I remember sitting at the edge of my bed,
thinking that this was it.
I remember sitting at the edge of my bed,
wanting to die at the age of 14 because the I felt the life I had lived was unbearable.
When someone makes you feel like **** all the time you feel like there is no escape.
No, it wasn't the bullies at my school.
It was my mother.
My mother who had drove me to my attempted suicide.
Hounding at me for days, ripping me apart like a tough piece of meat, and these vicious attacks that would leave me numb like diamorphine would.
The only way I could escape was drugs.
Drugs that would make me feel dead, but also alive.
Swimming around in my blood like a sardine looking for its school.
Blood pounding, heart rushing, adrenaline pumping.
And when it was over?
I would find myself in the emergency room at 4:00 AM with my arm hooked up to a saline drip, like a prisoner who was to be interrogated.
I'd wake up with thirsty eyes and a mouth stale with the taste of *****.
The tribulation was unbearable,
with every inch of my body griping for more of the substance.
I felt like I was tangled up in branches like ligaments that would only break once you cut them with a scalpel.
Then I met you.
It was like I didn't need the drugs anymore, but I did need the scalpel,
and you were my ******.
You were addictive like a drug and I always came back for more.
You tasted so fine,
like beef but softer.
I was awoken at 4:00 AM with the sound of police banging of my door.
I think they found out little secret.

Laying in the algae bed,
Soaking up the sunshine,
Festering in the daytime hours,
No one knows your name,
You never sleep at night.
There is a cure for this,
It all starts with one deep breath,
But the air was never sweet enough,
Underneath your fingertips.

I pull my blanket close to me, as if all hope is gone.
My lungs ache as I try not to cry.
My blanket doesn't quite cover my feet and the frustration overwhelms me.
It reminds me of trust. No matter how much we stretch it or pull it, it won't cover my feet.
It leaves us with cold feet.
Just like how you might trust someone and you think all is okay, but then something doesn't feel quite right and your feet are left cold.
About how you got the blanket to keep you warm and it doesn't really serve its purpose.

She stared into the vacuum of melancholy,
still unsure of what the word meant.
With the devils piercing eyes penetrating her skull,
but that was okay because she still didn't understand what religion was.
Her heart full of love, and not a single trace of hate.
Childish behavior was deemed acceptable because she was a child.
It was the crickets song,
the lonely moon just floating - smiling.
Lightning striking the asphalt made the night even darker.
As she took one step,
the devil took two.
Soon her steps became tiresome and short,
and the devils became bold and long.
That's when the crickets got arthritis.
Her globular organs changed into a dark colour.
She faithfully fed her pet pig and then slaughtered it.
Strange behavior.
The candle burns in memory,
youth passed away.

There is nothing better than
your eyes looking like the
moonlight under
the sonata
The feeling of ecstasy running through
your very veins
Everything is content and
at ease with our nature

Oh old crooked piano,
shining through your very eyes, rolling at the peak - the nature
Tilting and rolling our heads with every
quiver and quaver
Shaking out salt through our pores
Hearing every movement, feeling it assault you
with dopamine and the
interminable display of serotonin.

If I were to die,
right at this very moment
I'd allow caducity to threaten me with its structure,
and to touch every part of me with its sweetness.
Not only that but its
every movement,
every ******,
every crescendo
and i'd allow it to rock me back and forth
soothing every bone and every follicle.
I'd allow it to run right through me,
until my ebullience is no longer.

I shall be free.

I stare into the facade of the hospital,
and I stub out my cigarette with my rubber soles.
I enter and the air is sterile and the scent of death slowly emerges from the poor souls.
I look around and I see limp bodies in wheelchairs and skinny frames sat on chairs and I suddenly feel out of context, as if I'm an ant who walked into a termite colony.
I find myself in a situation where children are weaving through doctors and nurses trying to make the most of their time.
The window is cracked, and the fish is dead.
The paint worn away and a splatter of blood on the floor underneath my seat.
"Where did my brother go?" A young child asks me.
I suddenly feel clueless with an empty feeling inside yearning to be nurtured. My eyes water and I simply reply,
"I do not know"

We lay there,
heavy breathing and sweat
accumulated in the stratosphere,
My head on your chest,
Like the process of auscultation,
Childs play and the air is sweet,
My intellectual wonders and dances around,
Like sweet ballerinas on a stage.
And I wonder,
"How long will you last,
how long will you stay before you have to go?".
Like tears exuding down a gutter,
I cease the liquid from flooding
and I instead enjoy the moment.

I had spent the majority of my life dosed up on antipsychotics,
pills floating in my stomach in a desperate attempt to flood my brain with sanity.
Grown men and women asking me questions and then putting me somewhere with white, cushioned walls.
And if I did so much as raise my hand to defend myself, i'd find myself being restrained by men in white clothing.
I never really saw daylight.
I'm writing this letter to whoever may read this as i need to apprise of why I did such a thing.
I selected the first woman I saw, I saw plenty of women within the white walls, but none with a complexion so beautiful and so unique.
I had this urge since I could detect detestation,
It was as if i needed to make my mark on the world as I has not done so before.
The urge seemed infinite, I could not cease the sensation.
The last thing I saw in her eyes was my reflection.
That night, I watched her blood drip from the coffee table to paint the carpet red,
I watched the whites in her eyes grow more intense,
And that night I lost my virginity to the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

My first impression of the children's hospital was how nice everything was. It was new, with fish tanks and red sofas; pastel windows which made pretty colors on the floor when the sun went through them; walls were freshly painted and everyone talked with a smile. Everything just looked so peaceful.
It wasn't until my second visit that I saw the flaws. I was sitting on one of the red couches, waiting for my name to be called, and I was looking at the fish tank. A little girl was pressed up to the glass telling her mother that she could see nemo. But when I looked closer, I saw a little fish turned over floating at the surface. A man behind the glass quickly pulled it out of the tank, but I saw. That's when I started noticing other things. Like the bloodstain on the cushion next to me. And the fact that a few tiles were missing from the floor. The wood paneling had scratches on it; one of the pastel windows was taped up; and every parent was smiling, but the little kids holding on to them kept asking what was wrong.
Maybe that's just how hospitals are. They want you to think that everything's okay; that all that goes on inside are couches and fishtanks. They think that if they write out the word HOSPITAL in bubbly pink letters people might get it into their brains that everything's okay. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a hospital. Masking pain only works for so long, until broken bits and pieces push their way through.
I think hospitals are just fish tanks. Everyone is put on display for doctors and visitors and things seem okay for a while, you know, until they aren't. When a little nemo dies, they send away his body and just replace him with another orange fish that people can look at. We are all the cracks in the pavement; elevators shut down for repair; a phantom pain that nobody wants to believe is real. If you stand far enough away; if you distance yourselves from anything close to the word hospital, you can just let yourself focus on the mask they put up. But once it's time, and you're sitting on a red couch in the lobby of the children's wing, with a kid asking you where her older brother went, you'll find yourself staring at the cracks in the facade with a single tear running down your face and with emptiness in your stomach.

The day my father told me that we had to move out because we couldn't afford to live there anymore, was the worst day of my live.
It was the day my mother killed herself,
in bloom.
So not only did we lose one person, but two.
I saw my father turn to drink.
It was his new favorite hobby.
The kids would laugh at me when I turned up with uniform that was creased all over, because we didn't own an iron.
I came to school with blue lips rather than red,
because we couldn't afford to be warm.
I heard my father cry at night.
He started to bring his friends into the house when I was asleep,
and I'd always wake up to his limp body on the couch with syringes and beer bottles dotted everywhere.
Things started to turn nasty after that.
When my father would infect his blood with harsh chemicals, his friends would come into my room at night and hurt me.
I didn't see how he could ever call them friends.

When you care so much about someone,
   friend or a partner.
You'd do so much for them.
  Like give them kidney or even take a bullet for them.
But when you know that they don't care about you as much as you do about them,
  It aches inside.
My lungs begin to fill up with shells and flowers,
and suddenly it's hard to breathe.
It's almost like a dizzying Sisyphean curse spinning you around in the Earths orbit,
  and everything becomes blurred.
You then suddenly begin to wonder if anyone cares,
  because after all the world is a lonely place.
So give me one more cup of coffee and i'll be gone.

I will not be the punchline.
I will not be the definition of the joke you aimlessly threw at me.
I remember in school when people would tell me that sticks and stones may break my bones but words would never hurt me.
I can't help but feel the words hurt me.
And maybe the broken bone would hurt more than the words they threw at me, but a broken bone would always heal.
But the words?
They didn't
They would stay with me until I started loving myself.
And even then, they'd always be at the back of my mind.

The nostalgia of it all fills my head,
With complete insanity and regret.
I can't help but feel dread,
Especially at your request.
You confuse me and abuse me,
And manipulate my whole mindset.
You see I don't know what I'm doing anymore,
But I don't think that matters.
I just want to feel like I'm worth something, you know?
But I can't because you make me feel like I'm the mountain of melancholy.
It is up to the point where I can't tell the difference between what's right and wrong.
You see, these memories aren't good, only bad.

euphoric and proud, we danced like the children we were supposed to be,
brushing pencil shavings off our desks like our mothers did to our hair.
forming daisy chains like dignified humans.
The Sun beams on our faces as if it was designed to highlight our youth.

A punch in the gut, a knife drawn to the heart,
the inability to entangle a simple breath.
You lift the crease of your face up to seem gracious.
You lift your chest up to see if it will split, like the carcass of a rabbit that didn't quite decay underneath all that snow.
Your pulse softens like the tiny pieces of eraser entangled with faded words.
Your chest takes longer to inhale and only you and everyone else around you knows whats coming.

Cracked lips was the worst that we ever suffered.

Your breath is still warm and it still comforts the animals that surround your mouth

Lucy is talking about how her father fed her pigs and then slaughtered them. I think to myself, this is strange behavior.

*I know that your calloused fingertips caught on the cotton of her sleeves when you finally reached caducity. They told be that it was slow and pain free, and usually the mouth will taste of salt. That day was when the alloy of the sky grew to meet with the clouds, where salt loved to hide away. Your soon-to-be corpse was finally concluded, and I forgot to say goodbye.

I had spent the majority of my life dosed up on antipsychotics,
pills floating in my stomach in a desperate attempt to flood my brain with sanity.
Grown men and women asking me questions and then putting me somewhere with white, cushioned walls.
And if I did so much as raise my hand to defend myself, i'd find myself being restrained by men in white clothing.
I never really saw daylight.
I'm writing this letter to whoever may read this as i need to apprise of why I did such a thing.
I selected the first woman I saw, I saw plenty of women within the white walls, but none with a complexion so beautiful and so unique.
I had this urge since I could detect detestation,
It was as if i needed to make my mark on the world as I has not done so before.
The urge seemed infinite, I could not cease the sensation.
The last thing I saw in her eyes was my reflection.
That night, I watched her blood drip from the coffee table to paint the carpet red,
I watched the whites in her eyes grow more intense,
And that night I lost my virginity to the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

hateful and unapologetic at its finest degree.
cutting and breaking the limbs of our lungs and the safety of our minds.
you walk alone at night, to only find yourself at peace with the crickets singing a symphonty of sonnets and sonatas. the way the lights swirls under the lights towered over the pavement. mist is your friend at this point and the only solace youve had for 5 minutes. the air is sweet, but it will never be sweet enough for me.

My voice is louder than the amphetamines that pump through my system,
Like a myriad of violins,
preaching on a soapbox.
Surrounded by self-proclaimed writers,
who control their mindless devotions with their pen to paper.
They believe,
not only in themselves,
but in the system.
They don't challenge what's really happening,
and is instead,
hazed by propaganda.

I am told that confidence is one thing,
and being self sufficient is another.
But i think they amalgamate to each other,
like the rivers do in my head.

We wonder,
what if the dust on the moon really is acidic?
what do we do then?

I give my money to my hierarchy above,
and I challenge what really is happening.