My depression is like being on fire and putting out the flames is hard cause it's like an oil fire where normal tactics don't work.

People will try and give me advice. "STOP. DROP. ROLL" Which in any fire situation is super helpful advice and I'm super thankful someone tried to help me out at all.

So I'm rolling around in flames now and nothing is happening to cease the anxiety. Literally I feel like it's getting worse the more I roll around on the ground with my peers still shouting out advice or better ways to roll.

Now some are so kind that they may roll around with me to show me how easily done it is to dismiss the feelings and 3rd degree burns but really it's a disaster.

A community of rollers find me and we chat online and share rolling techniques and controversies of fire related deaths, support systems and rallies to end our fires by government mandated fire extinguishers for everyone. The fire hurts less that day.

Weeks are going by and I'm here still on fire but now there is a heard of rolling people with me, rolling like potato bugs or how people roll playdoh. Whom inadvertently draw in more people and experts on fire to give advice and some kind enough to roll around as well but they aren't there just for me but because people see their loved ones on the ground rolling, so they assume they are on fire too. Which is great, please help us.

So now news sparks of awareness scortching the nation that people are on fire. So campaigns are established and wristbands with "STOP. DROP. ROLL." on them being sold. Celebrties rolling on TV, talking about their oil fires. Have weeks like, "People on fire Awareness week" and petitions for every American getting the divine chance to get their own fire extinguisher covered by an agreed medical plan.  Which then people who think the fire is a lie gain a voice, even when talking to people on fire. They claim false accusations and attention seeking from lazy rolling people. Also a small group  of nihilist emerge with the belief of letting the flames **** people. No one listens to the nihilist, thankfully.

This all creates this unique  debate of flaming people ethics between multiple sides. People rolling. People showing people how to roll. People debating on the technique of the roll. The people who want people to have fire extinguishers provided by the government. Those who disagree with the concept of fire and then those who don't have an opinion or want the world to burn. Yet still even with all the coverage, attention and debate people a still on fire and no one is bothering to ask how.

So back to me still hot with embers but not feeling so warm. Dissociate deeper with bubbled skin but come to it enough to address my problem even though I am discouraged by all the attention people on fire have been getting and internally debating on if I am burning that bad.

I live with burn marks and scars but i dream of one day having the ability and strength, to jump into a body of water and cool off with steam blistering off my skin and smile back at those who roll and say "I'm fine and you can be too."

All I ever need is time and a cool place to ease my flames.

I dont fair for personalities of cult cookie cutters aesthetics.

It was never what you are, only who.

But people are who,

and attack what.

They wear red and blue,

And rainbows too.

Surely a color or a shade is there for me,

Of course,

Grey...

Boring blend.

Not loud,

Not a trend.

Nothing to talk about.

Just sitting silent 2 am surrounded.

By colors,

The violent offended.

I wouldn't say in the middle is for me,

No I don't fair for the aesthetic personalities.

All these colors and directions weren't vacant,

Grey,

Blank in the cold up for the taking.

Grey.

Buried beneath the colors and ignored by light.

Grey.

Old screens

All Grey.

And left alone.

That's my party.

I don't fair for aesthetics and personality.

Cookie cutter cults,

Grey on an old screen.

Reruns in color.

When does "it" start?
That thing that adults said.
I don't think I am cut out for "it."
I'm a sap to be appreciated
I'll keep up with appearances
For now.

For now I'm going to be the best at being
Me.

Brothers and sisters,
I sit warding cynical language to the illumination of my desktop.
Bartering darkness with small doses of snickering blank stares.
My pretention is strength.

Mediocre-core, I dub my passages.
Incomparable senseless steads I ride in stanzas
Through time, He was once a child warrior.
So masculine before now.
I wouldn’t call balance a chance but a imperfect standard.

All ball, no beam.
Steps are often not taking for balance.
I burden myself with Erie

Lake of which my family took refuge in supply
Something I wouldn’t understand
Traumatized by cold weather let alone starving.
Burnt tires in my nostrils in protest to movement  
I fund my own campaign of self deprecation
Laughing at my own actions,
unkindly ripping myself apart.

The smiles I paint on paper faces are bleeding ink
Smearing on my hands, red dripping from gums.
I am laughing.
That’s how he would of wanted me.
To see me smile.
So cynical and backwashed blood in my water.

He argued who should laugh at his jokes.
At his mishaps.
At his blunders.
At his failures.

He said it was “for him”.
"That’s what it is", belly juggled in hiccups of air.

“I am the man who laughs at himself.
If I can make myself laugh I am happy.
Not a jester for common cynics.
I AM Scaramouche in MY play.
The king is me.
The queen is too.
The crowd is amateurs looking for my intoxication.
I will give them tastes of beer but I drink from the tap.”

Thus bent over and *** crack smiles flatulence, hyena and exit.
Regular here, a Griffin in abuse to my sides.

My uncle.

I woke in shock vibrations from my screen.
Forensic analysis deduced irregularities as the time provided evidence.
This was not a humorous hour.
I spun in my current room
Dreading sheets over the sun.
Pulling lashes out of my eyes.
I lost the battle to the hour and checked the joke.

My sister said it wasn't funny.
He wasn’t laughing when he left us.
He did get the last laugh and on no ones terms.
I wonder if that was something he can remember
Chuckling excessively in waves of inhales.

No one laughed at his side rigorous.
Not a single smile in the room.
As 1200 miles of anxiety took me to his grave.
Waking in California sunshine and resting in Buffalo wind.

I wasn’t a funny person compared to my well rested uncle.
He unveiled a Irish swagger in a ballroom of stuffed necks.
My uncle broke the rules for Carpe Diem, pushing comfort aside.
One by one, family members dismissed my clown.
They were ashamed of themselves, they can't laugh.
They don’t know how to laugh.
Such seizures of breathe at his own voice.
You were in the ensemble yourself, seizures and grasping.
Your stiff neck with red anxiety,
feeling the palms and stares of relatives beating your face.

"**** 'em!"

As I lose sight of my surroundings
I imagined him for the last time explaining the world to me;

"Look at all of this limited moments
No TIME!
No REASON!
**** trying to be stiffed neck down to your *** crack!
You don't have an *** to begin with!"

My Uncle, the Meta-modernists first.
I doubt he even would care to know what that even means.
And I loved him for that raw innocence.
Sheila LaBeouf  could of learned what infamy really was;

One 12 pack,
A BBQ
Horse **** Country for suburbs.
And my uncles shadow.
With that he was never alone in blue skies or gray

Juggling blubbering soul, translating to joy.
I didn't hear sobs, just sobering up.
I feel so clueless now since I turn back on my chair,
Documenting my Uncles success in influence.
I picture shakes coming from his rest, hallow rest.
Uncertain to if it is the snores or alertness of his nephew, taking refuge in his teachings.

I am a drowning man, in a pool of bodies that most men would go to another dimension for.

I am in a sea complaining about thirst while men live in deserts.

I been atop of mountains of pleasures.
Valleys of thighs and handfuls of sensations.

My mouth is full and I’ll still claim to be starving.

I’m an ungrateful little boy with an empty bowl of ice cream after devouring it.

Im a black hole ******* in a galaxy of time and space and my eagerness is a rampage.

I’m one privileged **** away from pornographic Mount Rushmore and I’ll ask for a bigger head on film.

So what is my problem?

My problem is all I ever wanted was to be wanted.

All I ever needed was to be one persons desire.

One finger to touch me and kiss my innards.
Spit into my face real companionship.


Somebody to hold it all against me with the cheapest pick up line. I love you.

I ****** my way to the top of my problems.

And I cannot unfuck myself out of the past but I can prevail in her presence and forgive myself a little each day she wakes up next to me.

I am so lucky to have her.

I must learn to hate myself less than how much she loves me.

That’s my problem.

I’m complete but I still feel completely guilty.

Posting is a hard time for me as I have posted myself in a T shape martyr for the benefit of my own well being. My own ego stroke. No more.

Not for the last few years.

My mental health sings sober for the first time.

I have become boring.
I am no longer a woe.

I am smoothed brain.
A Normal-Bob.

I tried to be somebody through words and ended up with nothing to say.

My cliche is showing where I thought my heart would be.

Today I am happy. Tomorrow too.
I’m willing to try again.

This sober love affair with words.

No cheating with a drink or a smoke.

It’s just me and the world now.

We are polluted but in love.

It’s worth trying.

America

I saw people crying gas, shedding rubber bullets, while sinking under the law

America you act as you missed a mark and they are essential to a red dot on a forehead.

Target me if you will.

You colored me sour milk long ago.

Spoiled eggnog at room temperature on a consumerist Christmas morning.

And that makes people like me rotten to you.

**** your brand
and expiration,
**** your synthetic hormones.
**** your led.

Take back your cammo and trauma.

America everyone watched you hold him under knee for 7 mins on YouTube.
Pleading to let go,
Gas tears justice out of their sockets and breathe.

America you watched men go to prison and didn’t protest.

America you are more concerned over buying Christmas out of toilet paper.

America there isn’t a **** good intention you won’t red line into the direction of hell.

America why did it take two months for a black man to jog into news relevance?

Why did I learn just last year about a book that directed my friends grandparents to where it is safe to drive their family or go on trips to avoid trouble?

America who writes history?

America, why are you always confused and looking at me, wondering who I am talking about?

Always a privilege to forget and then sweep.

It’s always my privilege to just sleep.

My privilege to watch them die in safety.

My privilege to watch them be detained.

My privilege to only write about it

And my privilege to watch it not be me.

The milk is burning and there is pepper in my lungs.

I tuned out Americana
and gave my knee with Colin
and held up my fist.
And my friends.
And I held them into the air
and showed you they exist.

They are you.
You are them.

America you were there and watched me hold him

And saw his eyes rolled back,

Dripping with milk.

America you gasped and covered your masked mouth with me.

You flinched as you saw the boy in my hands.

Such a young boy.

He breathed and cried gas.

And he still demanded more.

In his eyes,

milk white.

He wanted more.

He wanted to be back in there.

But America you wanted more,
and swept the milk and black under the rug.

Body shaped mounds under your towns foyer rug.

No wonder why you trip every other step and it costs so much.

America, why is 12 and 13  embroidered on it?  How much for that?

Why do you wear boots indoors and why do they look licked clean?

America why only one month of excellence is allowed when it’s everyday?

Does economics have to have victims?

Where do you get the money for the rugs but not the streets?

It wasn’t self made and stop saying it was.

It was billions of lives stolen and
now  money is no good.

We don’t take chips off of black backs.

We will not rehabilitate your withdrawal from slavery.

America this is only one symptom.

America you are diagnosed and the rug is molding, stiff rigor Mortis

You are and will always be
Rustin,
Johnson,
Young,
X and King.

You are and always will be
Floyd,
Meech,
Harris the 3rd,
Meek Mills,
And Bland.

America you took black and used it for green.

So why do you keep shooting yourself?

What did preparing for war do for peace?

On whose tab?

Did you need blood to ink a dollar?

Or you milking me for it?

America you gun pointed porches and red dotted foreheads,

while they stood hand-in-hand on court steps between your blue lives with black lives risking what matters.

America when will you call this a suicide attempt?

We are sick of being depressed and you are a tree with many branches blacking the sun.

Are you gonna hang with them this time, America?

Or take score beneath a moldy rug you have the privilege of walking all over?

America, the rug doesn’t even cover the floor.