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 Mar 2018 Athena
Amanda Bird
A Boy
 Mar 2018 Athena
Amanda Bird
I find it funny that the boy who bandaged my battered self,
sat me on a bench with razor blade rakes on my hips and heart, could be so hypocritical.
He told me I was silly, selfish to think these things and act according to impatience and impulse
And now he “needs” the needles and swears by the smoke that fills the space between us and **** I’m scared he’s headed for a place that not even I’ve been.
The end.
You always think you’ve found it, and then another minute passes
And another,
And then you realize that everything is infinite and inescapable.
Terrifying and terribly reassuring, all at once.
 Feb 2018 Athena
maddie lorie
Shriveled up morsels,
Contorting with asininity
Reeking of ignorance
Masked by cracked velvet

Blooming bushels
Bursting with vibrancy
Dripping with honey
Emanating from sanguine satin

Wise men toil in agony for the latter
Wise men till fertile soil for the latter
Wise men **** and manicure for the latter
Wise men plow and sow for the latter

Wafting through the gardens of wise men,
Flows air heavy with flowery perfumes

Glistening in the gardens of wise men,
Glows emerald, ruby, and sapphire jewels

Echoing in the gardens of wise men,
Resonates a nightingale’s last tune

And when the knife blooms a corsage in the wise man’s heart,
He bleeds black ink
Which spews from his mouth
In a torrent of obsidian rain
Evil comes, reaching and creeping
Darkness leaving you, shivering and weeping
Grey shadows fall, they bring doom
All around, trapping you in the room
Ready to claim you, as you scream

And you realise that this is no dream
Life almost deserts you, you're left alone
Lonely thoughts are chilling you to the bone
Almost as the nightmare starts becoming true
Now you feel the horror striking out at you

Panic begins stabbing inside your head
Out there come those you believed long dead
Endless laughter comes from a solitary raven
copyright Chris Smith 2010
 Jan 2018 Athena
Amanda Bird
 Jan 2018 Athena
Amanda Bird
Maybe, maybe, maybe, if you say sorry enough they’ll believe it, know you mean it.
I think your heart could use that kind of break.
right now it’s breaking.
For some small comfort there’s the night, the silky smooth night, the moon and stars.
For the hopeless romantic and pragmatist- for we’re but a second in eternity, a speck in infinity
But what a privilege it is to be so.
And what a burden it is to be so.
To be so….what?
Because here, for the first time in a long time it’s not my poison.
It’s his and hers and theirs.
Regardless, I’ll drink to my place in forever and infinity, and in regards to how my throat burns holes in my heart as it goes down, I’ll make do as I’ve done before.
Down is where it mixes with the roots,
With the ashes from which this sort of deep pain burns in the embers of my own broken glass
That’s right, I’m filled to the brim with bottles of what used to be stale beer, scorched purple in the sun of some far off desert.
They’ve been lathered in hope, rinsed with cynicism, dried with the same snot ridden shirt sleeve that dried my tears.
From them, I’ll drink poison until their pain is gone and my wish washy smile resurfaces, blood in my teeth from a war not mine.
When the straight laced meets the twisted, who bends and which way?
For better or worse, or shall I stay here in the numb, sweet and cool embrace of neutrality?
No, because I seek warmth.
It gets more than warm, hot enough to bend steely figures into what seems human.
Don’t touch. Too hot.
Proximity is a dangerous game here, where you risk skin and bone bubbling, dripping into the fire.
Burns leave scars, did you know that?
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Contradicting, questioning, quizzically,
I’m making my way through this like a blind man through a labyrinth of the social species.
Say maybe, so you don’t land in concrete, before you freeze from waist down and can’t breathe.
Say maybe, so time moves quickly; or stay here and bear their moment, heart and soul rough and bare.
Say maybe, so you don’t have to be sure you’re forgiven.
Say maybe, keep on holding their sins so the weight can pull you away from your own.
Thanks for reading! This is my first of hopefully many posts and I greatly appreciate feedback!
 Jan 2018 Athena
Amanda Bird
Here in America, number who knows what in education,
Where we excel in standardization,
Of souls and resumes
Where you need a 4.5 gpa
And hey, I know I’m one of the ones in the 1%
I’ll repent for my hypocrisy in saying “break free”
I know, poor me, being reduced to numbers just isn’t my thing
4.33, schedule block B, math, PE and chemistry
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe
I can feel my chest cave and shrink
That chewing glass feeling
And imagine the kids sitting on the brink of failure
Which has grown to become something:
A cacophony of the anti American dream
And therefore we’re stripped of autonomy
In the land of the free
“I pledge Allegiance to”
The US public education system which finds its niche in the fact
That witchcraft seems to be the way to survive it
Deviation from the norm is only embraced for a profit
So basically unless you’re an actual prophet I’d color in the lines
It’s not like you could find the time
After the 7 hours of school, 3 for homework, 2 for sports, 7 for sleep, 2 for eating, and half a minute for breathing
So on Gregory, on Denise, to your 9 to 5s
Of course there’s those that thrive
Living their best life outside the American Assembly line, like in algebra there’s an exception to every rule
So I’ll run the rat race September to December to spring break to summer and then start it over
I’ll chew my glass, if you’ll fill one up with champagne for June of 2020, when the real world begins,
Because the world of high school and imaginary is where I live.
I want to crawl out of my skin and transcend. I want to feel all the things I have forgotten that don't have names. I want to slip away. I want to laugh freely. I want to feel the way I used to. 

this bed is stripped down to the mattress and it shows all the faults and failures. it knows my name, bears my secrets, and held me up for four years. this ceiling houses my soul. these walls have both imprisoned me and set me free.

Laura gets emotional whenever we go to the towneast NA meetings. she says “this is the room I got clean in.” 

this room is where I rose and fell; transformed and burnt the remains of my monstrosity. I have evolved and endured within the confines of these walls. the scent of psychosis and freedom still lingers in the wallpaper of the bathroom after a long hot shower.

I have changed my entire existence within this room. I have lost my mind and soul in here. I have been empty and numb, trapped on this mattress. I was determined to make it the last thing I ever saw, once.

I have been to heaven and to hell on this bed. now I question if either exist. everything I have ever known, I have learned in here. everything I have ever questioned happened within this room.

I want to burn it to the ******* ground.
December 6th, 2013
a lament of psychosis, addiction, recovery, and resilience.
Hamlet my lightening rose
Summer on my lips
I tunnel and tangle inside you
Drinking from the basin of your youth
Earths saliva scribbles upon my dust
Cosmic beauty with a creatures face

— The End —