Bardic pretensions aside
I am full of dejection
Blue devils plague me
Night and day
Playing with my mind
Circles of thought constantly turning
Whirling and whirring
Worthless, self loathing, aggression
Manifests along with tears and
screams, let me go, let me leave
but, you won't.
Pop a pill, then you'll be less
Possessed, but I'll still be depressed.
It's not a tap, I cannot turn it off
Do you think I want this?
Remembering sunnier days?
My life event of being diagnosed with MS
caused this, do you not think I want it to go?
Stressed, bereft, dispossessed you call this life?
I am enmeshed by a web of my own brains doing.
Descending faster than a broken elevator
down, down, down all the way to the bottom.
If I hear that the only way from down is up
I will scream, and scream, fight and bite
Scratch and holler until I am a hollow husk.
Oh, no wait, I'm already a hollow husk of a human.
All I want is to disappear down the rabbit hole.
Un-whole, lost in the twilight zone."

Christ created us not to live , but to die to self daily.
Christ definition of successful children is the servants.
While the ones that lives in mansions, are the failing ones.
Christ defines his people wealth not on how much they keep.
But rather how much that they give away in his name.
Christ is the one that define us, by how much we will look like him.
Christ love for us is not the feel good kind of of love of the world.
But it is the unconditional love that he expects us to show to others as well.

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

sbm.

I'm a ******
I don't do drugs or drink
my only flaw is how much I think
I don't believe in God but I believe in me
And I don't know where I belong on my family tree

I don't propose that **** is based on a girl's clothes
I suppose I'm dumb or brilliant but who really knows
You could say that I'm narcissistic or have low self-esteem
with a girlfriend with a pocketless pocket and a head full of dreams

Whoa that didn't flow, that last line
Imperfect effort seems to be an attribute of mine
Look at this rhyme scheme, it's so diverse
I guess I can get away with this; I couldn't get any worse
One favorite, three favorite, fifty-four
Give me validation, I could always use some more
Hello, Hellopoetry! You've been so forgiving
of my beautiful poetry that reflects an ugly way of living
Tell me, tell me: Should I write more?
What if my sadness is gone, and my melancholy no more?
Will you still love me if I write about crinkle-cut fries?

"****. No more suicide poems, does this kid still try?"

Is there still a Josh Haines if he no longer cries?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he doesn't wanna die?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he starts to fall?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he gets it all?
Is there still a Josh Haines after every kiss?
Is there still a Josh Haines after he writes all of this?

Eh. Maybe, baby. Maybe.

I awake from a dream of love,
a love that exists between
you and me.

The love born of daily commitment,
a tender word even when our muscles
ache and our hearts are heavy.

Our love is born from slumber,
a long forgotten time when we
walked in paradise connected to all of creation.

A love born out of suffering and shared experiences,
a love that grows from each day waking up to gaze
into each other's eyes.

I am grateful that our love is more than a dream: an echo of our subconscious memories
from our long forgotten past.

Our love is a reality
here and now.

Do you see them?
They see you.
Do you hear them?
They hear you.

Yes, you see them
Out of the corner of your eye
Yes, you hear them
During the silence of a ticking clock.

You'd rather not see or hear them
You'd rather they sleep a quiet slumber
You'd rather they didn't talk to you
You'd rather the professionals were right, you're mad

But, you and they know otherwise
They are only seen and heard by you
To others they elicit that "someone's just walked over my grave feeling
Like children at play their cruelty knows no bounds.

I once found a bird when I was younger

the bird was small and weak and abandoned by its other birds

I took it home, I did all I could

soon the bird died

why, bird, why

why die?

you could have lived
you could have flied

I told my mother

my bird is dead

it will never fly


mother still wonders why I have never touched living things again.

Oh decisions decisions,
What challenges you are,
The clock is ticking,
Yet my thoughts don’t get far.

That could be this and,
This could be that.
Each choice is a risk,
So I might as well pick out of a hat.

The intensity rises,
As my body begins to perspire;
Legs trembling, hands shaking,
Each choice takes thought, must it require?

Finally conclusions are drawn,
As the brain halts the tearing.
I can now calm to a relief; because
Now I know the shirt I'll be wearing.

Cloudy days,
Cloudy thoughts.
Cloudy messages you propose.

Cloudy raindrops,
Falling down.
You make no movement,
Make no sound.

A cloudy sky up above,
A sky of grey portrays your love.

Where are the sunny skies I yearn for.
Where is the sun.
For you, I thought you were the one, my love.
Though all you bring with you is the dark.

A sunny forecast up ahead,
When my days aren't spent with you.
All though all we knew was to live through the grey--
My love,
Sometimes we need to accept the truth.

To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.

Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.

This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.

These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded  us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****.
These stories are remembered where'er I go.