Working 9-5 struggling to feel alive, yet the pleasures of the weekend call to me.
My manager treats me well, lets me live in a glorified prison cell, 4 walls and a lack of sunshine to get me by.
Because the bottom line was worth my talents being bought on the bottom dollar so my boss can afford another Porsche.
I spend my days in a relentless haze looking at a life that I wish I had. Restless and lacking an emotional albi, my head holds me back because my heart knows I've tried to find the map to success one too many times.
What I do know to be true is that all my thoughts lead me back to you and what we'd do if we lost it all tomorrow.
Because everything we own is borrowed yet our time is owed to pay our debts and drown our sorrows in the latest fashion and technology credit can buy.
All of this a countless scheme living in a capitalistic regime where the boss makes a dollar and I wish I had a dime.
When does this cycle end, what I would give to have my livelihood extend, instead of running a rat race against my will.
Not to be instruspective here, but at this rate you're already dead my dear and the light leaving my eyes is not to far behind.
So, I take my 2 weeks vacation a year and pride myself on facing my fears because if my routine were to ever break I'm not sure what else I'd find.
Let's raise our glasses and make a toast, to the cubicles we live in the most. May a workaholic's love never find me.
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 9:23 PM UTC
Borderline Personality Disorder...
It's this thing that lurks in the shadows, a feeling that doesn't quite always manifest the same way.
BPD...the silent killer.....or maybe that's what all diseases are. I'm not so sure.
What I do know is that I never expected to make it past 18 much less to 23. What I do know is that BPD has a mortality rate of 8-10%. What I do know is that I'm scared.
Scared that one day the hidden thoughts of my mind, those things we like to keep in a box, will soon find their way to the frontal lobe of my brain and send my consciousness soaring.
Scared that one day I'll finally get tired. Then, I'll get tired of feeling tired and then I won't be tired at all anymore.
Scared of my ability to hurt others even more than I hurt myself.
What I find to be the sick irony of the whole situation is that BPD manifests solely from immense abuse. You cannot be born with it, the mannerisms are all learned. Therefore, I am now forced to bargain my existence, tiptoeing through memories that should be long forgotten.
Trying to remember what my childhood was like while overcooking my breakfast.
Trying to shower but my brain continues to replay that time she raised her hands to me.
Trying to sleep....but my brain doesn't allow that comfort much anymore because those thoughts find their way into my dreams.
When we struggle, they like to remind us that "we are not alone". Yet when I dream at night, I am the one to close my eyes. When I walk into a restaurant, I am the one that can't sit with my back to the door anymore.
I want to give a special shoutout to everyone who played a role in me obtaining this diagnosis. If it weren't for your years of abuse, I wouldn't be living through the single most wonderful years of my life.
Without you, I'd be free and freedom from ourselves is much easier said than done.
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 9:09 PM UTC
Some people lie, yet some lie more than anyone else.
Some people die, yet some die for the lies they tell.
So, yes I'd lie for you, at times even die for you,
though we know you wouldn't do the same for me.
Some men protect, while some cower in fear.
Some men love their children, some make us question why we're even here.
So yes, I'll always love you but when the fog of my brain clears and the fears resurface I'll remember who you truly are, a man whose memory fades as fast as his courage.
The seasons of my life continue to be prolonged with every chapter in this rather tumultuous book continuing to get longer and more convoluted.
I'd often read the guides to manhood set upon us by the universe and yet I can't seem to find the section where they mentioned a father who doesn't stand up for his children, a father who puts money first, a father who truly loves no one but himself.
You see, it would be easier to treat you as the villain of my not-so-friendly fairy tale, yet doing so would insinuate that you have power, and truthfully my dear you have none.
I'd ask if when my seasons changed, if you'd stand by me. Yet I know the truth is quite simple, I'm a young man built to fall, knowing that while others will catch me, my father will not be one of them.
So, as I continue to write my own guide to manhood, I refuse to let those looks in the mirror haunt me because of my likeness to you.
No, I refuse to let this tattoo on my chest burn anything into my brain but a reminder of those few good memories.
A reminder that underneath your cowardice...stands the promise of a man who once was, a man who could've been, a ghost of my father's past.
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 2:16 PM UTC
You'll always be a piece of my peace of mind.
You'll always be the sunrise when the clouds threaten to pull me taut from behind.
If home is wherever I'm with you then consider me a permanent transplant, a vigilante on the run from the horrors of both our pasts, looking for an ode to our youth.
Yes, if loving you was an ocean I'd drown so you could stay afloat, wishing I'd be the wave that sunk your every adversary's imaginary boat.
For I'd always thought I was a sickness looking for a cure, yet you've moved mountains to preserve what's left of me that's pure.
Baptized by bad times, swigging a bottle of regrets, you swam me to the surface with no fear for the horrors that our love may beget.
Because we're a million times better together than we ever were apart, loving you is an honor and privilege, so thank you for letting me into your heart.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 7:13 PM UTC
I've been American dreaming...a slumber of days untold.
American dreaming...a longing for the days of old.
Because old dogs can't seem to stop turning tricks and the lotto's been called again but I still haven't won my picks.
American dreaming of days of the past where bad things were common and women wore masks.
Of smiles and deceit to hide their fate from the men with knives who swore they'd made the pain fade.
Away to the future where ****** run amok, and the ones elected to "save" us couldn't give a f---.
Yes, I'm American dreaming, of a place welled up with pride, I'm American dreaming as we **** ourselves from the inside.
In a place screaming "Freedom" as we duck and run to hide.
The abyss pulls us closer as we put our trust into those who've lied,
to save their skin, because we only back the best...
I'm American dreaming...but I can't seem to get no rest.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 7:00 PM UTC
I've always been drawn to inanimate objects. Call it my ADHD or just general neurological fuckery...but I've always understood objects more than people.
Spoons are safe, plain and simple.
Spoons are spherical devices with no sharp edges and a low probability of hurting others.
I never took them for much more than the pragmatic things they were. Spoons are a means to an end, a vessel of delivery.
Yet for some reason I now see how vital spoons are to my very existence.
Always forgetable, spoons are easy to take for granted due to their immense accessability. Yet, they bring about waves of panic in me when I can't find them...especially when I need them most.
You know those people....you know, the weirdos that collect spoons as trophies and tokens to be revered on shelves. I've always kept spoons on shelves before...pretty...and completely impractical.
Because those spoons were never meant to be ate with, never meant to be used to sustain myself. No....I want a beautifully dented spoon.
A spoon that's been ran through the garbage disposal by accident at 3am....a spoon that's been dropped on the floor and licked by six cats at once.... a spoon that just needs a little polish and a whole lot of love.
All my life...I've eaten with forks, knives, and sometimes even just my fingers. And while I've learned there is a time and place for all utensils in this world....I would be lying if I said I didn't hold a special place in my heart for spoons.
I know not much in this universe...but even in the hours when my brain goes dark and the lights begin to dim I know these three things to be true.
Spoons are safe.
Spoons are sustainable.
Spoons are worthy of love.
And I vow to spend the rest of my days....eating soley from my spoon and I will always be honored to be yours in return.
Jul 12, 2024
Jul 12, 2024 at 6:30 AM UTC
The wildest thing about flowers is how unconventionally strong they are. Think about it...some flowers bloom under the harshest of conditions.
When they're beaten and battered by life and the odds are arguably against them, some flowers find a way to bloom through the cracks in the sidewalk.
If a flower can survive amongst the chaos of a crowded street, think of it's potential in the midst of a cultivated field. Where love and encouragement flow freely and days are spent growing a future and not just dodging the blows of footsteps threatening to squash them from all directions.
Towering above the rest in the field, one singular sunflower stands alone. Stronger than the rest, built out of neccessity and self preservation, a tough exterior because she has had to have one.
And sure, the sunflower has grown on her own for years, done well enough surviving, not quite thriving, the yellows of her petals not quite as vibrant as they could be because so much nutrients has been ****** away by the weeds clinging to her from below.
She needs not a savior but wants nothing more than someone to take the time to stop and appreciate her strength. The phrase "stop and smell the roses" has never made much sense to me until now.
We all admire flowers for their surface value, for their beauty, for what they can offer us immediately. How have we forgotten over the years that flowers provide the very oxygen that we breath? That in addition to their beautiful exterior, they're also the backbones of what makes us who we are?
So no, I do not have a green thumb and have not a clue how to cultivate a future but I do know I'd walk through a field for miles, clearing debris if it meant you got to spread your roots a little further, soak in a little more sun, and feel a little bit stronger.
Because anyone can admire a sunflower's beauty, but the real work begins when you long to spread your roots and cultivate a whole field.
While beautiful indeed, one sunflower on it's own is no match for a windy day...but a field with stakes in the ground and love in the soil is a force to be reckoned with.
Apr 3, 2024
Apr 3, 2024 at 3:27 AM UTC
I've never been a holy roller but I found God in your eyes.
I've spent nights praying for a woman like you and cursing him in the same breath for not bringing you to me sooner.
I'm not a cosmic universe "has a plan person" but I'd move heaven and earth before I'd let the stars in your eyes fade away.
I never understood what it meant to have a "person". A "ride or die" a Bonnie to my Clyde, the mother of my children and the woman I hold at night, I've never understood more than I do now the carnal need that men have to walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street.
The way that life has turned from a burden to a privalege is like night and day. The way you look at me with so much love...like you'd want me even if some days I'm Superman and others I'm just plain 'ole Clark Kent.
While I've never been one to tout God, my faith in you does not waiver.
I know not of any scripture that could have predicted a woman like you, I know not of any hymn that could come close to singing your praises....and yet I'll belt out my off-key symphonies anytime in the car because it makes you laugh...and that sound is a bigger dopamine hit than a shot straight to the veins.
No, I'm not naive. No, things may not be easy and no, I will not waiver. Because you are in fact giving me the greatest gift of my life, far beyond all of my holidays and birthdays combined.
You were sent to me in the last moments of my head being held underwater, those moments when your lungs start to burn a little and you're not sure how much longer you can put off the inevitability of your chest filling with water.
Those moments when the light at the end of the tunnel fades and all of a sudden, you're left wondering if the only way to win this game of life is to not play at all.
A highly competative woman once told me that participation trophies don't mean a thing and the only way to play is to win. So, I'm putting in the work and taking nothing less than 1st prize from here on out.
Because at the end of it all, the work is worth it to get to spend the rest of my days building a life with you.
So no, I've never been a holy roller...but I'd make a deal with God to never lose that spark in your eyes.
Apr 1, 2024
Apr 1, 2024 at 3:25 AM UTC
Letters, voice memos, videos, pictures anything I can do to leave you memories of me before I embark on the next chapter of this journey.
No, I did not see the light at the end of the tunnel. Did not undertsand all the euphemisms about finding a reason, a will, amongst the inspirational posters hanging along the doctor's white walls.
My eardrums bleed, beg me to stop blaring music, pumping the booming bass directly into my brain because at least in those few moments the bad sounds dim. The voices battle against the rythmic, upbeat pop songs I play to drown out my current reality.
It's crazy, I seem to think, as I lay in bed again at night wishing more than anything that I could sink into the dark depths of the sheets and wake up the next morning a souless shell, because at least then I would not have the capacity to feel what I feel now.
I've tried to no avail to explain the claws of my subconcious that continue to pull at my feet, whispering sweet nothings into my ears, reminding me that the sweet release of a life not yet half lived is only mere moments away. The edge of the abyss always there, always towing the line between the "jokes" and intentions followed by actions followed by inevitable consequences.
What were once calls of help are now full blown battle crys. What were once outlandish thoughts are now full blown plans for the adjectives in my obituary.
See we all know how this movie ends, the sequels canceled due to budget cuts and a total lack of creative freedom, the story not yet finished and perhaps tucked back on a shelf in a pile of other manuscripts and news clippings of stories ended too soon.
It's crazy, the way that thoughts bounce through my brain, echoing along the walls of the chasm in my mind. The people I care for the most, long gone, the ones I know I've failed are far too deep into the great beyond for me to voice my apologies now.
Those who are left are the mere souless bodies, walking the face of this Earth pretending to love until their sense of obligation fades away. They've long sold their souls to whatever beings exist in the underworld in order to buy themselves their own ticket to surviving their tumultuous existence.
As the credits roll...I beg no one to ask themselves what they could have done differently. I beg no one to get introspective and challenge what brought us all to this conclusion.
Instead, I ask you what good is a story that has no ending? Were there in fact lessons to be learned along the way, or did we merely just waste each other's time? What good are memories if they all fade to black eventually.
Congrats on your participation trophy as a valued member of my life. When the bar was set so low, most of you still found a way to trip and tumble over it anyway.
The funny thing about the credits at the end of a movie is that...no one ever sticks around to see them. So let's not kid ourselves and pretend we've started caring about the plot now that the story's almost over. What were once main characters in this tale are now barely honorable mentions and who remains now but an old VHS tape in a box in the attic, destined and praying to be forgotten?
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 11:31 PM UTC
Who would've known the devil I chose...looks like an angel when she's sleeping.
Who would've thought a snake's venom tastes so sweet when I'm drinking the nectar of the woman I loved.
You are but a story, in a chapter, in the long book of my life...and here I thought we'd be co-authors together.
No. Because as much as I miss the idea of you, our four walls, our future together. I realize those ideas are merely thoughts of who I wanted you to be...not who you are.
I longed for a place atop your mind for so long. Spent days wondering what I had to do to make you smile - never stopping to question if I was happy with you...or the merely the mirage that I created in my mind.
I spew lies to myself, tell myself I won't find better than you. I don't deserve better than you, that I fumbled the biggest hail mary in the history of this field and yet as I stand near the endzone in the 4th quarter...I wonder if it's better to just to take knee and lose this game so I can come back and play another season.
A hail mary....is a last ditch effort...with a low probablity of success...it was never meant to be sustainable...I see that now.
We did not know each other very long...and yet I crashed into life with you 1000 miles a minute flying so fast I couldn't hear that little voice in my head...you know, the one that tells people not to fall in love overnight, not to trust the woman who lives with a smile on her face, a chip on her shoulder, and stake sticking through her heart....
No. I do not know what is on the other side of this mountain, but I'll be ****** if I sit at the base crying for someone who does not have the capcity to love me, no I'll be ****** if I don't reach for the stars in search of a better tomorrow.
The thing they don't tell you when you shoot for the stars...is how likely you are to hurl straight pass them...forever lost in the abyss of space.
So I ask you...is it better to shoot for the stars with a chance of missing...or stay on a planet that is actively dying...a little more every day?
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 9:39 PM UTC