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Check Engine Light

There’s something wrong inside of me. There’s a small, flashing, orange light telling me something is wrong, but it’s a vague thought, something is strong and eating at my rot. It’s hard to pinpoint what is the problem, since every part of me is falling into disrepair, why should I care, there’s no gas in the tank, and the tire? No spare. My headlights are blinking, they’re dimming softly, no longer lighting up the way that they used to. The roads ahead of me are dark, I can no longer park in garages and take time to unwind and catch my breath.

The leather interior, the one people once lauded, the one that when new was first applauded, is now torn and weathered from wear and pain. The wind and the rain hasn’t been kind to the paint job, it’s been repainted time and time again; a new color, but the mechanical problems remain the same. My gears don’t shift the way they should, there’s smoke pooling out from under the hood, and my rear view mirrors can no longer see the potential dangers around them. Instead I find myself rear ending everything in sight, cracking bumpers, breaking head lights.

A mechanic? You jest. Someone in tan pants and a grey vest who could potentially fix the problems? I bet. Someone to take one look and know I’m upset, to write down on paper what’s needed to ‘fix’ me, who sees different problems than I see, who reads the owners manual differently. A little tune up, that’s what they said it would take, this is what’s at stake. Check the oil, the mileage, see that I’m not running the way I should be. The dashboard lights come on intermittently. I’m one skid mark away from a fatal crash, one blowout away from a brutal smash. The tires are worn, and I’m weaving in and out of traffic and I’m not wearing a seatbelt.

Check the engine light.

I need help.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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She Is Made Of Seasons

She had summer in her eyes, laying on our backs and pointing out clouds that look like something other than clouds; our hands just barely touching now and then between the blades of semi wet grass, light smiles dancing across our lips knowing that we were in eternal bliss together.

She had fall in her brain, clouded with nostalgia for a time her brain had convinced her was a better time despite knowing full well it wasn’t; we talked about the things that made us sad, and were grateful we both made eachother happy. The most morose season quickly becomes the most love filled.

She had spring in her heart, her bloodstream full of blooming flowers, wanting to pick them all and give them to me, and everyone else she loved; she could feel her body cleansing itself, turning her blood into clean rainwater, purifying her from inside out, and she couldn’t be happier with this new her.

She had winter in her smile, safe and cozy, and yet something cold at the same time, knowing she’d smiled at the wrong person one too many times and wouldn’t make the same mistake again, now reserving the fireside smile for those she really thought deserved it. Just as snowflakes are unique, so is every smile that crosses her lips.

She is made of seasons, full of constant changes, deaths and rebirths, and proud of the fact that she doesn’t allow others to stop her growth. She is herself, she is made of the years she has survived, and she will never be told to be anything else.

I hope to one day be as sure of myself as I am sure of her.

Buy My Book!                Support Me Via Patreon!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Gene Therapy

I’d like to say thank you, I’d like to give praise
For all the skills you gave me that don’t help in anyway
Thank you for the flaws, thanks for the illness too
And thanks for the genes not even good enough for you

You gave me a myriad of things about me to despise
Things that remind me of you, like these ugly hazel eyes
When I look into the mirror, I do not see me
Instead I see the person that I never wanna be

So thank you for the genes, most of them were useless
In aiding in my efforts, most of which were fruitless
Thank you for your rearing, most of which was ruthless
And props to your fake love covered up by rudeness

A child isn’t born broken, not sure if you knew
But a child is an extension of everything you do
So if there’s a trait that you hate in the child that you view
Remember that that flaw came directly from you

Look inside yourself, ask “are these genes worth sharing?”
Don’t spend their childhood complaining and comparing
Never should you ask, “Why are they this way?”
The answer’s fucking obvious, if I must say

So thank you for the genes, most of them were useless
In aiding in my efforts, most of which were fruitless
Thank you for your rearing, most of which was ruthless
And props to your fake love covered up by rudeness

The only positive that’s come from sizing up to you
Is knowing that my good traits are not from you too
I inherited the bad shit, but I created the good
I just want that to be something that you understood

Everything that’s wrong with me in part came from you
Everything you hate in me, you hate in yourself too
But at least there’s some things in me that I cherish
Knowing full well every part of you that’s in me will perish

So thank you for the genes, most of them were useless
In aiding in my efforts, most of which were fruitless
Thank you for your rearing, most of which was ruthless
And props to your fake love covered up by rudeness

Your genes might’ve failed me, but mine won’t do the same
I’m breaking the cycle of self hatred and self shame
I’m becoming better and stronger than you’ll ever be
And one day you’ll be mad you didn’t get your genes from me

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” or my writing over at Medium. You can also donate to my PayPal or support my work at Patreon, where you’ll get access to patron only content and new content early, all for as cheap as a buck a month! Thanks for reading!

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A Traveling Mind

I fashioned a boat, and set sail to be free, left my pressures behind and became a new me. But it didn’t last long, sure the first week was fine, but soon I had found what had been plaguing my mind. They were things I can’t sail from, things I had scorned, things that I soon found that I’d mourn. Sure, sailing is fine, but you can’t run from your mind, no matter how far you go, it’s not far behind.

So I fixed a car, and drove off with no cares, left behind gossip and rumors and stares. At first it was nice, being alone on the street, forgetting your failures and denying defeat. But try as I might, I knew it can’t last, my tires were shot and running short on gas. You can put up a stop sign, you can drive through the night, but it won’t stop insecurities, it won’t stop your plights.

So I bought a plane, I flew into the skies, away from the pressures, away from the lies. I soared through the clouds, I flew with the birds, ignoring those taunts and all their cruel words. The engines were weak, the landing gear broke, this whole idea had turned into a joke. I was forced to land, my trip was a bust, my reasons were flawed and my feelings unjust.

I tried to sail, to drive and to fly, but it didn’t matter which one I’d try; you can’t run away from the problems you have, the things they have said, their opinions of you rattling ’round in your head. Try as you might, you can’t shake the pain, the thoughts that it brings will drive you insane. So if you can’t run, then what do you do? How do you run from your problem when the problem is you?

Hey. I’m Maggie. Like this thing I did? Then you might like other things I do! You can read my depressing webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or check out my work at Medium. You can also donate to my girlfriend and mines PayPal if you so wish. Anything you give would be greatly appreciated and go towards helping us pay rent and get groceries. Thanks for reading!

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We Could

We could tangle in the sands on a moonlight stricken beach
We could put our heads up in the clouds, no dream is out of reach
We could read every book, and discuss them end to end
We could climb every tree, every branch would never bend

We could learn every language and study all our years
We could tackle every demon, and conquer all our fears
We could throw away all of today, and instead dream of tomorrow
We could procrastinate and investigate, accept the joy and sorrow

We could learn every skill and trait, and work every job
We could learn the names of all the stars, our time will not be robbed
We could argue every point of view, grow and learn and love
We could use these skills to show others what they too are capable of

Yes there’s still so much for us to do, with the time that we have here
I want to do it all with you, I’ve made this very clear
I want to explore the universe, because even though it’s true
That it’s glorious and wondrous, the real beauty is you

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Performance Artist

up goes the curtain.

the show has begun. everything i do, every face i wear another mask you see. not something reflecting my personality, but rather something hiding a personality i don’t want to share. putting on an act, one after another, trying so hard to stay hidden in the backdrop of the curtain shadows while still remaining partway in the spotlight. just vague enough to only be mildly intriguing. a performance. that’s what i’m putting on.

i don’t want applause, or recognition, or even reviews. i simply want to put on the best, simplest one man show i can without being noticeably different. just enough to gain a lukewarm 3 ½ star write up. “not crucial, but entertaining nonetheless”. because i want to be ignored. as much as i crave what we all do-attention, and affection, and love-i also yearn to be alone. i can’t make up my mind; the theater is my home. there’s no bit players, there’s no set design and no makeup artists. no directors. all my lines are adlibbed and no yellow correctors. the first draft is the right draft, it’s the only draft there is because you don’t get a second take.

and at the end, if i’ve put on a good performance, a passable persona, perhaps there’ll be champagne. perhaps roses, or an encore. maybe i’ll softshoe and sing once more. but it’s not likely. it’s useless to pretend i like it. i prefer to be offstage. i like the dressing room, the trailer, the solitude. i hope that’s not rude but in this day and age, art isn’t just something you hang in a museum, it’s something you do everyday. i am a performance artist, and i greet every situation with a different point of view, each person gets a new “how do YOU do”. make it personal, but keep it simple. i am an artist. i am a liar. i am putting on a show.

and down goes the curtain.

(an original poem by coyotefugly)