carry // chicken scratches

Tags
writeblr writing poetry poem original poem rumos poetry 29.09.2024
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rumograph - is rumo real ?
rumograph
is rumo real ?

the underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery

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