I saw a butterfly on the concrete floor
I saw her for a moment, but wanted much more
The moment I touched her she flew away
I followed her lead throughout the day
It’s nothing more thrilling, and mark my word
as to follow this beauty across the world

Though I feel often as lost as she is
As confused and lonely and without a peace
I am asking myself day and night
If this is just wrong or if this is alright

To live in a world with no place for such beauty
To feel like a stranger that has no duty
That has no purpose in this jungle of ours
Like a magic potion with no powers

Like the butterfly on the concrete floor
Like a house without a front door
Like a man with no shadow behind
Is this just me or are we all blind?

Looking up the cloudy sky
searching for the stars
I thought of you and realised
the sky is not their only home
there are stars among us
forever searching for home.

The first day, the beginning
when two lovers play the first inning
when the stomach butterflies and
the joy that in us lies
never let go of the blue skies
When the world is flat and green
and has beauties never seen
When we all are kings and queens
and live in our dreams
only then our love begins

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 a skydiver
a cloud walker
A time traveler
in a bodiless soul
Feeling dared
to live the dream
Feeling strong
to move mountains ahead
Feeling brave
just to keep you safe
I might be broken you know
but I am forever yours

I want to be kissed in an art gallery

And cross streets without looking both ways,
Because we’re too busy,
Giving each other our own green lights.
(The sun was shining, and your smile was beautiful)

I smoke cigarettes as a metaphor
But I am not a book
Or exceptionally skinny
It still makes me feel romantic

I screamed at the top of a mountain,
And fell into my grave
All without leaving my bed.

I vow not to be a parent that looks the other way
And that punishes the symptoms
Of a sickness

Its hard not feel broken
When I can hear the rattling of my shattered insides

Its been a year since you died
I’m so sorry.

I used to draw.
I used to think beautifully.
I miss who I used to be, before I found myself

I have a whole world in my head
I am so much
and
I can’t wait to share it with someone

I’m not done living,
I have so much left to experience.
And I must find beauty in my distortions
If I’m ever going to make it out of here

-Taylor.

I feel like
I am being run over by a train
hit by a plane
sunk by a storm and
destroyed by a nuclear bomb
all at once

I feel like
part of me is dying
which probably is and
I am becoming aware
that the now-me
will be gone in few seconds and
I want to say something significant
but I think too much
...and...
at the end I say nothing at all
...so I am regretting it already…