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TS Jul 2017
I need to speak but it weighs so heavy on my mind.

"They don't love you."

"You aren't good enough."


I can't work, I can't sleep, I can't breathe.
This feeling is suffocating me slowly.
Let me out, let me speak, let me be who I am without judgement because I already judge myself enough for the both of us.

-t.s.
TS Jul 2017
I'll dump this here so your words stop stinging.

This community ***** the venom out with each poisonous thing I post.


"You're a kind-hearted person with good intentions, but you hurt so many people. You say you're their friend, but you've entirely abandoned them, despite the lengths they've gone to to help you or to support you. If you truly care about someone, reach out to them, even just to say hi. Stop hurting the people who care about you the most."

With no love whatsoever, Some ******* on the Internet



-t.s.
TS Jul 2017
I can smell the cigarette you put out on my skin.
The sting, it lingers, but I am used to the pain.
I can feel your gaze, not love but lust from sin.
Still I let you touch me, in hopes I feel sane.

Your hands wander and I want to scream.
Tears are running but I am not hurt, just in pain.
You pay no mind and so it seems
This bed will always creak where you have lain.

I am haunted by the ghost of your touch
Who once took my soul from me.
Desecrated place, my eye are lifeless such
Without hope or depth for eyes to see.

I am finished here, it is over.


I no longer belong to me but you have claimed me for your own and left my lifeless body in the wake.
TS Jul 2017
LSD to hallucinate
Marijuana for stillness
Alcohol to numb the pain


All I wonder is

Who needs drugs when we have music?


-t.s.
TS Jul 2017
Bokeh flares glitter.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Spirals of white.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Dancing yellow light screeches.
Overwhelming prisms flash through.
Angry heated red sets fire.
Meadow green comforts, too.

I close my eyes and I listen.

I see a masterpiece painted behind my eyes, sitting, waiting to be discovered.

Encovered. Enearthed. A firework display of passion errupting in time

One and two and three and four ...

Blood, oceans, dirt, sun

The words bring the passion and the passion brings the show.


The rhythm creates the motion, gives life to the color.


Color.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Every song has color.
Every song has a display.
All we need to do is close our eyes and wait and

Take the time to listen.

-t.s.
TS Jul 2017
'Likes' are not hugs.

Comments are not kisses.

Views are not a hand holding mine.

And yet I crave this attention more than anything. Eyes stretched wide, I live for that next hit, the next 'like'. I lose sleep over how many views I need to keep going. I am a wasteland of media, searching for any signs of life.

I am despirate.


I am addicted.



I am far from social.

-t.s.
TS Jul 2017
Shoved in a plastic grocery bag under the boxes of Christmas decorations is where I found my crazy pants today.

Dusty and discarded, I looked at them. They were softer than I remember.

When I would act irrational or angry or even sleepy, my family gave it the term 'cranky pants' 'angry pants' or ' sleepy pants'. It was a kind way to say, "hey stop acting ridiculous!"

When I was committed to a psychiatric facility, I wasn't allowed to wear the clothes I had on because it posed a threat or hazard to my safety or that of the other patients. They gave you scrubs instead. They were cold and miserable.

One afternoon, I saw one of the other patients wearing sweatpants and I was thrilled to see that was an option. I spent 90% of my time there fighting to get a pair. Finally on day 9, I was gifted a beautiful pair of Heather white sweatpants that had elastic at the bottom and smelled like bleach.

My crazy pants.

I wore them because I was crazy, or so I told myself.

When I was discharged, I got to keep them and would occasionally wear them again but mostly when I felt more bipolar swings happening.

They found their way to a bag in the closet and remained there for months.

Just like my bipolar swings, they hid for a while, stagnant, waiting.

And just like my bipolar swings, they found their way back and now that's all I want to wear. My loony, angry, depressed, crazy pants.

-t.s.
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