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Sweet things
Memories
Peace and hope
In the future
Adventures
Renewed love
And faith
Continue
Strength is in her
Courage is her name
Trouble means little
To one of the faith
Refine me
Try me
I'm yours
Guide me
Use me
Help me
To walk with the Father
Is to walk like a princess
The house would echo with screams
As you chased him though the house.
He was terrified by the knife in your hand, but that only made it more fun.
Everytime his mother was gone
The game began again.
Until she found out and you hit her.
That was 11 years ago.
You were 26.
He's still waiting to see you again
With his knife sharpened.
Is this hatred?

Sleep until 3:30, walk to the gas station,
Buy a 12 pack and a carton of Camel.
Your son's mother worked 10 hour shifts,
So he had to stay at your house during the day.
You would already be drunk or high,
When he was begging for food that wasn't there.
"Wait until you leave" was the reply.
That was 7 years ago.
You were 32.
Now you're spending life in prison for ******.
He only looks up the obituary, waiting for your day.
Is this hatred?

The dorm room is silent for once.
The only sound is your heavy breathing.
It's the fourth panic attack this week,
And your hand can't take much more.
It's still bandaged from two nights ago.
Every night you look in the mirror
To see the man your past created and cringe.
That was an hour ago.
You are 18.
Blue-green eyes are staring back at you,
All you see is regret, disgust, and apathy.
Is this hatred?
It's 3:30 am
Every night something is keeping me up
Every night I lay awake thinking...
Is it insomnia keeping me up through the dark dreary nights
Is it my chaotic bipolar mind telling me nothing in the end will work out right
Is it loneliness feeling as if all my friends left and nothing seems right
Or is it jealously where I don't know my place in the world, but everyone else I know seems just fine
I can't find my mind
I can't make the time
The wiring went faulty
I'm out of place
Am I out of my mind?
It's 3:32 am
Continplating on what I should do with this life
Everyone always says things in the end workout alright
But I can't get any sleep at night
I'm tired of trying
I'm tired of putting up a fight
And for what cost?
All my feelings and emotions are lost.
Bipolar Insomnia
I’ll hold you like a memory
Hometowns between sheets
Make midnight forever
Like winter is always
Make love like jazz
Play trumpets with dreams
You sleep like 2am will never pass
Last night I dreamed of you.
There you were, right in front of me.
I heard your unfamiliar laugh.
I saw your once real smile.
I recognized the look of uncertain joy.
I swore I could feel you if I had just reached out and tried.
I didn't though.

Last night I dreamed of you.
For the first time it wasn't a nightmare,
Nor some long forgotten memory.
Everything was as it ever was.
A simple moment in the time that was us.
A truly peaceful moment absent of all actions besides existing.
It was purely nothing but itself.
That nothingness brought bliss in a way that is unable to be described.
I considered trying to save that feeling.
I didn't though.

Last night I dreamed of you.
After I woke I tried to remember you.
Who you were.
Not who you are,
Or who I think you will be.
I tried to remember who you were
To remind me who I was.
I wanted to find you and myself,
Everything and everyone I'm looking for.
I didn't though.

Last night I dreamed of you.
Tonight I won't.
i could try to write and speak French like Wallace Stevens did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and live in Camden like Walt Whitman did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and beat my wife like Charles Bukowski did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and drink like Ernest Hemingway did, but it might not sound like me
i could write like anyone but i have to write for me
i can only write the things i feel
or experienced first hand
and if my written words sound like someone else you know
it might be because they felt it too
and wrote it down
because they had to
because i have to
 Feb 2017 Mikayla Eve Kinzer
C
Fly high!
That's what they'll say,
after you wreck your car
and spill your brains.

They won't know--
or maybe they will.
****** tomb,
disguised as "wonderful daughter,
great friend."

Everyone has earplugs,
blindfolds too.
The epidemic is supplying
some for you.

Russian roulette
has some competition.
This ain't some new
invention...

Nobody cares--
it's not them.
Nobody cares--
unless it's them.
But it's too late by then.
 Feb 2017 Mikayla Eve Kinzer
yne
If we're not fated
to be in this life, then I'll
meet you in the next.
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