Don't worry about a thing,
because it will all be fine,
In the morning the birds will sing,
And the sun will shine
Life goes on, that's how time flies by..
So you might as well move on,
And leave your bad place behind

Don't cry over someone who,
Isn't even worth it..
It's their loss if they can't see
you're perfect
Don't cry yourself to sleep
Dream a dream for me
And then wake up next morning
Bright and early..

Oh when you're feeling down,
I'll be there to make you strong again
So pick your heart up off the ground,
Be strong don't ever pretend again

Okay one more verse,
Let's see if i can put this into words..
Don't over think the situation
Cause that will make things worse, oh
Just relax and let it go
I know it's easier said than done
But if we both never try,
We might never see that sun

17
Million little pieces
Sprinkles
Hammered Coke

The wind blows
It falls
Cascades

Faded
Me and then the high
Where the little pieces gone

Colors gone
White it overtakes. I overlook.
Or pigment spread across Earth

17
Million little pieces
For me to stumble upon
Serendipitously

Run into me
As I cross from Hell to Hell
Pieces of me.

If you are a girl and you are bisexual,
you're really just a ****.

If you are a boy and you are bisexual,
you're really just gay.

Bisexuality isn't a real thing,
it's a phase. You're confused.

All girls are secretly bi.
You're just more honest about it.

Bisexuals like everyone,
they don't know how to have real relationships.

Bisexuals are looking for attention,
They're dramatic,
They're confused,
They're *****
Idiots
Sinners
Immature.

Wrong.


Bisexuals are people.

Bent, not broken.
More aware.
Awoken

With each tweak
there is a hardening
Solidifying the foundation.
Finding strength.

It beats, it cries.
Tears engulfing,
it never lies.

Moving, wavering
always pushing through
the time.
Trying not to look back.

Bent it it, not broken.
Finally aware.
Awoken

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

Punk lips in perpetual paralysis,
and they're too afraid to let them kiss.
Too afraid to try to let it last
because of the blurs in their past.

I think the kids are in trouble.
Hanging out with temporary people;
making the wrong times never stop.
Smoking dreams with glass lovers
to indie sonnets and neon power pop.

The world knows they can pretend,
and it's their hearts they can't defend
from the illusion of what they could be,
and the loneliness of what they'll never see.

They skate the pavement until the sun sits,
and drink ***** from water bottles until their hurt slurs.
It's the preparation of tomorrow and what it may not bring
that makes every moment before, everything.

They're scared because it's real,
and I'm scared because they're scared.