You do not
****** me,
high as hell,
give me a bunk apology,
and six months later
turn around and change the facts.
Cause they're ******* facts!
I was there,
with your unwelcomed touch.
He walked in to my rescue,
while you dry ******
fantasies
on my couch. (burn it)

You
are
dead
to
me.

The inconvenienced patron always arrived late. 
They always had a glass to fill, and not a minute to wait. 
Their emotions were like landmines, and their problems all your own. 
The inconvenienced patron was always picking a bone. 
They tell you how they were mistreated, how others are so unkind. 
Then rant and rave about how how if they’d had just been patient with them everything would be fine. 
The inconvenienced patron never seemed to give a second glance 
To the glazed over patrons not holding their breath 
For an ounce of positivity nor some selfless grace. No. 
The inconvenienced patron made them blue in the face.

Life, four letters that mean everything.
Clearly, without life who would write?
Who would see? And clearly nothing would be.
This world would be empty, and boring.
It would be without color.
Does color exist if no one is there to see it?
There would be no action nor compassion.
Everything would be still and blatantly lifeless.
The bird would not chase the worm,
Nor would the caterpillar rest it's head upon the soft flower.
There would be no countries, no math, no science or sizes.
France the size of Texas, Jacksonville and Paris,
All would be nothingness, nameless, and void.
No fetuses to grow in to babies,
Naked without knowledge.
No balloons to fly at the end of the parade,
Let go by young Marry, with her father John.
No! Without life there would be nothing.
Nothing to evolve from nor too,
Fish to monkeys to me and you.
Four letter word, that means literally all of the above.

Don't feel like a cog.


Don't feel like a bird either.

Skills we don't teach:
How to articulate
disappointment
to someone you love,
at their weakest state.
In an empowering way;
positively.
Negating the overwhelming
negativity
you feel inside.

I grew up with God in the wind,
and didn't fit in with Christian friends.
They told me stories and begged me to repent.
Though doubtful, my anxiety sparked at the thought of sin.

I was once on a playdate and the mother told me.
She disowned her best friend when she confessed she was a lesbian.
She told me she could only take her back if she came to her senses.
It made me feel sad and sick, with little sympathy for the protagonist.

I was once told by a good friend that no one is bisexual, of course they're just confused.
I knew who I was but I didn't say anything in rebuttal.
I just nodded my head and took the bruise.

Once after jokingly seeing my boyfriend and another male friend hold hands, my mother told me "how dare those ******* disrespect you like that."
It was a moment that shattered glass and left scars.
I managed an apology after too much effort.

My stepfather once told me that gender fluidity was a confused phase, and a fad for attention.
Walls were put up and notes were taken.
Doors remained closed and silence  prevailed.

I am complicated.
I blend in to "normal"
I feel guilty at times and don't feel honest.

I undervalue, perhaps, the benefit of looping everyone in.
Or, perhaps, I'm just keeping the peace and heeding warning signals.

I can say for certain, it's not a fad nor phase.
I've always been who I am, I just had to grow up in order to phrase it.

Perceptions, like opinions,
are often set in stone.
Established like law of the mind
they are easy to create and laced with fallacy.
Even the widest gaze cannot see everything.
Through each strangers eye
a new “you” is manifested.
Thousands of “you” running through their minds,
but none of them are… you.

You are the master of your creation.
Based on your reality
you must adapt to cope with life.
For some the burden is less than others.
The spectrum of content and discontent
lay within the realm of perception,
and the inevitable unknown of external factors.

I once had a perception of self
too highly influenced by those around me.
Whose perceptions I foolishly held on to as truth,
for lack of a better understanding.
I self-destructed into everything
they wanted me to be.
Disingenuous and jaded
I shattered from the lie.

There is an unmistakable familiarity
with rock bottom
that I have grown to welcome as home.
The fall down is vigorous,
hitting the ground hard enough
to knock every molecule of air
out of your lungs.
You lay there breathless hoping that
perhaps this is the crescendo.
Once you decide to breathe again
you can rise up.

From the outside I am not a strong person,
about as average as they come.
I have an inexorable burden
that you cannot see.
Yet another perception
only I can perceive.
What I must do to appear normal
is utterly exhaustive.
Compile daily responsibilities of a “normal” person;
I have to sprint to compete with those walking.

In the shadows I can show the pain
but in the light I must remain in character;
an actor on a stage.
The endless mind acrobatics
twisting and pulling myself to fit this mold.
A mold I was never made for,
so it hurts to obey.
As much as it hurts, I remain silent
about the realities of it all.

Whilst I adapt to my environment,
you call me weak.
As I pretend I am not in pain,
You note I am behind.
I pour my energy into your sorrows
You consume, endlessly.
If I ask for this treatment in return
You point to my condition,
Note your perception of unsuccessful,
based on a reality
you’ve manifested
for me.

My reality is one only I can see
however, that doesn’t change the impact
of the failure nomenclature.
Comparing me to you or any other
encumbers my progress.
Your lack of understanding
is not my duty to teach you.
My façade is not for entertainment
it is for survival.

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

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 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.

I like to frolic in fields
Laced with landmines.

I like to take bubble baths
With curling irons, plugged in.  

I like to walk alleys
Naked at night.

I like to fast.
Indefinitely.

I like look in the mirror
And see someone else.

I like to think about these things
As if they were true.

Dishonorable, repugnant, grotesque.
Words highlighted, bright,
In correlation with your actions.

Gristle filled morality.
Chewing on the facts;
Unable to digest.

Audacity to ask
For cruel silence.
Allegiance forcibly chosen.

Claws against ribcage
Something's trying to escape
You put in chains.

Thoughts off the edge
Falling in circles
Crashing on pikes.

Hands clinched tight
On brittle strands
Of ***** blonde hair. snap

A cowards lies
Tattooed on my bones
"Approved eyes only."

Can't breathe
Atmosphere is toxic
Gassed by friendly fire.

Status quo upheld
Smile, pretty white teeth.
Ready to rip out.

It only took me two and a half years
To feel like checking the mail
Wasn't a burden

Hello there.
General Depression.

Corny Star Wars reference aside,
welcome back.
Gotta say,
didn't really want cha back,
but here you are...  Bags and all.
Jeeze, what year are those bags from anyway?
I feel like you should have let those go, awhile ago.
Okay, so you're not going away.
At least not anytime soon.
It's just, when you're here
it's hard to find topics of conversation.
The silence isn't comforting,
but it persists.
I feel like conversations flowed like rivers until you became the dam that stoped the flow.
Now the once prospering ecosystem, is sick and unbalanced.
That ecosystem I call my mind is crying out to the operators to open the gates; let the river flow.
But I sit on shores with waves in the sand that say 'movement once happened here.'
I feel the dust bowl coming
all the signs are here, I've seen this all before.
I have to plant trees now
before everything blows away.

Joints simply electric.
Aware of every muscle.
Feel heavier today,
Did I wake up on Jupiter?
No, just barometric pressure.
Each step a chore;
Try not to let it show.
My mind compensating,
Trying to ignore what the brain perceives.
By then end of the day I am wasteland.
Existence becomes intolerable.
It's times like these I forget,
That my minds on constant auto pilot.
"It's not pain it's pressure"
"It's all a misfire"
"This isn't real."
Without a rested mind,
I melt, I burn, I'm plagued by electric waves.
Harshly remained of what I daily ignore.
Some days I can't do it,
Today is one.

Spit it out. Let it go. I am screaming, pleading, wishing the words would come. Yet they don’t. The page sits empty. Blaring white into my eyes as if to say “you’re not creative.” I want to say I am creative. I am supposed to be creative. However, when I thought I was creative it was chemically induced. So where the chemicals creative? I think about those old mixes of Carbon, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Chlorine, and Oxygen.

C16H13ClN2O was my writing partner and my best friend. We went through so much together, though I’ll admit I was a bit clingy. These chemicals blended like warm water through my veins. Like a cool breeze on a spring day. My chest fills with Helium and I could float away.  Milligrams pass through time; the words just fell onto the paper. The letters rained down with tears and blood until the sun was rising and I was no more found than before. The venting was relentless and filled no more voids than it created. The rhymes were so easy, the stanzas formed into beautiful verses of a lost soul with too much weight of the world crashing down. I wasn’t spiting it out, I was throwing it up.
C17H13ClN4 was the voice I never had. It was the confidence to tell anyone to *******, and that meant everyone. When this chemical melody was carried throughout my bloodstream. The only creative thing it brought out of me was my creative ways of finding food in an empty kitchen. This re-uptake inhibitor was just the pill to get me through the day in a world that I hated. It was the personification of my hate. I literally was spitting my words into the universe. No paper could withstand.
C11H15NO2 was the lover you wanted to cook you breakfast, but ***** on you instead. And C18H21NO4 was the catalyst to the end. All these blends changed my mind in many different ways. At times they made me feel like an author, at other times they made me feel worthless.

Years later now and the sober me enjoys the absences of these chemicals for I like the natural mix that is me. Though, I do crave the words. I lust for the flow. Creativity is a luxury of the depressed. Because now that my life is happy and settled I can’t find anything prolific to say. I have much to say but no way to spit it out.

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.

Shell shocked
sleepwalking
through the day.

Tormented
by nothing less
than my own mind.

Mind's a hollow black room.
Cacophonous symphonies
echo off the walls.

I want to rip my hair out;
my skin off;
Dissolve entirely.

Once was balanced
now I hang on the pendulum.
Waiting to fall into graves once filled

If you think you're irreplaceable
You are sorely mistaken.
I can pay for a therapist
When I need someone to talk to.
I can pay for a masseuse
When my muscles scream.
You are nothing to me by blood,
You are among the family I chose.
And I can choose to separate from you.
I don't need you.
You need me.

Ever had someone tell you something
That swept the rug out beneath your feet?
Falling so slow it takes hours to hit the ground.
But you find it.
Cold and merciless.

I'm on the floor
Can't find my feet.
But I will.

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

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.

Today I am "okay."
"Okay" invokes no questions,
"Okay" raises no brow.

I bare the burden of your mistakes.
Forced into scandal
Reckless actions induced
Best efforts lost
In chemical seduction.

Your weaknesses become my wounds.
Lust swooned to torture
My mouth stitched shut
I'm plucking on the stitches.

Snaps

Garçon
An order of perception please;
Side of hand mirror.
Additionally,
I'll take a pair of shoes,
Your size fits
For dessert I'll take personal reflection
But no hypocrisy, for it doesn't settle well.

Merci

The relief of sheet and blanket, nestled between hands and heart.

Floods my being with irrational safety and solace.

I never want to leave.

Blank screen staring...
Make it interesting.
Google it.
Remember it.
That rush;
The excitement;
The release.
That brief moment of peace.
I always did love the feeling,
But most of all
I love to watch.
The drops form like poetry,
They slip down to the pen.
Slinging words so fast
I can't think about it.
The razor refills sitting in the bathroom.
My heart pounding, I shouldn't think about it.
I can't,
I shouldn't!
Close my eyes and try to feel it,
a malicious fantasy.
Heart pounding still.
I can't,
I shouldn't!
But it's right there.
It's so easy.
It's so hard.
Old Addiction arise
like droplets congeal.
Google it.
Remember it.
Imagine it.
Breathing heavy.
It's so hard.
It's so easy.
It's right there.

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.

All my self worth is carried on the backs of others.

What an idea to fathom

That I could carry it myself.

What a task I've burden others.

Would assume the weight if I knew how.

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.

I had a dream about you last night.
You were laying in my childhood backyard.
I tried to pick you up,
but you were broken.
My mind refusing this reality
made you wake up.
You couldn't walk straight,
but you were your lively self.
Suddenly we were inside,
in my current home.
You jumped onto the couch;
Made silly noises like you always did.
But they were haunting.
My mind made you live as you are
body still broken.
Because you're in the ground,
and I'm roaming the earth looking for you.
Only to see you in my dreams.
At least I got to hold you
One last time.

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.

Sometimes when I'm waiting in public
I stare at the tv screens blaring sports.
I don't watch the game,
I zone out.
Into the abyss.
Until I don't have to be in public anymore.
I don't like sports.
Watching the spectacle makes me seem normal amongst the herd.

Though every joy that could be enhanced, and every misery that could be diluted.
Thoughts of escape dance like ballerinas in my mind.
Fluid in motion and undeniably enticing

I swoon for them - hypnotized.

They are really sirens seducing me, and pulling me toward oblivion.

I'm a moth to the flame.

Seeking a comfort zone that was never comfortable to begin with.
To inflict a suffering I do not deserve, yet so desperately long for at times.

One of the most painful things
I have had to endure (so far)
Was watching you slip away.

There is so much to unpack.
So many threads that came together,
Becoming the quilt that is you now.

But patches were removed,
Replaced,
Repurposed.

The reflection remains unchanged.
Nothing else follows.
Nothing else remains.

I see old pictures of us.
A you with different eyes.
If only I could pull you from those images.

I miss who you were.
They are forever gone.
Yet we both remain.

Look forward to seeing you there!
Aiming for a post every weekday.

I have a savvy relationship with pain.
Particularly the kind that my nerves play out;
a cruel fiction science is still trying to workout.
Luckily, it's not harmful, it just hurts.
It would be fair to say that I don't like pain.
Being a daily greeter at my bedside table,
the moment I consider opening my eyes.
I would be contradictory, yet fair all the same,
to say that I like pain.
Not the random pain I was born with,
but controlled pain.
That once consisted of self-inflicted
lines of distraction.
Or any distraction that calmed the storm.
Lately my therapist advised squeezing ice cubes,
it surprisingly... works well.
My relationship with pain is involuntary,
self-inflicted or otherwise.
Curse or coping,
It is something I cannot escape.
I have day dreams of what 'normal' must feel like,
yet also wonder if any of us are not in pain.
I wish I wasn't alone in my relationship with pain.
Pain is a feeling, it does not negotiate.
It has driven me to madness.
It has made me want to clime stairs while I still can.
It motivates me and rips me to shreds,
simultaneously.
So when deeper pains come into play,
like the depression that grows within me.
Survival becomes a challenge,
because my mind can only shift around pain so much.
Eventually I will fall.
Literally, figuratively, or both.
You have to be there to catch me,
but I don't know if you're ready.

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.

Mind wonders all the time
About the curves defined by glowing silk
Soft as clouds and sweet as summer rain
My fantasies loom in my clouded mind
Distracted by lust and desire

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.

Curious, the time we waste
being upset over perceived wasted time.
Regardless of the accuracy.
The ever repeating self-fulfilling prophecy
rages on expecting constant perfection.

Tremors from the pressure
tremble the relics
of years past
Years reflected now
via passionate words
of miscommunication.
No matter how articulated
the opposite is spewed
like blood on the walls.
Best intentions die
among solid efforts.

Finding It's best to not
say anything at all.

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.

The amount of messages
I compose and then delete
would almost make you wonder
if I was just talking to myself.

Addicted to darkness
like millennials and 90s nostalgia.
Undeniable comfort found in misery.
Leads me to drive the sulking deeper; enhanced pity.
Consumed by temptation,
vivid thoughts and shallow promises.

The predictability of my self destruction.

Euphoric memories of crimson scars,
that flirted with inevitability.
Slick and blurred is the line between thoughts and actions.
I'm walking a tightrope; history breathing down my neck.
I sadistically want to lose my footing,
and masochistically suffer the consequences.

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.

I am running in sand.

I am drying off in the river.

I am free in chains.

I am lost surrounded by directions.

Caught up in mirrors,
not caring for what I see.
The reflection creeps
and crawls deep inside of me.

Ignition of the core, or soul,
or whatever - doesn't matter.
As long as I can manifest
A perfect reflection of everything you'd like to see.

Waking up 5 a.m.
Aching back.
Husband gets up
Makes sure your alright.
Sets up a pallet dubbed
"****** back set up supreme."
Rubs out the kinks,
From another exhausting week.
Talks about the shared woes,
And how hard things can be.
Mysterious figure-
Kids can be creepy!
Tuck in to our bed.
Lay on the sofa.
Continue talking demons,
Offer mutual support.
Dish out all the feelings,
We had to ignore at work.
May as well stay up now
Since the kid is sound asleep.
Turn on some video game...
Times all the same.
Sun up, Sun down.

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.

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.