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I'm sick of the fall
when I try to fly
I'm sick of the let-downs
and regular goodbyes

I'm sick of the lying
scheming and deceiving
sick of depression
illness and under-eating

I'm tired of living
in a misshapen society
I'm tired of myself
and my constant anxiety

I can't help but think
if I just slipped away
would anyone care
or ask me to stay?

For he says I'm his love
then leaves the next day
meets another dreadful hook-up
and presumes I'm okay

Well, I'm done with the deluding
I'm done with the cheating
I'm done with my heart
and I'm done with its beating.
 Dec 2014 Brandi Clark
JR Falk
Busy
 Dec 2014 Brandi Clark
JR Falk
An artist has a busy mind.
Whether it be lines of a poem
or lines of a play.
One may argue that literature cannot be art,
But I will look at the accuser and ask him to count the callouses on my hands
he’ll ask what for,
what they are from,
and as I count them I’ll tell him,
"From crawling out of my own little hell."
Of course, he’ll scoff and leave, but who is he to blame?
Poets are emotional.
Others fear to feel.
Which, in retrospect, is very ironic when you think about it, because technically, they are still feeling.

My mind is like rush hour all hours of the day,
Because there is so much left to think about,
So little time to enact,
So little time to involve yourself in the thoughts.
Things occupy my mind often and when I sit alone on a park bench,
I see a collection of cars screeching against the pavement toward me,
or hear a phone call that tells me my mother,
my father,
my sister,
my brother,
is or are dead when all of the above are very much alive.

No, my mind does not silence,
It is persuasive and deceiving and it never fails to fail me,
Yet I’m trapped inside, because it’s all I've got.
When people ask if I’m alright, I respond with
"I’m fine! I’m perfectly OK!"
Because this is how my mind has been since I could count to ten,
and I cannot seem to picture it being any other way.

Normality is boring, but normality is accepted.
Being expressive is not.
So I’m told I’m too emotional when I speak in a crowded room,
I do not argue, though I still wonder how
An obnoxious burst of laughter is far too expressive.
They say the saddest people laugh the loudest
Because they are most vulnerable and susceptible to a comedian’s antics,
Especially considering they've muted their own expression to the point of near insanity,
Smiling and suicidal,
Laughing but decaying and cracking drastically with each and every chuckle,
Ironic like an abandoned amusement park-
A dying happy place.
People say that “the saddest people have the brightest eyes,”
And the most common compliment I get is
“*******- I love your eyes!”

I do not try to be obnoxious.
The words slip, and the volume cracks up,
And my mind continues running when I am standing still.
I am trying to figure out why I cannot catch my breath,
When I am not even moving.

I wish I could be normal,
I wish I wasn't so ****** up and broken
But you can’t just take a totaled car,
hand someone the keys and say,
"Take her for a spin!"
Because it will forever feel useless and it will not function.
Therefore, neither will I.

Writing helps in easing the plethora of trains speeding through my mind,
Trains of thought just chugging along,
But it only slows them down, if only for a while.

As an inexperienced conductor,
When someone asks me if I’m “BUSY,”
I can never answer them “no” honestly,

Because an artist has a busy mind.
Old, finally revised. Still unsure if I'm proud of it.
 Dec 2014 Brandi Clark
Jacob
I have yet
to truly find
a happy poet.
They tell me I'm crazy but I think that's a bit of an overstatment I mean it's not my fault there isn't enough air in this room to breathe.
Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup

Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax

Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams

You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day

The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)

Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine

My dad
is proud
of me

This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud

To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this

The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide

These
were the
bad days

My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return

The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me

Depression
loves me
so good

She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape

Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows

You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress

I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me

The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope

My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”

But
I
am
alive

I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge


I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad

And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”
Maybe you don't understand
The appreciation I have for drowning
But I really like the  way
The water loves my lungs
some days they are sad. sad about the weather, sad about the thing that happened last night, sad about losing their favorite book, sad about their coffee being cold, sad about the fact that they can't find matching socks. lots of things make them sad, lots of nothings make them sad too. you see, when you have a predisposition for being sad, every little thing counts.  so when you ask her why she is sad and she cannot answer, do not press further. do not go looking for a reason that just isn't there. when you ask what you can do and she says nothing, do not be hurt. do not feel useless. when she wakes in the middle of the night and she is silent, but you can feel the bed shaking as she cries, do not assume you know what she is feeling. you don't. hold her if she wants it, don't touch her if she doesn't. if you ask her if she wants you to stay and she says yes, do. but if she tells you to walk away, do not listen. stay with her, because if you don't, she might not be there in the morning .
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