I've got a heart
Full of bad decisions.

I've got feelings
With poor intuitions

I've got pain
That could strike fear
In thunder in rain.

I've got a boat
All aboard my ship of sorrow,
I don't care if I sink tomorrow.  
I don't know where I'm sailing
Looks on course for a river of  failing.

Tears of solitude, sinking my boat.
Swallowed pride, lump in throat.

Scarlet moon, illuminate my soul.
Starlight paths, make me  whole.

oh my angels I see you  clip your wings and die.
Everything  they taught you  in school was naught but a lie.

Cry, cry, cry

His hand wrapped so fiercely around my heart,
a five fingers imprint.
To which will never go away.
Even if he wants to go,
the marks would still be there...
Mutating my heart until it ached.
That boy had left an everlasting impression on me,

I will never be the same.

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

I am in love,
With your
Darkness.

You seduced me,
With your mystery.

Everywhere I look I see your face.  
Grandiose,
yet humble.
Old as time.
Luminous freckles,
Stretch proud,
On the infinity
Of your body.

You inspire me,
And humble me.
I am enchanted
By your
Lullaby  
Of silence.

I know  there's some that fear you,
Stricken by the omnipresence.
I feel sympathetic,
For the ages
Of misconceptions.
Whispered in your name.

I am staggered
To my atoms.  
By your honesty.
Your projection,
Naked and dark,
Bare and bountiful,
Beautiful.

And I know one day Ill join you,
Up in your excellence.

The dark curves of his towering structure-----home.
Arms reach in the shadows to grasp me in a hold of immeasurable calm;
His head, nestling in the crevice of my neck, gently stroaking me with his nose;
Kisses, baby kisses, sprinkled along the silhouette of my jaw;
Legs wrapped around one another, tighter as to feel the warmth of his skin;
Hands finding each other's touch, the familiar sensation.
Snake like arm grip, tightening, and tightening still----never close enough,
Perfection Reached.

                                                       ­           *s.q.