It's in those sullen moments,

Attacked with cancerous thoughts. 

Alone to hear these things aloud,

In Hell he'll surely rot.

It's in these quiet moments,

He ponders what could have been. 

He's found his lock; his ball and chain

And yet he seeks again.

It's in those careless moments 

He forgets what he has got. 

Temptation to act upon
Out-weighs desire to not.

It's in these stupid moments 

He loses all he possessed
By drowning those evil voices
With the flask upon his breast.

It's in those final moments 

He staggers with heavy thoughts. 

No more will he hear these things aloud,
'Cause in Hell he'll surely rot.

I am In Love With The World
I am in love with the rain when the sun is shinning
In love with the thinning blades of grass when noon is peaking
The change from dusk to dawn
The mating of birds and hounds.

I care for the full moon
And the constallation of stars
I'm in love with the African baboon
And the roses that bloom in june
Trees and shrubs that just are
Green and sparse

I delight in the birth puppies and the milking of cows
Creatures of the earth that walk or just  crawl
I am in love with sedimentary rocks
And sands of the sahara

I am into streams and rivers
Gold and silver that I am yet to see
Into themes of the titanic and dreams of a mad man
I like the farmer at his digging and the proffesor at his teaching
The pastor at his preaching

I admire the rapper's muse
The idential triplets on the news
I admire a soldier's courage
As do I the techniques of the runway model.
The orange cottage by the hill

I am fascinated by the witch doctors juju and miracles of the Christian faith
The politician's sway
The beauty of love and the comfort of  hope
And ooh! The milky way
I am intrigued by the internet's scope

I love the lover's gaze and..
The rainbow after a storm
Nature and all creation
I am intrigued by the prophet Muhammed and the philosophy of the atheist
Existance,Diversity,Intergration,Divinity

Sitting,
Listening,
Pondering,
Breathing in the clear night,
Basking in the full moon,
Feeling exhaustion.
Drip off of my body,
Feeling the cold nip at my knees,
Gazing up.
My eyes following the lines of constellations,
Taking a moment just to be,
Because there really isn't anything better.

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.