I hear a sound.
Near my bedroom window,
beyond the panes of glass.
A rumbling and humming;
an idle motorcycle, right on schedule.
Mixed in with the little fan,
it grows into the perfect white noise.
I drift away and think of a warmer place,
bright and expansive.
In my mind, I hear bagpipes playing.
It is some fierce melody,
unfamiliar, yet deeply known.
The meditation fades back to other surroundings.
Back to the dark blank room,
buzzing fan, and noise pollution.
Then I'm reminded, I don't care at all for bagpipes.

If you're working against a better future for all of us, I will, without hesitation, walk all over you to make the best out of a world on fire.

Relapse
It's a word that keeps coming up.
Get it?! Keeps coming up?
It's something that makes us think of substances and addiction.
A narrow view of a massive crisis.
As it festers and grows, you ignore it.
It spins webs that sew into you until more fiber is relapse than progress.
Eventually leading you to the same place it always does.
A self fabricated wall with no ropes, ladders or shovels to aid in moving past the barrier.
Spanning to a wider view you'll find that relapse is a state of mind.
Toward the diet, the feeling, the mood, the bad habit, the obsession, the perspective or the substance.
Though it is a repeated journey attempting to best tbe barrier via the same path is a path to nowhere.
Be creative, be different, be confident, find the energy and want to change.
That is the path away from misery and repetition.

Screaming internally; sitting in silence.
Make these feelings wash away without a word spoken.

Articulating perceptions while throwing water on burning oil.
Flames and rainbows blend until the fuel is exhuasted.

I am exhausted.

Rapidly approaching dusk, the sunbeams are bouncing across car roofs, creating a river of deep red.
Below there's broken glass strewn across the always shining like star light bending in the atmosphere.
I wonder what the glass thinks of being shattered by drunk nomad who felt the desire to release the bottle at high velocity?
Does it care that it's avoided by all the passers by?
Does it feel free having escaped the vessel and sprawl across the concrete?
Perhaps I need to be shattered to break free?
Trapped in mental paradox I struggle to find resolution.
Wading in ambiguity without direction, exhaustion settles into routine.
Waiting to see the fruits of my investment in self.

Eloquent lair,
esteemed and influential.
Spreading disasters
that make me mental.

Not about this repetition.
Locking me in a finite position.

With a moderate delay,
reinforcements arrive.
Reminding me that it is alright to thrive.

Maturing at a healthly pace.
Hoping to survive it all with grace.

A stark realization.
I'm, for lack of a better word, obsessed with South Park.
Not like collectables, clothing, or other cluttered stuff.
But like ingrained into my personality, seriously, like a face hugger planting seeds in my core. Hatching into satirical, political, ridiculous obsession
Half my inside jokes.
The majority of my random noises.
Sewn within my vocabulary.
Constantly murmuring on the TV like old friends at dinner.
In my achievement list on Steam.
On my blu-ray shelf.
Gently nudging me with phone notifications to collect my free pack.
Definitely used in comparisons at work.

Equally tearing down the walls of anyone and everyone.
I eat it up.

Personal Devil spouting whispers directly into my consciousness.
Streamlined for exaggerated effect.
The internal constant critic of every action and thought.
Highlighting what could have been better in a way so far from constructive I'd need to update my passport to have a chance to see positivity.
Never harping on what was good, what was done exceptionally well.
Only dissatisfied with how it wasn't perfect.
The stark reminder that my toxic self is standing right behind me.

Never feel like there is not
consistency in your life.
There will always be people
that disappoint you.
Rolling over you like
a gravel road.
They will be that wheel crushing you
into the stones.

You know that feeling,
of not wanting to go home?
Because you know there is some trigger there, just waiting behind the door.
Or somewhere in the hall closet,
or kitchen cupboard.
When the wrong tone rolls off the tongue and you end up eating crow for dinner, in total silence.
The hollowness grows like a **** in your chest.
Ceaselessly creating shelters just to watch them burn.
Eggshells crack like atom bombs,
and this emptiness grows heavy with each passing step.
When your biggest wish is to come home to smiling faces.

Ever acclimating to reality.
Subtle differences between then and now.
Hopelessness fades into almost happy.
Depressed all the same but getting better.
Minor inconveniences explode into melodrama.
Relearning coping mechanisms like burning down sulphur.
Olympian effort for maintaining expectations.
Progress yet still nervous.
Like standing on a sandstone cliff on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
No difficulty fathoming how far I could fall.
Challenge is trusting that I won't blindly jump into the river.

Big city.
Crowded train.
Observe the vast graveyard,
on the commute.
All those who came before.
Some days it induces fear.
The great unknown.
The hard stop.
Some days it spurrs a sigh.
A releiving exhale.
All things end.
Reminder of the moment.
A promise to end all suffering.
Assuming I'm patient enough,
to let it consume me naturally.
Reminder not to rush to the finale.
It is inevitable, after all.

Faint whispers in the day and dark.
Smiles fade into clever camouflage as the truth builds walls miles high.
Mirror tells lies, and truths I can't stand to observe.
Body rejects sustinace; swipe left, try again tomorrow.
Mind glossed in walls that reverberate, ever growing louder.
Skin crawls like a million earthworms worms dreaming of becoming butterflies.
Decaying in plain site, hidden behind a thousand "okays" and "alrights."
Verbatim honesty escapes my tounge.
Soul ever inching toward the light.

Full freefall into bed.
Notice every lumpy detail;
every crumb not swept away.
Head pounds like a drumline.
Aches woven in every muscle fiber.
Hot and cold flashes rotating through time.
Dry sweat soaks my skin.
Seconds masquerading as hours.
Thoughts scratching the chords, choking to death.

This illness encompasses me.
A ghost of the mind, haunting my existence.
Even in the brightest moments it finds the instant out.
Laying in the deep, old fashioned tub, relaxing as the ghost whispers.
Of the romanticism of tubs like this and early exists.
In these moments I laugh to myself: "of course you'd think that."
Corruption of the spirit.
Errors of the mind.
I wish heights were just terrifying and not lethargic calls to actions.
Unprompted these thoughts corrode my soul like battery acid.

Being empathic is like having a noose around your neck.
Yet never knowing when someone will decide to drop the floor.
Leaving you hanging.

Were I a Starfleet Captain I would be unfit for duty, but this is no Federation of Planets.
This is a moment in time and barely anything at all, yet it is everything.
Carrying a weight on my back of a small crew, I lack the mental fortitude to take care of their carrier.
The cacophonous cocktail stirring within my ribs is barely tolerable.
In fact, It is not tolerable.
Adorned in a gown of ripped tissues,
the waves come like tsunamis.
Somehow throughout my turmoil I have to remain focused and continue forward.
Every step is heavier than the last and I often am unsure how I will see the sun set.
If I'll make it there alive or as some hollow shell with a faux optimism.

Overwhelmed is a term tossed around to the point of underwelming.
I am a depressed person in a glass cage, with no way to hide my fear.
Like a million little cuts across my body, and not a **** one distracts me from myself.
I feel like I'm pounding on the glass screaming, "I wish you would just be happy!"

I'm a depressed person wanting telling a depressed person the worst things to say to depressed people.
The irony is a silent needle that sews the lips shut.
Pretend you're alseep while pretending to be alive.
I sacrifice myself for others worthy of the life.
Exhausting to carry their burdens, and the tears they can't actually cry.
Faces rest in palms as if hands are any sort of shelter.
Inability to let things go makes me feel like I have to rip them apart.
Living like this makes you ill beyond belief.
All I want is a good night's sleep.

Eye lashes brase my brow with a flash of awareness.
Of gravity, of heart rate, with fading memories of mental images and sinking in reality.  
Argument insues among the self
"why do I have to get up?"
"I don't know the ******* answer, just get up."
It goes on repeat.
Get up, get up, get up.
Frozen in the warm sheets and safe feeling that just barely lets the pressure fade.
"Why can't I stay in the twilight of REM and awake where my body is light doesn't hurt and my mind has solace?"
"I don't know, just get up."
Get up, get up, get up.
This feeling has lost me GPA points
and this feeling has cost me jobs.
Place my hands on my chest and streach out my legs.
Rip away from the fetal position and complement myself relentlessly.
Get up, get up, get up.
"You're okay" I wisper as though the echo will ensure it's truth.  
Deep breathing to irratic breathing to controled breathing.
Rise, wash, repeat.
Get up, get up, GET UP.
Rip the sheets off like a bandaid and immediately stand.
Run to the warm shower.
Pretend it's rain and back to deep breathing.
Complement what a great job I'm doing, getting out of bed, not even crying.
How proud I should be I'm taking care of myself - by taking a shower.
A basic Target pattern, fortress of solitude.
Consumed in the hot artificial rain drops I find another fleeting moment of solace.
Deep breathing, "you're okay."
Let the water run over my shoulders until it turns cold.
Dry off in the shower, take advantage of the ignored greenhouse gas - bask in the humidity.
Look into my dark eyes in the mirror, and ask questions. And hope they are good that day.

I've hit a wall lately
A wall so tall it seems impassable.
I wake up daily to it encompassing my bed.
Making waking up a test of endurance.
Once I'm passed that, there's just another wall.
Around social interactions, work, moving, and to be honest.
It's all just ******* walls.
Walls I thought I broke down, that are now 10x as big.
Did I mention my fear of heights?
I take pills that are supposed to help,
and they do, but these halflives are nothing compared to these walls.
They're made not of cement but of sentiment and wicked dreams.
Thoughts of all the horrible options that could be.
Thoughts of a depressed self and a depressed spouse.
"You think the kid can tell?" That I'm loosing my grip?
That I'm terrified of the monsters under the bed?
I'm immobilized by my own mind like a car tire boot on my will to try.
Wish someone would tow me off to oblivion.
Or at least a place I could relax.
I'd modestly ask for just a few moments escape.
From all these walls

Missed the deadline
To submit poems
To one of my favorite books...

Lost my drive for poems
Because I am caught in the gears
Grinding against medal

I have a lot to say
Eh... I'm to worried to say it
To tired to push through articulation.

The poems come like fleeting thoughts
With no time to focus on them
Nor jot them down in the moment.

Just small snippits for me
I suppose
Jumbled attempts at explaination.

Putting mascara on the eyelashes below your iris,
is like making a promise to yourself that you won't cry today.
Sometimes it's a promise you keep.
Other times your tears run black with broken promises.

I am so afraid of becoming White Collar Micheal.
He likes to act like his life is so hopelessly blightful, because his name is White Collar Micheal.
On the weekend, he throws on a tie-dye.
Goes from Business Man, to Mr. Nice Guy?
Deep down you know it's a facade, aka,
Your big life's a big lie.  
He does so many uppers you may as well call it the tweekend.
He fills his mind with illusions of grandeur.
I look at him and think "you need to be a man first."
Instead of filling my head with candy and dreams, I face my demons.
And it's utterly delightful because I know I will never become a
White Collar Micheal.

I seek out the riptide
to carry me to oblivion,
assuming I can breathe underwater.

In algebra there is a method for factoring polynomials
called "guess and check."
You figure out the factors A and C  
and mix and match them until you find something equal to the original problem.
It's a good analogy for this feeling, these moments, where a direct answer escapes me, or you.
So I am left with no other method,
besides "guess and check."
Sometimes the first few guesses find the answers, sometimes you have to try it twenty different ways.

I am exhausted by this constant guess,
of what A and C equal.
An onerous search for the variables to solve the equation of making you happy.

Our relationship is dead,
as a door nail,
six feet under with settled dirt.
Do not think for a second you deserve forgiveness.
Do not think for one minute I owe you anything.

I am an actor on a stage the moment you see me smile your way.
I'll see you on the holidays,
an exclusive relationship of putting up with you.
Like wet socks or taxes.
I'll gladly watch your life blossom or burn from a cozy 850 miles away.

We're not cool and we wont be until [insert actions here].
That's just the thing,
I don't know how you fix this.
I do know I couldn't care less if ya did.
I'd hate you if I thought you were worth the energy, but your not worth a calorie, a thought, and least of all a fourth, fifth, sixth chance.

You're dead to me.
I'll pour one out for you,
If I ever consider you worth the waste.

I married a hurricane, and still get surprised when it rains.

That feeling when you catch yourself in a washroom mirror and think, "God you look terrible."
That feeling when your physical nails break at clawing your mind out of a creeping depression. Like shackles tied to the weight of your mistakes pulling you back to that place.
That feeling when you can't process what's fair and unfair. Where you went wrong and why you're not better to begin with.
That feeling when you're at a constant battle of worth, convincing yourself to exist. When old vices and bad memories hit you with a bone chilling gust.
That feeling when you can't fake it hard enough to hide the damage. Ripped to shreds, sewing them in whatever pattern to just get over it.

I am a lover, a dreamer, and someone who hides their pain well.
Just as death is inescapable, so are these broken nerves and mixed signals.
So is the reality that I'll never escape the pain, and the daily battle to smile and not mention the hundreds of error messages sent through my veins.
A reality that broke me once, twice, and countless times to come.
My head swims in unrelated words and feelings all processed at once.  

Making yourself a public martyr via claiming caretaker doesn't mean **** if your words of care and comfort are engraved with my name yet only serve your desires.
I am weak, I fall apart, and I am the glue that strengthens and repairs this invisible damage I was born with.
I am not a scapegoat nor an excuse.

I'll never stand between you and your family,
but I will point out when they use you.
My relationship with members will differ from yours.
There are somethings I'm not sure I'll ever forgive.
Simply put, we are different people,
marching through this life together.
You have to understand
you may be able to move on,
and I may not be able to.
I have a great fake smile,
but I am not going to lie.
That person is dead to me,
that's not something I joke about.
I am done with them,
even if you're not.
I hope you understand.

I wish that for just one
******* second,
I could turn your mood around
like a Xanex bar can.
I wish that thoughts of me
flooded your mind to the point
where the day is ruined without me,
like you do with your zombie bricks.  
I am so tired of being second best
to a chemical mistress.

Crying on the couch
thinking in circles,
when I look down to my phone.
It has an open, blank, message,
to my drug dealer.
"Woh, how did that get there?"
I close the message.

That was close.

Thing's that make me uncomfortable:

That feeling when you get mad at me,
because I didn't do the thing, you didn't ask me to do, cause I can't read minds; I'm not your parent.
That tone in your voice when you go off about how unfair the world is, triggered by the slightest setback.
The feeling when I sacrifice all that I am for the sake of your mood and happiness, in vain.
That sound of the exacerbated sigh when I ask you to run an errand, as if I am not also tired.
The pressure of carrying us both on broken legs.
The pit in my chest when I ask your opinion and you say "I don't care," but you actually do care, because whatever choice I make is laced in ridicule.
When you say you're doing something for me but you're just trying to make yourself feel better about doing it for yourself.
When you use my disorder as a justification or excuse, but when I actually need your help you seem burdened and annoyed.
That "okay then" moment when I give you everything you ask for and you take it as if you never wanted it.

I feel as though
I could sink below this Cobblestone
and lay forever among these rocks.
That have been pounded
so hard by the tide
they were brave enough to become smooth.

Adapting to roll along blissfull waters,
until imprisoned here
among the urban shore.

I envy these soft stones.
Cemented in their purpose.
I relate to the chips on the rocks,
unable to bare the new pressures
of high heels and loafers.

I too feel imprisoned in this pressure,
I too feel the cracks on my surface forming.

"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.

What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.

What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. *******, that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and feel disappointment when we don't achieve them.

What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.

What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.

What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.

What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.

Your words spin in circles
around topics that never change.
One place to the next,
everything stays the same.
Compress every minor inconvenence
until they shine like diamonds
in a pitch black sky.
Embed them in your skin.
Wear them like badges of honor,
even though they're scars.
Would have been better,
to just let the coal burn.

I'm starting to think it's me.
Maybe I ask to much,
though, admittedly,
maybe's it's because
I don't know what I am asking for?
I am starting to think, it's me.
Maybe I am the problem.
Or maybe that's just the voice in my head,
like a vice,
crushing any minor thing,
like an atom,
until it splits with the force of a thousand suns.
Or maybe it's everything else,
me included.
Maybe I just say it's me,
because I am my biggest bully,
and easiest target.
I thought I was asking for simple things,
but nothing seems simple anymore.
I just want these ropes untied from my hands.
Trapped in my own mind like a hostage,
who doesn't care if they make it out.
There is no greener grass on the other side,
I just wish this grass wasn't wet.
Sticking to me like feathers and tar.
I'm starting to think that I am just coasting along,
waiting for someone to help me fix my boat for me, before it sinks.

When I was younger
I didn't understand the phrase
"I wish I'd never been born."
I thought it synonymous with
"I want to die."
In many ways it is.
Yet the phrase is less saying
"I want to die," and more saying
"I wish my lack of existence
wouldn't cause you any pain."
It's saying,
"only a few I love keep me here."
It's saying,
"I'd give up all I've lived to not have to go on any longer.
But if not for you,
I would choose an early out."
It's as near sighted
as any suicidal logic.
But the depth is something,
I've identified with in these
later days.

Everyday is like a hurricane
without NOAA.
High sustained winds
cut my emotions to shreds;
as words, like debris, crash into me.
I'm trying to smile,
but the rain floods my eyes
until the leaves burst.
The storm rages on
with the fury of
high temperatures.
I'm holding on to street lamps,
losing my footing,
while all I was trying to do
was sing in the rain.

These people act like I sit on my phone, protesting food like Ghandi, and absorb depression through the silicone.

Mouth over mind;
I could have said that better.
I’m sick and I don’t know how to be helped.
I am lonely in a crowded room.
Grasping for something that
simply isn’t there.
The silence is laced with disrespect,
and the disregard leaches my hope.
Articulation like strangulation,
each sentence a new meal
shoved down my throat.
Perhaps that’s where my appetite fled,
full of past statements
out of context.
I need a break that’s not from a bat.
I need compassion that isn’t laced with guilt.
Above all else I need honesty.
Without that all I have is chaos.
I’d ask you to keep me in your mind,
among all the impulsive desires
to self-indulge.

So I just did some math.
This week,
according to the numbers,
I've consumed on average
375 calories a day.
Call it 500.
I have no appetite;
I'm stressed;
It's hot;
I'm ill.
This relapse is
not like the ones I know.
It's so subconscious
I'm drowning
trying to fix it.
I tremble as I write this.
I don't know how I get through the day.
But I do know,
there is a mountain
of responsibilities
that I must manage
regardless.
I can't just over medicate
and play games
when I'm stressed.
I can't rest when I'm sick.
I must bare it all,
for both of us.
I'm being crushed
by this mountain.

[Hashtag]MeToo
Here it goes again,
trending on Insta and Facebook.
Where real awareness stems.
Mind the sarcasm,
social media’s a powerful tool
not knockin’ that.
I wonder though,
does the mind of the follower
understand the context of the hash?
Do they get it should be a call to action?
Not necessarily at the keyboard.
More like on the couch with their children,
Giving the conversation of consent.  
Most people do not even understand it by definition .
The meaning of yes and no convoluted by scenario.  
Bias boils over like milk and water over full flame.
The posts bubble out and stick to the side of the pan,
quickly drying; leaving their mark.
Until the soap and warm water flows over them,
and the steam evaporates the confessions.
Until they are again whispers we all hear and know.
It’s whispers from the alley ways,
and from married couples bedroom doors.
The woman is the property,  
the man is the proprietor.  
We refuse to address the real problems,
the failures of our up-bringers.
We point fingers and slay names
yet the statistics provide the truth.  
One in four for females, one in sixteen for males.
We all have been violated, slandered, and forced to say
[Hashtag]MeToo
Not going to say I did not share it,
I know the touch of unwanted hands,
the invasive *******.
All for the sake of the insanity,  
in repeating a useless gesture.
The only difference is
My hashtag went to my Senator.

Because you assumed.
That I was willing to give.
That I was able to give.
That I had anything to give.

Because you made the choice,
of self-sacrifice for me.
I am upset because
you didn't even think

to ask first.

Picture yourself:
confident threads,
in a mix fabric shirt.
You're in a relationship,
and it's full of love.
Till one day,
it's skewed.
The love is there by title,
but the actions have fled.
Hands cupping a Samsung,
rather than your hand.
Their mind fixed to any and everything,
but a conversation with you.
Spend the whole day together,
with but a few, short replies.
Keep telling yourself,
it will improve.
In the blue light haze,
sitting right next to the love of your life,
feeling lonelier than ever.
Unable to express it,
for fear of retaliation.
So you sit there,
noting the confidence count
on the clothes you're wearing
isn't high enough for this.
So you stay silent,
wondering what's so captivating,
in the blue light.

Peak depression:
Asking your spouse
"Do you wanna eat dinner?"
Rather than
"What do you want for dinner?"

On your manic days,
when I can't get eye contact from you,
when your phone is your best friend,
and cleaning up your mess,
is the only thing on your mind.
I keep hearing your words
"I'm not a cuddling person,
you should be grateful
for what affection
you get from me."
You say you didn't mean it.
Yet I'm a ghost in my own home.
Unable to get my husbands touch.
I question my existence,
my purpose,
and why I sacrifice so much,
only to be scarified.

I thought
by 27
cutting myself
would be off the table.
Rather I'm carving pictures
on the table,
wishing it would bleed.

"You need to chill."
"Why don't you just relax?"
"Why are you so sensitive?"
"Why are you depressed?"
"What are you doing about your depression?"
"Why don't you just eat something?"
"Are you even trying to get better?"
"You're not trying"
"Why don't you try harder?"
"You should workout more"
"Why don't you grow your hair out?"
"If you lost more weight you'd be really ****"
"You need to learn how to entertain yourself"
"Everyone has problems"
"Would you just stop talking"
"You make everything about yourself"
"You're just confused"
"We've plateaued"
"My mom thinks you hate her"
"You don't listen to feedback"
"You make jab comments"
"You take everything as a jab comment"
"If you can't see I'm trying to help you then, sorry"
"I don't have the mental fortitude to deal with you"
"You're not supportive enough of others"
"I give up"
"You complain to much"
"You just sit around and mope all the time"
"You're always on your phone"
"You bring up the past to much"
"You don't do enough around the house"
"You should be grateful for what affection you get"
"Why are you anxious?"
"You make me crazy"
"I don't care"
"You're too needy"
"You need to just get over it"
"I give up, there's no talking to you"
"I can't say anything to you without you getting upset"
"Just stop crying"
"You need to be nicer"
"You're impeding my progress"

What ARE you DOING about YOUR depression?
If I hear that one more ******* time.
Ugh! I'll rip my hair out.
Besides everything within my power,  
I'd like to reiterate that
I didn't choose this,
There is no on or off switch.
You just ride it out until it ends.
I can only fake smile so much.
The plays curtains are closing
Right on top of me.
Don't act like you're not the stage hand
Who should have made sure
Those lines where checked.
Do I have to worry about the lights falling on me next performance?
Repulsed by my voice cracking
Upon the ridiculous question.
I've been in therapy for nearly a year.
I'd call that something.
Sure, I fall to old vices,
I ******* HATE MYSELF RIGHT NOW.
I can only lie and cheerlead myself to the extent that eventually my brain calls "*******, where is the evidence?"
I'm at a loss.
Relapse doesn't have a switch,
You of all people should understand that.
I've done a pretty ******* good job of resisting those vices.
But they sing like sirens.
I want to thrive,
But I'm crawling in the mud.
Reaching for the towel
in your hand,
But it's just out of reach,
And your eyes fixed to Silicon distractions, can't hear me SCREAMING.
I'm trying to do this without your help,
But don't expect me to do it alone and not be at a red alert all the time.
You told me to "just stop crying" recently.
I didn't hear you,
I heard my father.
I became the submissive dog that I am.
It's easier to accept blame and guilt,
Than it is to argue with someone.