I have a few unhealthy habits that my therapist wants me to shake.
Chewing my nails is a nervous habit, he says.
Smoking cigarettes is only a crutch, he says.
Gorging/starving is a personality flaw, he says.
Drinking alone will cause problems, he says.
Falling for those who are leaving, have left, or are simply out of reach is a death wish, he says.
Hating yourself simply won't do, he says.


Tonight,
a hot summer night,
spent cigaretteless,
loveless,
and sleepless,
teach me more about myself
than Doctor Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.
ever could.

I know not about the feelings I have,
and the urges I get.
I know not when they'll come,
how long they will last,
and what my actions shall be.

I'm a mess.
This is the only way to describe it.
I'd rather breakdown in your arms,
than be at ease alone.

Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.

I’m trapped
In a labyrinth of thoughts
A complicated irregular network
Of nonsensical passages
I wonder
Will I ever escape
Will I ever get to feel
Or to taste
What this place
Has conjured up
And passed off
As reality
But in my heart I know
I never will
I’ll exist here forever
From this place
I’ll watch my body rot
And feel my mind disintegrate
My only escape
From the present
Is the future
Though I know
It’s nonexistent
So what’s the point
Is there a reason
Because I need one
I’m beginning to tire
Of this never-ending puzzle
When I think I’ve found my way out
I get lost again
When I begin to see a light
At the end of the tunnel
It flickers off,
toying with my head
And I’m lost again
Was there ever a time
When I wasn’t
Was there ever a time
When my mind could be free
I can’t remember

You excuse yourself from the party
And sneak off to the second floor
You hide out in your bedroom
And double-lock the door

The taste of birthday cake still lingers
That stupid song rings in your ears
Downstairs your guests are having fun
Though their host is not how she appears

You reach underneath your bed
And grab a box that’s made from tin
Shaking hands quickly remove
The sharp instruments held within

The tools of a sacred ceremony
That follows the emotional drain
The ****** ritual of release
The catharsis brought by pain

You grab the hem of your skirt
And raise it up past your waist
You stare down at battered legs
Milky white flesh you’ve defaced

A terrain map of your body
A reminder of who you are
Some may prefer a tattoo
But nothing lasts like a scar

Each memory is a torturous cell
Trapping you in an inescapable past
The pain and suffering that never ended
And the happiness that wouldn’t last

Ignorance may be bliss for some
But it comes with a price too steep
So relive those nights in your father’s bed
When he made you cry yourself to sleep

Soon you’ll make your way downstairs
And blend in seamlessly with the crowd
That fabricated air of optimism
Is the mask that acts as your shroud

A smile, a laugh or a smirk
False gestures you convey
You find it so easy to lose yourself
Inside the character you portray

Reality is too difficult for some
The real Sarah they can never know
You only do this for their own good
So let’s get on with the show

Wish I could remember the nights,
(Oh, those old days, those old nights!)
The nights I cried and moaned out loud,
Little as I was, newborn child.
Through imagination I see
That baby, I, little baby
Fearful, maybe, of the unknown;
Hopeless, he feels, and so alone.
Then his eyes cry, a whole tears’ sea
And his shout wakes deaths and neighbors.
“Somebody, (so he thinks, I guess)
Please come, anybody, attend my plea!”

So I imagine, perhaps it happened,
I, the baby laying, crying.

In the middle of his own hell
And, just as in Dante’s tale,
The baby is losing all his hopes,
But there she comes! There she comes!
She… she is the one who is always there,
The one who hugs, the one who loves,
The one who dares
To come to him, to me, at all hours
All seven days.

The baby, the little baby,
I, while laying beneath blankets,
Can only see her narrow eyes,
Eyes so deep, deep and wise,
Ebony, telling me no lies
And though red, her sleep they disguise
And come to me, to cease the cries.
“Hush, my baby, my love, my dear”
“Hush”, she says, “hush”.
From his cradle, his two arms rise
Asking for the warmth she never denies.
“Hush”, she says, “hush”.

So I imagine, perhaps it happened,
I, the baby; she, my mother.