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I guess it would be kind of nice to learn
that spitting sweetness never gets you far
in early morning daylight. There's no charm
in forceful flames, when we will always burn
with uninspiring silence in return.
When finding fears that rise with the alarm;
dark, tempted lips insist on causing harm
then choke on rotten candies of concern.

I guess it would be nice to be taught how
to keep my bitten tongue secure and still;
to sleep through early mornings and allow
incessant pleading rest from overkill.
If you, my sweet, once chose to be around,
I understand why you’d have lost the thrill.
another petrarchan sonnet, not the easiest but I'm liking the style I seem to have developed in my sonnets now...
The flowers in my hair have planted weeds
inside my sanity. Developed roots
that cant be separated now, they're fused;
intrinsic to my idiotic needs.
The darkness spreads through insecurities
that form when painful memories dilute
and bend into a distant toxic truth
that leaves a desperation to concede.

I'm not quite sure just how to carry on
when words don't really help and there's no room
to plant new flowers or to try move on.
I guess I'll have to think of something new.
You'll find me in my garden from now on,
uprooting weeds to finally be in bloom.
There’s nothing worse than a girl desperate for love:

A girl that pities herself enough to think she is so intrinsically broken
she couldn’t even connect with someone biologically destined to love her;
A girl stupid enough to learn that love is a reward that she must earn,
yet frantic enough to always work too hard for it;
A girl that overcompensates. Begs. Forces.
A girl that claims she ‘Doesn’t know what to do with love’
when it comes along, so that, naturally, she can smother it;
A girl who’s biggest fear is abandonment, yet is an expert on expecting too much;
A girl that’s waiting to be saved, but would tell you she doesn’t deserve it;
A girl that still obsesses over ways she has been bruised
when surrounded by people that have helped her heal;
A girl who’s self involved, with no sense of self;
A girl that cries. And cries. And cries.

There’s nothing worse than a girl desperate for love.
Quietly, now,
the words settle in my brain
with softer edges than before.
Shapes your mouth made
piece together, delicately, now
I look for the cause.

Patiently, now,
I hear your voice in pastel tones:
my spectrum blurs the shout.
A storm I only helped grow
settles silently, now
my eyes are on the ground.

Carefully, now,
I keep my own shades pale
enough to match yours.
Words coming out faint,
we sit, quietly, now
I understand the score.
I used to think,
I can’t believe it’s you
That stopped my heart,
To restart it in the same
Drawn-out breath.
Who knew
That over a few dozen months,
Our hands would find each other,
And I could begin to explore you.

I used to think,
I can’t believe it’s you,
The same as before,
Peeled back a few layers more.
Our breath no longer separate,
Our hands no longer looking
For something to adore.
Your lips do all the looking now,
Soft and slow.
Up and down.

I used to think,
I can’t believe it’s you,
But I guess I can now.
It’s always been you,
In every voice,
In every face,
In every kiss.
Nothing could feel like this.

I used to think,
Our hands became one
Because they only fit each other’s.
Now, moulds falling into place
Can’t move.

I used to think,
Your lips would trace my skin
With eyes closed and breath heavy
For at least a good year more.
You always gave me something to hope for.

I used to think,
I can’t believe it’s you.
And I can’t believe the person
You turned me into.
But still, to start
And stop my heart,
Is something you could do.
With hands over these eyes, the view is blurred
To nothing but a glimpse through fingertips.
A monster from our nightmares bites his lips
And holds back sounds that should be heard,
Making paths grow dark and silent here on Earth.
We plunge into the solace of its grips,
And soon enough the world around us slips-
But sprouting in the darkness; we find Words.

At first we force them out, but quickly find
The monster that we bred can’t quite hold on.
Then Words come pouring freely from our minds;
Our sight is clearing up, in this new dawn.
We’ve made it here together, our fight for life;
One more breath into our lungs and we’re reborn.
If there’s just one thing that I have gained from even the worst of my experience, it’s an understanding, or at least an idea of one. My understanding is that I have an illness. That illness effects my life in its entirety; day or night, it’s a part of me. A part of my brain to be specific. If I want to function to a comfortable and happy standard of life, there are steps I need to take and processes I need to go through to help myself. It comes in waves, some days are good, some days are great; and some days I can’t even make it out of my bedroom. And nope, that’s not an exaggeration; sometimes finding the energy to walk the three meters it is from my bed to my shower can seem like I’m preparing myself for a 10 mile run. Does that make me lazy? Does that make me unreliable? Does that make me weak, or crazy? No. It makes me human. It shows that my brain has decided to pump out a little less of some particular chemicals than usual and my energy levels and rewards system have been effected by that.
     To me, this seems simple. I feel like the pure simplicity of this should be easily accessible to the majority, but for some reason it isn’t. For some reason, I am supposed to feel a sense of shame when discussing the way these chemicals effect my brain and behaviour. I gather this from widened eyes and furrowed brows when I discuss this topic. The what-an-attention-seeker glares. The mockery, or dismissal, of public coping mechanisms I may use.
     Stigma attached to mental health is now at a point where it is effecting people’s jobs, their friendships and most importantly, their recovery. If the majority of society can’t be open to learning some facts about something that is most likely effecting at least one of their friends lives drastically, how can these people ever be able to discuss, find support and try to recover from the illness they have? If they are stuck feeling embarrassed about what’s going on in their brain, how will they be able to get the help they might need or the advice that could save their life? If we really care about the people we know, on-going recovery should be supported. And if that is supported, open discussion of mental health needs to be too. We’re not trying to ‘put a downer’ on your day, we don’t want all of your attention and we don’t think you’re our counsellor; we just need to be able to be honest with the world, so the world can understand us.
      I am not struggling with my mental health anymore. I have accepted its role within my life and how to cope with the ups and downs it brings. What I am struggling with is society’s attitude towards mental health. I am struggling with seeing people afraid to discuss their issues. I am struggling with seeing people go undiagnosed because they are afraid they will be labelled as ‘attention-seeking’ or something else. I am struggling with the lack of a willingness to learn that I see in people. I am struggling with constantly seeing people stay quiet; so I’m not anymore. You shouldn’t feel like you have to either.
Okay so this isn't a poem, but it's something I really feel like I have to share.
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