my mind through
a garbage disposal
wrung out to dry
on barbed wire
the terrifying thing
is this:
its all in my head
no one else can hear
what's happened,
what's happening
I want to
search for new ways
of forgetting
convincing myself it is all
a creation of my
sick mind
a work of art
from my imagination
a ghost I choose
to believe in
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
I wish I wrote the way I think;
passionately,
obsessively,
with fervent desperation
each line
like a gasp of air
writing to the point of
asphyxiation.
writing myself into a
cold panic
narrative snaking out of
my neurological pathways like
vinery into unremitting
nothing
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
unloving begins
with the setting of the sun,
with the falling of the tides.
I realized how accustomed
I had grown to the feeling;
of wind on my skin,
of hailstones falling.
Alphabetized, my many names.
A blurred face
in a hallway of mirrors.
my heart left long before
my body did,
long before my legs
had the strength for escape
unloving begins
with your heart feeling cold.
I thought I should stay a while,
just to be
sure.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
Bury myself in subtext
- in metaphors and allusions
two way mirrors,
painted black as moonless night,
eyes closed,
lips cracked
And bleeding from these secrets,
that keep aiming to
elude the thoughtless
Mouth forever unlocking
to eat its victims,
to swallow the flesh
and spit out the bones
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
the familiar feeling burns my throat,
and no matter how hard I
try,
I cannot swallow the sensation
It is stuck there and it
seems like I am choking,
suffocating
I am spiraling downwards into
the darkness.
It envelopes me,
silently laughing at me.
The blackness is
all I know,
and I welcome it with
open arms.
It numbs me.
And I am stuck here
because I cannot explain,
cannot put into words ,
how the inky tendrils that
coil around my mind,
blossom into something
far more dangerous in the
pit of my soul.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
What is a costume?
What masks do we put on
at the beginning of each day,
just to shed as we walk through the door?
Our front doors become the cleansing cloth,
that strips away the deceptive pretense
of our sense of selves
that we create for the outside world to see
these costumes however,
create barriers.
We hesitate to say what intimacy is,
and whether or not we have it
But what is intimacy
when our relationships are built on
a foundation of
convention.
What is intimacy
when we train our entire lives
to play a masterful game of pretend.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
As plaster crumbles like cake crumbs
And tornadoes of ash and dirt,
coat her world in a quiet grey
She rises,
brushes the destruction from her knees,
and sings
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
my brain is splatter painting itself
like I am modern art
and you are sitting there
watching me spin
like a thunderstorm of low serotonin
roaring as I fight a war
within myself that you cannot see
wrestling against quiet demons
of anxious insecurities
Blowing a whispering whirlwind
of "but's" and "not enough's"
Destroying all stability
that might have taken root
And I'm kicking and screaming
but it seems my voice is on mute
help me, help me
and please try to see
that deep underneath
my perfected passive smile,
there's a
thunderstorm of low serotonin
warring to take control of me
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
I've halved the hinge on my head again
tripping lightly in this field of peonies
this moonless sky is singing her
lament of the darkness to the heavens
I have found a quilted universe
this should explain my absence
and the abyss in my eyes
This maize maze in autumn
reason lost to the haunted
the ghosts in their houses
that time has once
forgotten and revered,
rotted timber
is so tender when the rains pour in
my mind is a loud place
and my sugar skull is smiling
these colors will forever
remind me of home
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
I am unraveling from
the bandages of my youth
my eyes are
blind in the folds
all of these garments
like graves
I am surrounded,
ground down,
by this marble
the memories are following
flowing over me
like oceans of wind
all the salt has been
picked out of me
like panning for gold
running on and on
as feathers brush my mind
with messages
and I don't know
if this will ever
end
or if
like a fragment,
I will just run on
with no direction
until I abruptly
stop
with no warning
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC