I felt it
When I spoke
To the judge,
For my son,
Years of shell work
Encasing fear and sanity, cracked with each glance, falling away. Everyone listening.
I was left lost
Like a snail losing it's shell
Mushy and vulnerable
A Pulpy mess.

Was it enough
That I said
Or too much.
So much was left out
The Russian Roulette admission
The thoughts of jumping 15 floors from his hotel
So many letters making up words and paragraphs upon paragraphs
of 15 years.
Throwing out a gun
Into the city trash.

How could I be anything more than a mother
Who let the saving flatten her out of existence. Incoherence and pulp.
Will it be discarded
All that effort
To keep him alive
At my expense.
Is that what mothers do?
I'll never get to return. Life doesn't
Let you.

Worn boots pound
the broken sidewalk.
The pavement rolls
beneath my feet.
And I'm scared to
think of anything,
but the cracks in
the cold concrete.
Kicking rocks to
keep from looking up.
I'll never be the same.
You could take my clothes
and, before I froze,
I'd feel no less ashamed
Still I chase the winter breeze
on passed the candle lit
windows and tall Oak trees..
And at the tail end
of the wind, I roam
where nowhere
feels like home..

every time i cry i
cry with static
my vision is really erratic
when will this nightmare diminish
with every clear cinematic

i close my eyes to a broken tv
wake up to the same show on the screen
why won't the channel change?
it's so bleak

noise drives me insane
how can they say
im sane
when all i see
is all the same?

constant buzzing in your rear view
what deep lie
is rooted in your eye
is it mental? or critical?

its always the same tune
strung for a long time
i think I might just go blind

its always snowing
dust like ashes
it clashes
colours
and contrast
why can't I see the beauty

it adds more
over the years
im worried i won't be able to hear
or see the kiss by your ear
when i see clear of your eyes
when i die
will i still see light?

I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.
I like to think that someday you'll stop trying to wash my scriptures off your hands with holy water.
I like to think that I'm that old mattress you had when you were ten; you always said it held the same familiarity as falling in love with a stranger.
the mattress' holes from falling asleep with lit cigarettes match up perfectly with my alibi.

I'm not to be trusted. I'm an angry human.
I grew up with broken glass in my lungs and cracked ribs.
something inside me snaps even further when the sun shapes your body into a shadow on my bedroom wall.

I want to redefine the word 'fire' with your name, and light candles with you. I want to make my walls sweat. I want you to burn up my ****** clothes. I want you to set my books ablaze. I want you to realize the hardest part is never letting go, but forgetting you ever had a handle.

you can't be the flame and the wick.
you need to leave me to burn down, like the altar candles in the front of the sanctuary, for everyone to see.

sometimes I think god hates me; I'm just a pawn in his and satan's chess game.
small and insignificant in value - I almost want satan to win.

after all,
if you are fire,
hell will feel like home.

but then I remember that I'm tired of controlled burns and scrubbing your soot off of my hands.

so I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.

and I like to think that Saint Jude called me out of your blaze, and that I left you there with all of your confessions and your communions in your own personal hell.

either way, it's not my cross to bear anymore.

Hi, you have reached the voicemail box of Syreena Phelps. I am either working, sleeping, or too depressed to answer the phone. Leave your name, number, and a reason for me to live, and I'll get back to you as soon as I am mentally able. Thanks!

trying to hold a conversation with you
is mentally exhausting and i just
don’t have the time to defend every
sentence that comes out of my mouth

my words are not wrong
just because you don’t like them

The cold and metal sterility of
Aisles as if the cobweb is stretching its
Threads in every direction of Wind Rose
All coming from core of the building
Prewar being pretty but now such a pity
To behold such a sight devoid of all bright
-ness and joy and just silver alloy is
Covering walls that just barely hold
The hulk bulk of this place O ‘Tis better
Erase every one and a-last my remembrance
Of past of this place O no grace was in
This nor in taking a **** in a sink or a
Bathtub a hot tub of water so scald just
To peel you off skin yours in a moment
Like this click-clack your body wrap
Around your bones though y’all are gone
From this den of all vilest and direst of
Creatures this world ever descry and was
Witness O no ‘tis place now occupied
With all fears and a fright of being
Dragged ‘nto that mess where no room
Was for lest you’d be one of their kind
But you need to get rind off these wall
And to fill all the holes with the bodies
Of moles yes of all moles in the world
You piece of O never mind a was just
******* and a **** in the sink
Of a bathtub whence water from time
Ago had all gone like o hell like you know
Vaporized leaving no trace for a plate
With a bread to be fed to that ones
Wretched dwellers who were all
Rolling Hellers till one day this one
Fellow ain’t show up in this joint
With his strap and his oint and
O no I just can’t I just cause you’re my
Friend but I can’t o please stop o
Please no o stop I can’t take i orghs


This one is out; bring another
This pile of **** to the others outside
Burn them after we done here

I thought vulnerability was for the weak.
Even when I let you inside my thoughts
I've had both hands on your steering wheel.
I swerve hard left turns on the difficult memories,
dodging the on coming traffic of blatant truths.
My minds is a pile up on intestate 98
but I have you on the detour route
to Mr. Nice Guy lane on the road of "life is okay".
The next stop is "I am happy" street on the corner
of "you will be all right" avenue and "I don't care" lane.
But these fabricated roads are painted over signs
that trick you into believing that I am truly "fine".
But all the cars have crashed and burned
and now you know the truth.