I've been feeling out of breath lately.
My lungs don't inflate properly anymore.
Waking up is the most taxing task that I have to accomplish on a daily basis.
I've been sleeping in,
And even after I wake up I stay in bed for hours.
It feels like the weight of the world
is crushing my chest.
Like an anvil is being dropped on my shoulders a hundred times a day.
I feel like Giles Corey;
Crushed by the weight of falling rocks.
Rocks that look like people I know.
Rocks that feel like sorrow and death and tears.
Being pressed to death by demons that accuse me of wrongness,
by demons who surround my head with dark thoughts;
by demons who claw at my throat,
tell me to do bad things.
I'm constantly running from the black mist in my mind.
Trying not to be swallowed by it.
But I can feel these shadows on my back,
and what lurks in this darkness nipping at my ankles.
And the more I run,
the more out of breath I feel.
And when I turn to give in to the shadows,
I have no more breath.
I can't inhale, because I've been crushed.
I suffocate; I can feel my soul dying a little,
Piece by piece, it crumbles until I am nothing.
I am out of breath now.

What is home?
The word “home” is where someone lives.
A home is where they have family.
How does that quote go?
“Home is where the heart is.”
I don’t know what that means.
Today I was driving on Williams Field and Lindsay,
Heading east towards Higley.
I thought of the Pizza place that I’ve never been to.
Zella’s, it’s called.
Bosa Donuts right across the road, which is also ironically right next to a gym.
I thought about all the shops that are on this one street,
And then I thought of “home.”
The green fields of Wisconsin,
Or the desert areas of Mesa, Arizona?
I know this city better than I know the town I grew up in.
I know the roads, the weather patterns.
I know where to find the gas stations
And the corner stores.
Which parts of town are the “good” parts.
Which are the bad parts.
But we’re back to the same question.
What is home?
Because I live here in Arizona,
I know the streets and I love the city.
But I’m by myself.
What is home,
Because all my family lives in Wisconsin,
And I can’t even remember how to navigate
The town I grew up in anymore?
What is home,
Because my heart is here, with this city,
But I find myself missing Wisconsin more than ever?

death is cold.
its the snow on the ground in the winter;
the darkness of a moonless night.
its the chill creeping up your back,
around your shoulders.
its the whisper that you hear in the wind,
or the shadow you see around the corner.
death is the burn of fire
on your bare, vulnerable skin.
death is crying his name in the dark,
convulsing, shaking, seething.
death is driving past that horrid place
at midnight;
thinking of drowning in the dark sea.
death is the warmth you feel
at your back when you feel nothing at all.
its the ghost that you miss.
its the voice that you can't hear anymore.
death is permanent.
death is....
free.

You cannot tell her she's beautiful,
You cannot tell her you love her,
You cannot tell her she's your world
When she's at her best moments.

You may only tell her those things,
If you're ready for her to have those off days,
If you're ready for her to not always wear makeup,
If you're ready to deal with her mood swings,
If you're ready for her to be clingey some days and distant others,

You cannot tell her any of the pretty little comments,
Unless you can handle her
Alone at two A.M.
As she's struggling with life,
And wondering why

She is not enough to win her own internal battles