My reactions are never
A disgust in you.
But rather
They are a disgust
In myself.

Far to often we leave
after the love turns
To ash in our mouth.
And our lungs harden
Like cement in our chests.
And our hearts,
To diamonds under the pressure
And then shatter.

There are days when I feel as though
I may actually be okay.
It’ll be a good day where I am not
weighed down by anything in my brain.
I can function on a level that almost
resembles normal.

But those days don’t last.
And they are not more then half my days.
Most days I spend in this state of mundane,
existing.

But on my dark days.
On the days when the sky has no light.
And my mind is as turbulent as the sea in a tsunami.
Those days tend to take up my months.
And I spend most days,
Trying not to drown.

But those good days.
God do those good days taste wonderful.
After months of tasting ash and debris in my mouth.
Those good days taste like sunshine.

And the ground beneath
My feet vanishes.
The air in my lungs
Evaporates within me.
The blood in my veins
Exsanguinates through my pores.
And my mind shrivels and expands
Like the core ready to explode.
And I’m dying.

5 things I can see:
The chair
The sky
The door
The walls
My hand

The walls are closing in.
4 things I can touch:
The floor
The chair
My hair
The walls

The walls swirl in my vision
3 things I can hear:
The birds outside
The fan
The sound of my feet bouncing off the floor.

The walls move in and out of my vision.
2 things I can smell
The cut grass.
The sweat on my skin

The walls
1 thing I can taste:
The salt on my lips.

And then the walls vanish.

You will never truly die
Because a writer loved you
With such an immense force.
Every sunset is about you.
Every sunrise is too.

Every morning begins with you.
And every night ends there too.
Such a love will never die.
It only changes and molds.
To something we like to call grief.

Depression
Being so tired you can't get up.
You can't drag yourself out of bed.
Anxiety
Being so wound up you can't sleep.
You can't sit still without feeling like
Your skin will crawl off.
It's a weird feeling having both at once.
Like you can't move,
But under your skin in vibrating.

There is this innocence we have as children.
This fundamental right
to believe in a world where anything is possible.
That our daddy's can scare away any boogeyman,
Hiding under our beds or in our closets.
That the world is full of possibilities,
and there is endless time
covered in romantic notions.
But as adults we are no longer fundamentally innocent.
We are patchworks.
Taped in some spots that come lose all the time.
And sewn together in other spots,
That don't come undone all so often.
But we are broken and glued back together,
more often then even we are willing to admit to ourselves.
We harbor resentment and bias,
creating our own worlds in which the boogeyman
is everyone.
and not a soul can save us from him.
The part of us that was so eager,
The part of us that believed in a world of endless possibility
Withers and rots.
Leaving just the acidic taste of lack luster life.
Endless, monotonous daily tasks.
Craving the days when the world didn't feel like
The inside of stove with the pilot burning but out.
We are no longer the innocent.
We are the patchwork creation of a life,
That hasn't always been forgiving.
We are what our children think can save them from anything.
We are the boogeyman killer
The demon vanquisher.
Patchwork and all we may not be innocent,
But we are strong.