I believe that the things we think about at 4 am define who we are and what we truly care about. For example, when I was awake at times in the night when it's considered to be extremely early morning I thought of how lucky I am that my feet haven't worn down like my sneakers. That my body can still carry me even though my mind and soul are weakened. I thought of how beautiful you look when you're sweating even though that might be weird in some cases.
I'd think about how I want to slash highways into my forearms that would give a pathway for a better life. One where I'm not tormented by the fact that so many more of my friends are capable of having normal every day lives when I, am not. A life where calling a business or family member didn't mean a panic attack. The gushing of air repeatedly into and out of my lungs fills me with panic and hopelessness.
I'd think about how I want to spend every day with my new family but I can't. I want to tell them I love them but I can't because showing emotions makes me weaker. It shows that I can barely stand on my own two feet, that the second my family leaves I'll be torn down. Piece by piece the bricks fall out, my head in shambles I become nothing again.
I think how badly I'd love to kiss you. But I can't. I think our minds show what we care about. I care about you, my family. But wouldn't you be so much better off without me?
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
There’s a theory about alternate universes, or if you want we can call it the multiverse. It’s where for every single idea ever thought of, there’s an alternate universe where it’s actually happened. For example, when George Lucas thought up star wars, somehow in another time, place or galaxy far far away, a star breathed in light. It breathed it in and out and created a universe where eventually, like ours, it gave life to atoms. And these atoms created people or monkeys or god or something which eventually : Became the star wars universe. I’m not a scientist but I think that’s pretty sweet. It’s this theory that kind of punches hope into my chest because what other way will I be able to take hope without a fight except to punch it directly into my chest. I guess though in a way also though, ****** also thought up of killing off all the jews and probably becoming world leader but let’s hope that didn’t happen.
It’s a simple idea like that though, that I have a little more reason for living. I’ve seen dark days and darker times created inside my own little piece of mind like p-i-e-c-e and not peace like a peace sign. Cause my mind is a battle field filled with corpses and death and totally dead people all around and to be honest it gets me really bummin. So instead of filling my mind with the dead I fill it with scenarios where I’m spider-man. I swing my web high till I run out of buildings, I let my body sky dive down into the ***** pits of New York where I help clean up the trash and gag cause I really hate taking out the trash like literally it’s really gross. But I help nonetheless.
When I was little I’d have dreams that didn’t end up happening until like eight years later and I realized I could see into the future. All the things I’d see were insignificant though so it’s not like they really mattered but one thing I keep a look out for are spiders. I had a dream I was spider-man, I swung a web accidentally and if I hadn’t woken up panicked I would’ve hit pavement harder than the realization that maybe God didn’t exist when I was eight or that...dad wasn’t coming back. All of this is off track so what I’m trying to make my point about to close a poem with is this: There’s a theory that what you think up in one universe, it can happen in another. So what I hope for is maybe there’s some kid in another universe, just like me. He looks up at the sky or in his room or a ceiling light when he’s really high and thinks: Hey, maybe I have spider powers in another universe. Cause the day I become spider-man, maybe I won’t be such a loser anymore.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
*Note: I wanted to be able to read this almost in the voice of either Shaggy from Scooby-Do or like a really nervous like, crazy kind of guy in a group session. So hopefully if you can imagine any of those voices while reading this then it'll make it even better.
Hello, my name's Paul Lauer. This is my first group kind of session so I guess I'll start off by saying I have an addiction ! I can't stop doing it, no matter where I go. In my room, in the shower, in the woods, in my therapist bathroom like four year ago before it was my turn to have my thoughts dissected. I feel so ***** admitting it but I think it's time I washed my hands of this when I say: I love to daydream.
I know, some of you may or may not be shocked. It's almost obvious to the ones who see through my facade of a confident white teenager. For starters my shaky left hand, constantly gripping my sturdy, hard pen while I put thoughts onto paper. Each word sloppier the faster I write, ink spewing itself then drying awkwardly on my pinky cause lefties drag when they write.
The more I think the greater intensity the daydream is. It's like I'm in the fantasy itself. Don't get me wrong though, I like romance just as much as the next person does. But there's just something about spontaneous daydreaming that gets me so heated, I can feel my blood pumping faster throughout my body it feels like I might pass out from exhaustion.
I feel so ashamed but when I whip my imagination out in public I just can't stop. I have to see through it to the very bitter tasting end. Does the warrior save his girlfriend from the onslaught of giant evil robots trying to crush them? I don't know, but what I do know is that I love to use my imagination while I daydream.
Especially in public.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
My lunchtime consists of either not eating or stuffing my face till the words "fat *** crawl out of my friends mouth. The words sting me like a bee or a metaphor that's been overused like...being stung by a bee. Let's think about this for a minute though, think about whether or not I should feel guilty for my pleasures. I started starving myself sophomore year, the words breakfast lunch and dinner made me want to puke out the hatred I have for a body whose done nothing to me. At one point I tried to love myself, tried to show that food isn't the enemy it's just the voices in my head that tell me it is. "You should lose weight." "You're out of shape" "Fat *** these count for each stretch mark I have on my body that crept up slowly and silently on me like a murderer to his victim. One was from my dad, two was from my friends, three was from my mom cause she said I was so handsome, four cause I don't deserve to eat, five cause I want to be pretty. Six because guys like me don't get to be pretty.
It doesn't end easily or quickly. I've gone from overweight to underweight to a healthy weight to a weight where I pull back the flabs of skin so I can count my ribs one by one again. I've even gotten to the point where if somebody tells me I look good all I can think is that they're lying. I see a difference between fat and fat, the words itself form the gelatinous image you imagine when thinking of them, sounding sour as it comes off my tongue. You don't have to be a girl to have an eating disorder, a ****** up concept that society hasn't quite grasped yet.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
I think about a lot when I get high. For example, I think about how pretty I think you are or how maybe I should smoke a little more cause I'm not as high as I was five minutes ago, but let's play this out just to be safe. I think about what it means to be alive and how, as bad as it sounds, can only appreciate myself in a positive way is after I smoked enough to incapacitate an elephant.
I think about what it's like when we make love or how my nails are really short, almost bled to the stub cause I can't deal with my every day problems twenty-four-seven. I think about how I wish humans had super powers, that I could fly into the air like a falcon or pick up a car and throw it. I take a hit and then another, think about how gross **** tastes and smells but I love the after effects.
I think about how I should get more sleep or how school makes me want to **** myself. I think about what it'd be like if dad didn't leave or if I suddenly grew wings...do you uh, think that's cool? I think about how we're all grains of sand and at any moment we could die. The Earth could catch on fire and we'd burn to embers, smoke rising.
(to be continued I'm too tired and high to finish this).
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
In my dreams, you still look at me like you love me.
In my dreams, you still kiss me like you love me.
In my dreams, you still act like you wanna see me.
In my dreams, you still talk to me.
In my dreams, I'm pretty.
In my dreams, I'm skinny.
In my dreams I'm rich.
In my dreams, I'm a hero.
In my dreams, dad didn't leave.
In my dreams, my brother isn't ********
In my dreams, the ones I love don't leave me.
In my dreams, I am dead.
In my dreams, you will call me.
In my dreams, when I'm upset.
In my dreams, You will soothe me.
In my dreams, You still love me.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
What use is a sailboat if it does not float?
What use is a shell if it does not welcome a host?
What use is a razor if it's not used for cutting?
What use is a body if not for *******
I watch from afar but nobody hears,
my screams or calls for help.
The shiny blades they look so pretty,
I wish I saw more meaning than it being my kind of dope.
The Zombies are so loud,
with insistent filler for silence.
I remain quiet only to hope that
one day I will be free.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
The razor bites into my skin like a wolf attacking it's prey. Blood drips out and oozes into a pool, cuts further into me till I can't hold in my tears any longer. I want to cry out in pain but know well enough I don't deserve even that. The thoughts take over my body, cut deeper till I know I'll feel the pain for days.
I'm not good enough for her. For anyone. I deserve pain. It rips out chunks of who I am, causing me to feel nothing. Just nothing. Alone, forever. I'll always. always. be alone.
The razor bites into me. I am nothing. I become nothing. I was nothing. I never was anything special.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
I look at my little sister. She's beautiful and tragic, like a metaphor. Or a cigarette or an odd cat. I look at her and see the same emptiness inside of me, only there's more hope for her. How do you tell somebody that you care for them? I don't think I've ever really cared for many people in a sibling kind of way. That requires an emotional connection that maybe I just lack. Like a wire in my head that was cut early on or misplaced in my head.
Dear sister, I write you a poem. A letter. A song. I'm losing my mind, I'm going insane. Knowing that all I care about could just disappear within an instant. I don't want to lose my friends don't want to lose my sister. I was never close to my brothers it isn't fair if I lost you too. What is it you think of? What do you think about? I see you playing the piano and wish I could do that too. I'd ask you to teach me but I'm too shy to do that. I don't know if anyone's said it, but I'm proud of you. I see you trying your best and it's okay to do that. Take baby steps at a time cause the world is cruel but it seems to like babies to maybe you can trick it. I know, I've tried. Am trying. Trying harder?
I don't know what it is I really want to tell you. You should know though I love you. I have a hard time telling people that. Have a hard time expressing feelings without suddenly wanting to cry or rip my arm to pieces. You'll be okay sister dear, I know you will.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Darkness is replaced by light. Like a cup of water it's poured out of the soul and filled with goodness that the boy tries to take in. He knows the darkness can take hold easily so he closes the door says babe I can't open it you aren't good for me. The darkness isn't a girl it isn't a person it's him it's who he is or was or is or was or isn't at all and never was. The boy grows tired, mind going faster than an old Windows computer which if you don't know isn't really fast at all. Speed-dial static manifests in his mind he craves a cigarette he's never smoked or some **** he cannot **** He won't dip his fingers into greed so instead he'll dip his fingers into **** or friends who smoke **** or just friends who he knows aren't good for him. One's who call him fat *** even though they probably don't know that he'd spent approximately two years starving himself so the one time he indulges they decide to say that. To call him fat and put him down why is it that he chooses the things that aren't good for him? Every. Single. Time.
The computer finally boosts up faster, words spill out faster than the darkness coming out of him so finally he has something to write about. His angst turned bitter spills out, his anger spills out, his sadness spills out there's just a various amounts of spilling from his body like an **** in Japan he's soaked in juices...of emotion.
(I can't think of anything else so end).
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC