This is an ode to Adderall,

that wonderful mixture of

dextroamphetamine sulfate

dextroamphetamine saccharate

amphetamine

aspartate monohydrate

and amphetamine sulfate capsules

that all combine together

to form a prescribable pill

questionably similar to the Schedule II controlled substance street drug

commonly refered to as "Speed."


This is an ode to the children

who are bundles of energy caged in a classroom

incapable of concentrating

on the miniscule tasks given to them

by pedagogical authorities that

promise societal success and economic happiness

to those who complete their work on time

without a fuss or a doubt as to why they're

filling in bubbles on paper in the first place.

The confused children who watch

as others with calmer brains

fixate eyes on textbooks

rather than out the window.


This is an ode to Society

deeming these individuals as broken

choosing to wound then medicate

rather than proliferate.

That took their inquisitiveness

and locked it in a book with the label "DISORDER"

stating that you will never be anything

unless you think and feel the same way we do.

And much like a mad doctor

lobotomizing those whom he thinks insane

they synthesized a pill

to dampen a torrential brilliance

allowing them to place their sedated children

back in the box where they belonged.


This is an ode to the college students

chained by academic standards

expected to excel towards great things

if only they reach that ethereal diploma.

The students who crave the artificial focus

the increased capacity for concentration

with the broadened spectrum of perception

the sense of purpose in the tedium

the ungodly ability to think clearly

and perform the meaningless tasks they expect of us.

The students who go through illegal means

to purchase said drug

to swallow or snort

and dive back into the mountain of responsibility

with a new found sense of productivity and motivation.

An ode to the students

unable to find purpose in studenthood

the ones who find more virtue in watching the sunset

burn clouds into firework oblivion

before then blessing us with uncritical night.

An ode to the students

who discover more education

in climbing to the top of a mountain

and yelling a nonsense decree of passion

just to watch the echo

bounce from shore to shore

in cathartic reverberation.

The ones

for which our pill

is the only possible manner

of assigning purpose to purposeless assignments.

These are the ones

who must binge

cram for days before

the big exams

going whole nights without sleep

or food.

The ones slowly cracking under the increasing pressure of academia

spending more time questioning why they must complete their homework

instead of actually completing it.


This is an ode to my brothers and sisters

who stand in horror at the mold we must fit into

crafted by an unknown unshakable entity.

The ones who lost the appeal of cookie-cutter success

in exchange for a small understanding

of the way things really work.

The cogs that twisted off the machine

and now sit lotus-posed in the corner.

My fellow birds with broken wings

still expected to fly.

My fellow carpenters expected to build their estates

yet not given the proper tools to do so.

The ones of cursed cold clarities

perfectly capable of clutching

those fifteen minutes of dynasty

yet refrain from doing so due to

the immaculate futility of it all.


This is an ode to a drug induced rant

that no one will read

the one that I chose to write

instead of doing my **** homework in the library

like a compliant student.


This is an ode to the pressure-oriented procrastinators

that delay and yet again delay

their petty necessary obligations due to purposeless and exhausted motivation.

Swallowing substances to summon some sort of incentive

to fill in the bubbles

and cater to the Society they find so confusing

the ones who only under influence of synthesized chemicals

find reason to squeeze into that culturebox

that cascades down a bumpy man-made conveyor belt

branding a diploma onto your forehead

injecting an occupation into your veins

transforming your pupils to dollar bill signs

demanding you breed children

to do the same as you have

and you'll never be happy unless you do these things

right?


This is an ode to those who reside in the shadows

of our broken social system

and conjure up great conversations

pertaining to everything and nothing

that are as wonderful and necessary

as the prints of your fingers

caressing down a comfortable torso

just before the sun rises

the untouchable indescribable realizations of life and love

that are completely irrelevant in their eyes

but are entirely necessary for our survival.


This is an ode to the overwhelming feeling of love

greatly exacerbated by a pharmaceutical delight

whereupon connections with other humans

become both incredibly appealing and oddly magnetic

for a few electric hours.

The oxygenating satisfaction felt

the instance just after the small talk architecture masks

fall to the floor

and right before we put them back on.


This is an ode to the minutes before the amphetamine crash

where the world still doesn't make sense

but we briefly don't mind

because a few fleeting moments of energy and purpose

in this otherwise detestable confine of reality

are all you can really ask for

as you complete the assignments

then step outside

to smoke yet another cigarette (they're absolutely wonderful on Adderall try it some time it'll **** you slowly but then again what won't?)

only to witness our Sun

breeding fire clouds in the east

illuminating the Western Abyss into purple-gold spectral oblivion

and in consequence therefore

between puffs of a necessary cigarette

you grin to yourself in quiet victory.


This is an ode to misaligned priorities

to those who when walking to everimportant final examinations

think not of the curriculum beaten into their skulls

but take careful measure to step on every crack on the sidewalk

who stare not towards the future

but to the beautiful reflection reflecting back from the broken mirrors

that are the weary days and weary ways

of this curious existence.

To those when stepping into the absurd spotlight of Society

unapologetically proclaim:


"Though I must play your game,

you will never win."

Hi, my name is Jacob & Imma wrist cutter.
Once a cutter, always a cutter.
Addiction, this is kind of like
A.A
but
get rid of the first
A
and replace it with a W.C
and there you have it.
W.C.A.

Our mission is to get all
the active cutters
to cut it out.
Cut, slice, and skin
bad ****
not your body.
It's beautiful without the scars.
& You
DESERVE
to die in a better way.


No one should leave the earth,
passed out,
blue,
cut up
burnt up
dried out
thrown out.
Passed out ,
drowning in a pool of your own blood
is not a glorious end
to a magnificent person.
Cut out cutting.
The Love Cult has
plenty
of band-aids
if you ever wanted to come visit.
Stay a while.
You'll <3 The Love Cult.

1 cut, 2 cut, 3 cut, 4. cry for a while then cut some more. open cut, closed cut, cut scabbed over. drink away the pain, then cut again sober. old cut, new cut, cut dripping blood. drag the blade across and watch as it floods. cut on my wrist, cut on my thigh. wait til everyones asleep, then cut in the night. small cut, big cut, cut too deep. sit and watch as it continues to bleed. hi cut, bye cut, it keeps bleeding out. see you later cut, its over now

Write with me

I want to hurt you
Mark your skin
My territory
My personal sin

Lock me up
Put me away
I'll let you order me
Like room service, as you say

I want to inject you
Directly into my vein
My new drug
Beautiful pain

Be my straight jacket
Hold me down
Be the addiction
To which I'm bound

Please finish, Sir,

"You asked me to finish it
Dare I say, I cannot
I'd need you beside me,
Screaming when to stop

I'm not sure where I begin
Or when or if, you ever end
Time is but an icicle,
After reading what you send

So grab those silver bracelets
And lock me into place
You can throw away the key
So long as I see your face

I'd crush the states between us
Set fire to all the land
If it meant bringing you closer
To my trembling, Cold hands

Warm me up?
Not a question
But my demand"

And thus, I quiver
Far beyond shake
Just the thought of your skin
Causes the earth to quake

Cold hands?
Please, let me heat them up
And when I'm filled with you
Over fill my "cup"

Spill yourself
Completely,
Deep inside
What's left of me

Do with me
As you please,
Because for you,
I'd stay on bent knees

i don't know
               what to do
     the surface
                            of the
                                   w
                                   a
                                   t
        is                        e
             gone              r
          and
i'm  
                         ­       d
                                r
                      ­          o
                                w
                   ­             n
                                i
                ­                n
                                g
in
   the
                                  weight

                      ­                            of
                                  ­                       the
                                                             ­   world
i don't know
              when
                       i'll
                           go


                  can i become a kid again?
and live?

A line I hear a lot of times.
My life—
bitter memoirs,
disappointments,
mental scars,
and feeling miserable
most of my
lonely moments.
Opened my emotions
only to feel vulnerable,
exposed to the
broken cold.

These past few days—
I hate them.
I ache in pain,
I cut myself—
my wounds on
my right arm
have no mouth
but scream for help.

Only to be sent away,
to hear them say,
“It’s not a punishment.”
A line that cuts deeper
than a sharp knife.

And yet I feel
so abandoned
in my own
treatment center.

In through the nose

Straight to the brain

That chemical drip

I attempt to refrain

White of the snow

Sparkle of ice

Set it before me?

Doubt i’d think twice

Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

please i need an out

                                         i need out please
    
                    i need out
  

                                                               ­        i need

                                                   o

                                                   u

                                                   t


i
   m

                                   S
                                      U
                       ­             f
                                   F
                                          o
                   ­               c
                                         A
                                     t
                                   I
                                       N
                                    g