The whys or where's
nor the for art thous
or the perhaps now
I know not
the love me nows
nor loved me then
or even the when
I know not
the cerulean sky
nor the indigo goodbye
or the softest sigh...
I know not
when words tried
nor when the rhythm died
or Poetry became a lie
I know not
the how's or wherefores
or keeping score
but
I know when
love of something
begins to end
bleeding from lacerations
bashed against rocks...
*I know then...

An impoverished heart lacks Love
Contemplating, how to hurt
Heart is dry as a desert
Hostile conditions, for Love to blossom
Eventually the heart shrinks
Burying all the emotions under sand dunes
Remembered only as a mirage

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

The night’s silence invaded by rains
Cutting through the darkness
Dingy streets exposed by the lightning
Howling ferociously, with vengeance
Street dwellers soaked to the spirits
Helpless against the outburst of nature
Scurrying to salvage their meager belongings
Cold and wet streets offer them little solace
The old library portico offers some respite
Nefarious activities are deluged
Tonight no one is on the prowl, no prize catch
Although cold outside, it’s been a sleepless night
So many memories rain down my thought crucible
Filling it to the brim, I feel drowning in them
So many emotions raining down on me
A shiver runs down my spine, cold eeriness
Stormy night stirred up my past
My silent present invaded on a rainy night

Kept in front of me is a rough handmade paper
Its furrows are similar to my unsettled life
The thick graphite pencil I hold up to sketch
My anecdotes that has made an impact on me
As soon I start sketching, the graphite smudges
Leaving dark and ugly patches on the paper
And an indelible mark between my fingers
Depicting the dark shadow that has followed me
Everything I hope for, is daubed by overcast setting
When I take up the erasers to wipe off the mishaps
The friction creates a colossal mess on the dreams
I realize that I have distorted the sketch I started
But the deep lines of graphite stare at me sullenly
Such indelible sketches hover in my mind
Not even the best of erasers can wipe them off
I tried in vain, only to be left with abrasions
I have given up on drawing up any dreams
No longer, the handmade paper allures me to sketch
For I have used up all the graphite, drawing, failures
So many failures already etched in my memory
Left with nothing but the memories of defeat
Like the dark smudges of graphite, hovering my mind

On a family vacation
To the mountains of Tennessee,
We were on a hike,
And my Mother said to me,
She had grasped a tiny twig,
To break her from her fall.
She laughed at the irony.
"That isn't much help at all."
Right now, I feel like she did.
This scenario is foretold.
If I fall, I'm falling hard -
And there's no sturdy branch to hold.

I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.

I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.

All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.

Misguided fire of passion
Burns one’s own abode
Even the tears of remorse
Can’t douse the raging inferno

The drunk at the bar found Aristotle at the bottom of his bottle.

But there's an important phone call coming from his shoe so he quits the pop stand, shoe in hand, and runs outside to take the call but it's only God saying nevermind, I can tell you're busy and it wasn't important anyway.

A pack of wild dogs are following me home so I invite them in and give them gin but they snarl and quarrel till I've had enough and I huff and puff till they take the hint and go down to the corner store, and I lock the door because loose dogs on ***** is the best way to lose your rent.

It's all peace and quiet at 6am, the rain is falling with malintent but the world is sleeping and I am keeping these hours from leaking out into the homes of the children next door where they slumber without worry so I hurry to maintain their dreams of fairies and flying while my kind is dying in the glowing dawning of the day.

But Aristotle sleeps alone in his bottle at the bottom of the bin, and the dogs have their gin and the kids dream within their great happy innocence as I spin another sunrise from the maw of the sky and then die until tomorrow when I'll do it again.

I write you out
Give voice to the silence
I would talk about it out loud
An injustice though, for those unfamiliar
With loss
You hear the words
But do not feel them
Cradled arms hold close and tight
To memories full of soul deep and light
You brought so much joy
Jeremiah
Your name still feels whole on my lips
Life is always a stage
Some would say yours was a tragedy
I know better
An epic drama full of love, adventure
Comic relief
When the despair becomes unbearable
That is what I cling to
My oasis amid drought
A light house beaming bright
During storms raging against rocky shores
I'm still afloat with our laughter
I'm still afloat