Somewhere

Somehow

I can’t identify when
it changed.

I saw things differently,
my eyes no longer covered
by an opaque way
of thinking.

Sunshine brightened this world
with unimagined colors,
butterflies broke free,
songbirds warbled lovely tunes.

Amidst emerging beauty
words became
every day’s lifeblood;
I found my voice.

All around me,
there was change,
yet everything remained
the same.
For it was me
that changed.
Reborn, rewired.
My heart drummed
a brand new beat.

Driven by transformation,
I wrote. I write.
Adding a dash of color.
Singing harmony
to surrounding melodies.
I am changing.
I am writing.
I am a poet.

I'm reading a step-by-step manual on
how to love yourself again.
'Cause although fundamentals may be philosophy,
Rewiring is all physics baby.
We all need a reason to escape gravity
and plunge ourselves out of orbit.
Self-sacrifice isn't worth ****
if you're wired for it.
To stand on the edge of a tall building and
think of jumping.
Inertia and hysteria.
The magnetic pull of your body to the ground.
To return back to dust.
Loving myself is
a little bit like that.

Parasitic infection, brain overtaken.
When the soul dies, I’ll fully awaken.
Constant conflict, the machine rejects me.
Chemical warfare declared, the mind is not free.
Machines can be rewired to suit the pilot,
Though the changeover can be quite violent.

Trapped within my own head,
The voices within want me dead.
I am infected, weakened and constantly irate.
Barely stable within the chaos that is my mental state.
Anxiety and disconnection from my own existence.
Reality is blurred, I am losing resistance.

Why am I the one, who myself I must fight?
Losing track who am I, am I human or parasite?

Tumblr Post: http://melancholy.website/image/115439203375

Rexie was his name,
I met him on my tumblr page.
He's similar to Ana,
but different in a mental way.
I never worried 'bout my weight,
but still he got ahold of me.
He whispered to me "start counting your calories."
I'd eat less and less,
I loved the feeling that came with it.
I googled 'side effects of starving yourself.'
Euphoria.
That's what came up,
I ignored hair loss, osteoporosis, death.
It's like a drug, that's what he said,
Thats how the addiction began.
Always tired,
Brain rewired,
Kilos dropping,
There's no stopping.
Now the vision of the scale plummeting makes me feel something.
Rexie's always gonna be with me,
Maybe soon I'll realise
His goal is to ****** me.
Until then,
I can say,
Rexie is my best friend.

-T

I am the Lorax, who once spoke for the trees
In the hope of bringing progress to its knees
But now I have grown somewhat older and tired,
My outlook and thought process being rewired
(Sometimes to see forest, you must clear the trees.)

Examine the case of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
Whose interests for so long I worked in cahoots.
Could such timid beasts truly thrive in the wild
So innocent, trusting, submissive, and mild?
(My former assertions I strongly refute.)

Why, see how they frolic and scamper in zoos;
How can one watch them and steadfastly refuse
To see how much better their lot is today
As joy for our children as opposed to prey
(A happy condition where no one can lose.)

Ah, scoff the nihilists, but Truffula Trees,
Those havens for birds and those homes for the bees.
Why, what do you say now that they are all gone,
Removed to make way for some suburban lawn?
(These angry young men—O Lord, take them all please!)

I gently remind them it’s just nature’s way,
That some species go while other ones stay,
The carrier pigeon’s no longer alive
Yet somehow we manage to live—indeed, thrive!
(In the face of brute logic, they’ve little to say.)

So don’t be dismayed or frightened or leery
Of doomsday projections outlined by theory
Suggesting that our time on this earth may be done;
Consider the caged Bar-ba-loot having fun
(And we hear fish do quite well in Lake Erie.)

In the middle of the night he cried-
arms outstretched wide to his father
who was never really there
and the times when he actually was
the liquor stained lips would reply
with an adaptation of his truth-
"**** it up and be a man".
The boy looked at him with hollowed eyes
and a heavy heart and from that day on
carried a burden upon his shoulders
at the life he thought would treat him well.
But it painted dark skies over his sunset
and brought clouds to the sunniest of the days.
He was born in a world where emotion is never okay-
So the chip upon his shoulder turned into a hole
and eventually made it's way into his heart.
That chip now a disease on his insides
his brain rewired to push everything back,
to swallow his hell whole and to hell if he did
because he knew what this life was doing to him.
His insides turned to stone and he held a stone face.
As his father told him the names of all the men
he should look up to and he left any women off the list.
So as the boy grew old he found himself hiding away
his insides and never showing a hint of emotion
because he knew it would let his father down.
Outside he took his fists and misplaced them
upon four walls-
his arms outstretched around little sister's neck.
Society's genetic defect.

Someone once told me-
men are more likely to commit suicide than women
I thought about this for a while-
Women wake up everyday in fear of dark alleys and street corners
Afraid of men with any address begging to undress them-
We can't walk down the street, any street without worry.
We cannot go into the store without fear painted at our feet
We have become afraid of our own shadows.
This life has built resentment upon our shoulders
ever since the wage gap got less and less
and even now we still have work to do.
But we can't forget that society has painted a picture
of us all and they're nothing close to a self-portrait.
They're more like those fat faced comic illustrations
you get at amusement parks and laugh at
because they look nothing like you.
Us women have been taken advantage of for years-
hiding behind car keys in-between our fingers
and pepper spray on our keychains.
Men have had to hide their pain behind fake smiles
and bank accounts that are supposed to make them feel bigger.
When in reality, we all just end up feeling tiny.
We all feel like the edges of our feet are on top
of years and years of misandry and misogyny-
and although the words feminism encompass feminine
all it's really about is total, complete equality-
so now is the time to treat everyone equally.

Every other guy before you,
somewhere between midnight conversations, interrupted by coffee stains and the dreams that woke me up to talk to them, I fell in love.  One listened to history podcasts to fall asleep. One made me skip class so he could drive me two hours out of town and show me the home he grew up in. Another, used to draw my hands on pamphlets hidden under the pews at the back of the church. And each of these things is the seed, sun, and soil for my affection which maybe you understand, because someone does something you respect, admire, and want and all of a sudden, bam, they're so much more than they were before. And with every single person, I realized. I realized I was in love with the presence of their words and the feel of their existence.
But I did not love them.
I met you, and you wrote love stories on my flesh with your finger tips, and I saw your eyes groan with exhaustion in the morning, and you taught me how to be a bigger, better, stronger person. Every day with you feels like a Sunday morning with crisp bedsheets and lazy smiles, and you took me until my life wasn't mine anymore. You took me as a hostage, you got inside my head, piece by piece you disassembled my suit of armor and showed me how to love a person, rawly and deeply and I could never be the same after that. I loved who you are. The way your hands held my hipbones and your lips stole the end of my sentences, when we would drive home from the beach in your car the sunset would be blossoming with love. I don't know what to tell you, other than a giraffes heart ways 22 pounds, and when flies fall in love their entire brain is rewired to only knowing loving each other, and when one dies their memory goes blank. And my loving you was never about what I could get out of it, or what you could make me, but how full I could make you. And if I can't love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend, or however the song goes. But I know what I need in this world, and it's hidden behind your knees and in your hair and sometimes sits between your shoulder blades. And I know sometimes you can't decide if you want to *******, break down and cry, or eat a whole pizza but the entire spectrum of who you are reflects all the pages I could fill with the reasons why you are a spectacular person, Adrian, and you are the one, sealed with a kiss, you are my sun and stars, my stormy night, and you are stained onto my skin like the scar on my knee.

And with my ****** and romantic "experience," that you think I have more of, I promise you no one could fill the space you left. And even though what I gave you and how I loved you might not be what you want, I can also promise you no one will feel like that about you ever again. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, you decide. And even if I don't have you, I will have every single memory. I will have the drive-in, I will have the row, I will have lying in the grass outside my house, holding you. And I will never forget what you made me.