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Patrick Harrison Jul 2020
The feeble proliferation-
that drips into my mind,
it tells me I am nothing.

And all the quickest walks-
the shortest feelings,
they become the most pronounced.

By and by, the wordless chorus
will ring their alarms, tout their
bitter and destroyed souls.

I have survived this long,
but my brain tells me,
and it does tell me,
I am wrong to be feeling glad.

Like it knows my happiness is a symptom-
a screaming cry of something sweet in the
temporary maze inside my skull, where
behind each locked door is yet another.

So every switch I turn, every lock I pick, they all
become part of my depression eventually.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
Worn to the brim is the old gold necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are too feckless,
fickle as they crack as to slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another hateful time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the steady, distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been so regally taught,
it is inside the mind that often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
I am quite simply unbearable,
everything I do, it's terrible,
and when the night strikes twelve on clocks,
I will sit and lie awake, think a lot.

The old lake by where I grew up,
the palm trees of a place I love,
it all flashes past me in a stare,
like even the good memories exist
simply and utterly to pull my hair.

I am so sick of myself.
I scream-    I am so sick of myself.
I lash out, I am so sick of myself!
It doesn't pay to be sick of yourself.

It's a sad, lonely life that I envision,
convince myself I'm fine, until the
bombs strike or the Earth decays,
and it is wrapped around my finger
like a note to my dead thoughts.

I am so sick of myself,
utterly annoyed at how little
I pay attention, how little I
regard others' feelings.

And it is at the end of the trail I see
old men, lonely, same as me.
The bastain of their minds covered in thick dark fog.
Inside of it I presume, just more of the same bitterness.

Then there are the post feelings,
and you know you drive everyone
away from you. You know they are
afraid of you. You know every sound,
every breath that escapes your lungs
is the same as a clock ticking until
it breaks. You know how it ends and
you have ambitions that aren't great.

Maybe I'll go to college,
                                             and be pitied there.

Maybe I'll finally learn the violin,
                                                       and disappoint my grandfather.

Maybe I'll find someone to love,
                                                      and watch them misunderstand me.

Maybe I'll enjoy the world,
                                                     until I lay awake at night.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
Worrying,                                              If I could sit in a vacant sky,
I'll fall.                                              I'd watch the hopeless world go by,
                                                                   and if I could apologize,
Don't catch me,                                             I would. I would.
please just let me
drown inside the sea,                        But when you've ruined yourself
let the water lap.                                  far too many times to count,
                                                                   is there really a reason?
                                                                       Why bother?
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
This is the truth of suffering-     when something as a feather falls as fast as a lightning strike to the ground-     and you see the melancholic burns in the grass slither, slip into every weary heart.

This is the truth,
of the cause
of suffering, to watch the world die, the flowers grow to be eaten, stomped on, caressed or simply plucked and thrown away.

This is the truth of the end of suffering, and the path that leads towards it, with all its twists and turns.

All of it's a plague,
dripping from a dagger,
or a thief in the dead of night,
exalted in the moonlight.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
Worn to the brim is the old necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are feckless,
fickle as they crack and slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been regally taught,
it is inside the mind often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
I just want to lay down,
wash my skin away.

Their hoses, wet,
houses, painted,
lawns mowed.

I hate it.

I just want to exercise,
ride my bike, leave this plight.

I'll pedal fast, run hard, do so
many push ups my arms feel
like snapping.

Behind me though, I'm being watched.

Look around, you'll see nothing,
my head is a maze that creates apparitions.

Sometimes I can see them plain as day,
other days, some days, they fade away.
Those are the happiest-

when I am normal. When I can hold a conversation.

God! I can feel my whole world crumble.
I'll probably fall ill, sad, diseased.
I'll surely watch my body tumble,
from outer space, my mind appeased.

But my body! Oh my body still lies,
down in the mire; the sick land below.
And in time maybe I'll do my cries,
write the same lines in the snow.

I'll surely show them my screeching writ!
I'll end the facade somewhere.
Even just for a quiet spacing bit.
Distract myself, get myself out there.

lo, in the darkest stairways I will climb,
****, one day I'll make it rhyme.
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