Genetically predisposed to be overtly critical of everything
while also severely hindered by crippling social anxiety.

I've never been to therapy
nor a psychologist
not even a mystic-
and I know the last one's probably  
a fraud: but the effort is, at least, somewhere near
sincere.

Adjacent, perhaps.
 
I might even be riddled and rotted
through and through,
by the experiences that have shaped
my soul
yet I know-
that I still know nothing
at all.

If there's truth to my reality, and it's not some story I've concocted,
then the reality is that I am simply me, and I have certainly NEVER...

been to therapy.

Her voice dripped dagger wounds into soft flesh-
jagged holes; uncommendable amendments in my life's canvas.

Tearing up at the thought of those tears is a daily occurrence, and oh how those currents pull me deeper still.

Suffocating-an unknowable fluid floods my lungs. I believe my doctor when he tells me nothing is wrong; nevertheless, I drown;

Dragged, kicking and screaming, to the bottom of my psyche.
My foundation eroded much faster than I could have ever known.

Though my foul foundations and pitiful psyche are pieces of
~me~
I thought it pertinent to remind you of my persevering personality.

Thus the following is true: Life is NOT like a box of chocolates, that ****'s hard, not sweet, so stop it. Secondly, without any strife, is it really a life worth living?

"Carve the iron from my bones"
I wish there were another way

"Mold me, clay-like, into the idol of your adulation"
My skin burns from murderous hands

"Things bend and break at your wanton will"
Skeletal snapping fills the dusk

"Drain me of my marrow by 'morrow"
I'm running out of wishbones to believe in.

"I won't be me by morning"
But that's ok, because I've only ever wanted to be you.

-C

I am a writer.

A pen-born pathogen
whose purpose is to infect and inspire.
A teacher who might light their fires
or bring them up from where they're mired,
before too much damage is done.

The disease of apathy is running rampant;
a lack of care,
tons of resentment.
Their education? 'Tis seemingly turgescent.
They've survived by only a hair.

Unfairly they've been told
to do or die-
fit the mold. But,
I won't lie when I say
neither they, nor I, are sold.

You sarcastically said: "what a life-"
it has been impetuously so.
Yet at times it too has been
unknown; perhaps, since we were five.

That moment I could comprehend
thoughts and feelings tied to existing-
which, as you know, are tough to amend;
I was falling, twisting; condemned,
with only one truly possible ending.

Though, unlike those sidewalk preachers
and pretty bad teachers, my end
is rather far. I could take
a plane, a train, or someone's car,
but alas, my weekend is meager.

A troublesome tempo
that I so coolly kept
locked 'way inside my chest
for far too long-
Brought forth in time, at your behest.

Those silvery eyes must truly be
like slivers of marbles made from the
dawn high. As if an angel -in perpetuity-
had plunged from the heavens
directly to me.

She is soft, like the beat of a butterfly's wing-
and her hair, it flows like water in the wind, though
the greatest thing of all
which will, or won't, appall,
is by luck alone I've somehow become her beaux.

And truth be told,
She's got me sold.

Love disembarked~
Empty-handed; heartless.
Thus it walked that plank
and 'Twas lost amongst waves.
Noting that not much was left as thine heart sank;
the bottom of the ocean, it's new grave.

Twenty-four.
A number just one before
twenty-five.
A number that signifies
one quarter
of one-hundred,
-in this case-
years of age.

I've circled the sun so many times
that time itself has begun to blend together:

Days spilled into
                       Weeks cascaded into
                                                    Months plunged into
                                                                                  years; incalculable.

I neglect to mention that throughout it all I have,
in fact,
been vaguely happy at worst and genuinely blissful at best.

And so I say to thee;
If on your birthday you cannot breathe,
If every moment is lost with ease,
I implore you, see the cost of these
things-and learn to set yourself free.

I have survived sufficiently.
Though, not without some struggle-
Strife and I became very good friends,
~You see.

Chief among the strongest of my most
terrible experiences would be the loss of
~My best friend.

You see, I was 16 years old.
Though, I didn't always feel 16-
Dissatisfaction; my own predicament,
would be the downfall of you
~And me.

I can't believe the things
that changed; At one point,
most improbably so, I thought
I'd surely comprehend how we
~Were never meant to be.

So you see;
In the line a story was told
Silver was it's name-
And through each day I felt
the same, but you were never there.
Even if that is the truth
And likely born from our youth
I've got to end, my friend,
this dastardly affair.

Thrift store reverie;
Books and bobbles line the shelves
cluttered as can be,
Juxtaposed within my mind
surely reminds thee,
of me.

Uncanny in my tenacity
characterized by much veracity
Probably at my capacity
for dealing with too much tragedy-

A man who passed, his home the last place
I'd ever want to be, but the
comfort of warped wood chairs;
ancient glue and rusted screws, well
that's enough for me.

Cold sweats-forgotten regrets
miscellaneous thoughts about
all of the rest of my ****** debts
that I don't even owe to you, or anyone else,
for that matter.

For this matter, it doesn't matter what I think
or what actions I take, or don't take,
wishy-washy is my middle name
and sometimes
-it feels like you hardly know me-
my greatest friend: anxiety.

You've ground my teeth to dust
and creaked my bones the last,
I've done crawled out of bed
-which for quite long you've asked-
Take a long look at all the nothing
I've amassed.

Lately my years, they've blended together.
An amalgam of my bittersweet thoughts
too tasteful so that taste itself becomes meaningless,
a blur of flavors, a blur of time, a blur
in the sole blink of a singular eye-

-General-eyes-d Anxiety.

If you only knew
the person I used to be.
The way I looked at the world
was different then, not nearly
the same broken worldview
that now holds me-hostage,
Against my every wish and will.
Amongst the shattered glass doors
stands the new me.
Built from shards of hope and
fragments of happiness;
One might think me invincible,
but I know better than that.

Before all of this;
Before everything happened-
I was simply me.

Gentrified geriatrics fill the land,
to the brim I might add, and,
'perhaps its time we make a change' I've said,
not happy nor glad
about the situation at hand.

The common facade portrayed
by the majority of people
tends to be a **** poor
way of dealing with pain.

You know what I mean.

That mask that people don
as if it will save them,
save you,
from endless misery.

It doesn’t have to be this way-
It’s 3:06 A.M. And I can’t sleep,

****.

Propellers of propaganda participate
dubiously within the American diaspora.
Depending on the angle taken, pushing
and or pulling a particular group of people
towards some penultimate 'prize.'

Believe this or that they say, but there are
two sides to every tale. Truthfully
I don't, or can't, know the truth. And
thus, truthfulness becomes a travesty
to me.

When media misinforms
and the TV tells trickeries
and schooling is suppressed-
supposedly we are
'Making America Great Again'

But truthfully?
I doubt it.

Clumsily, cluelessly, capriciously;
Varying walks of life, and such varied
ways of walking. Crawling and or quickly-
they advance through the concrete corridors.

~Completely unaware of the outside world
or anything other than themselves, for that matter.~

The issue lies in the wanting of more.
I've not much left to give and I'm sickly
'cause everybody's got their friends-big leagues.
From me to you, its not simple. Like harried
marriage; marred and probably charred, but

this is war-
~extra judiciously~

The totality of it; lost,
upon the moment we awake-
from the permafrost that is sleep
though this is only one take.

It must be a mistake, opaque
lies commandeered; drowned us
in our beds, downy lips have let
it slip-The truth? I hardly know her.

Moreover, when we castigate
our offspring, the ones we love the most,
we have castrated their minds at best-
at worst, the fires of hate, we've stoked.

So next time that you blame the youth
whose marble towers we've destroyed.
Ponder protractedly the ways
in which this outcome, you would avoid.

It’s not easy,
But not that hard.
Nor that simple,
Or that odd-

The craveable nature
of it
appears to be a human one,
though

It's not easy,
But not that hard.
Nor that simple,
or that odd-

Generally speaking: Passion
is hot
and calculations
are cold,

~If things stay repetitive,
Then how can life be worth living?~

It might be easy;
Perchance it be hard,
It could be simple
and it should be odd.

Move quickly-
silently-
breathlessly:
Rage steadfastly
against the man,
the machine that
churns you
out into this world.

**** each breath
through the gaps in your
putrid yellowed-teeth.
There has never
been air quite as
saccharine,
believe me.

Let them devour you,
those reeking beliefs of yours.
Let them dismantle you;
the very seams you hold
so dearly-
obliterated by it.
Those hand sewn
patchwork repairs,
strong enough only
to keep out the dust
and to keep in the rage.

A streetlamp flutters
then goes out.
And of many things,
this, you flout.

Some girlish laughter-
empty sound;
You are mistaken,
Thoughts: Profound.

Torn at the lining,
~Silver named~
walk me home slowly,
I've been lamed.

Barrow through burrow
to and fro,
from me to you, friend,
it's time to go.

Alone I scuttle,
dank streets my home;
Moldy and mildewed,
there-I roam.

One Mississippi-
Two Mississippi-
And three, of course,
but we never made it
to three, no,
not you and me.

Cracked concrete
cobbled together
by quatrains of
soil, love, water,
and rock-

Not of the ages,
but certainly of
this year, although,
who really keeps
count?

Back to the
cemented beliefs
and stone streets
that we came up
on. Take a step, a
jump, on one, on two;
you're free.

Along thine path
grow flowers; shapes
and sizes abound,
but nothing could
compare to all
the things you've
found

along the way-
Egregious liar
born-again friar
that woman briar
all to the ire
of your mother.

Thus I admire
this walked path
of contest and
clashing, both of
the asomatous and true;
incorporated incorporeal-
ism, what else could you
possibly do?

-Thursday

if defining something
intangible
is easy; because definitions
hardly change, only meaning-
then why is holding on to love
so difficult
through all of the things we are
experiencing?

-Friday

~time can heal all
wounds, they've said,
always this was true.
but nothing could have prepared me
for all my dealings with you.~

Love's quite punny
truly.
All those funny lines
configured-
I love you:
(insert pun here).

But our love must
have missed the memo.

The closest to a pun
you ever got, was when
you spun my love into
the rope I hung
myself with.

F**k you.

12:07 A.M.
~It's a new day
...
~What's that brought us?
...
~No answer?
...
~Fine.

I sleep on the floor
in a wreck of
my own filth;
self-loathing and
fearful of the way
the sun rises
over the horizon,
even
on days like today.

Sounds of bliss and joy
bob lazily on the breeze-
These exquisite days.

Coffee daydreams,
Burnt beans-
Ripped seams,
and holy jeans.

Not Jesus jeans,
No-silly things
a state of being-
Made in my genes.

From Constantin-
Opal rings
to all the things
That leave me aching-

-My personality
      is split
           between
                what I believe in
                     and what I belong in.

                          A war of the worlds-
                               Neither of which
                                   are the best of either.

I've got a funny feeling-
~tingles running down my spine~
thoughts that leave me reeling
for all of nothing is mine.

Yeah, I have ****** it all up.
I made mistakes-too many to list,
and I know I overfilled my cup-So,
I wish I didn't exist.

Everything is slipping; falling;
careening into the dark.
I swear I heard her calling, but
I guess that's the end of an arc.

~Driven to make decisions
that decided the fate of me~

~I've entered into twilight
Left alone with only debris~

~Believe me when I tell you
there is nothing - like being free~

~And if you ever hear it
That sound we've come to know,
there's nothing could prepare you-
-We've got nowhere left to go.~

It takes bravery
blustering about so
haphazardly, like
unsecured cargo.

Cargo whose entire
purpose remains as
simple as moving
between two places;
undamaged.

Yet you cannot even do that, can you?
Remain undamaged?
Un-shorn from your moorings?
No.
Because you are unsecured-

-Insecure(d).

Perhaps it is your
own blind bravery
bolstering your beliefs-
Or perhaps not.

Perhaps, it is your lack of
any pondered plan or
predetermined paradigm
that hangs you out to dry-
Or perhaps not.

But what I do know is this:

Regardless of pondered plans or
blind bravery, all that remains
is finding a way
to fix yourself.

It takes two to tan-
go anywhere with me love.
~Freedom of the heart~

If I am to temptation
what temptation is to
loyalty, then why
must the safflower
be so pretty, yet
Dangerous?

Why must the smell
-Of this prickly thing-
be so alluring? Like
Cooked flesh to the starving?
Yet, it's poison flows just as quick.
Who knows-

Of course, I wish to pick it-
Clean? certainly not, but for the beauty
of a single safflower? Nearly anything would
suffice.
With June 'round the corner, there be nothing left
-but the hell that is life without you.

I do.

As all good things must tumble down
turned up against the tide-
The same is true of you and I
My friend-please, do oblige.

These days-I take-to travel far
And through and through I shall.
With winters bite upon my heel
Left with me-no morale.

And as the days began to thaw
-With flowers bursting blue-
I'd see myself in all the shades,
of each and every hue.

Good day, my love; how could it not be?
I've got you and love and everything
else that could possibly be in between.

For without you, my dear, I'd likely be bare-
A cliché with no subject:
No leaves to be spared.
.........................................................­.................................................................­..

You've speared me straight through, impaled one might say, and that makes it quite difficult to get far away. A fine sharp knife, that tool you named love, now tear me apart from below and above.
Because there isn't much left; time and all, but you'll pay for this theft no matter how small.

For with you, my dear, I live truly in fear-
A deer in the headlights of a fast moving car
Clichés abound everywhere-no matter how far.

I sit here and write
in a room too dark, not white.
Minus love and minus quite
-a lot of (other) things-

I built this chair I sit in
in this room too dark, not white.
A place I've never been in,
-and that is not alright-

I built the desk too.
Mahogany wood and burnt tears;
A brew of epic proportions. It's true.
-and you, I fear, are soon to disappear-

Anxiety in my extremities
a familiar ringing in my ears,
I just wish it would all freeze.
-But that certainly won't stop these tears-

And I doubt much of anything will-
or would

These poems I write
are trash & trite.
Filled with some things
I thought you'd like.

And so, I stand
on a thin band
of worn-out land
that I thought grande.

Alas, my knees shook
and without a great hook,
I found myself falling
straight into a book,

but my book was not fantasy.
& as such, I could not fly. But
my thin band of worn land, so grand,
was all that stood between me &:

My bestest friend, the ampersand.

What kind of friends
slip right through your hands?
I'm drinking bottled love now-
Leftovers from
a time long past.

I've learned to love the taste of it-
dripping down my throat
~and burning through my bones~
Eyes like rivers, and
dream-like shivers.

But she told me:
"If they really wanted to see you-"
I cut her off.
Limbless and Lost
I trudge aimlessly through time.

An end to anger.
Call me jaded
but I don’t think
that’s possible,
though I’ve been wrong-

before-I could have
told you the difference
between happy and
existing. Now,
I’m not so-

sure-Enough, is enough.
Call me emerald,
‘cuz I’m still green,
but not quite right:
Like an off-

White-Tee, by Lil
Peep is a great
Song. I think
you might like it,
kinda like I thought you might like-

me.

Sure, it smells like cat ****,
But it’s not really the process
That matters.

It’s the end result,
The final product,
That matters.

It isn’t so much the hair itself either;
Rather the person the hair grows on,
That matters.

Maybe it is a coping mechanism,
But it’s better than a mental schism.

I apologize,
I’ve been dreaming
Hopeless, helpless, defeated.

Close my eyes
Kept breathing but still felt empty.
Airless,
Breathless,
But never friendless.

I can’t wake up,
Holy ****.

Filling up my cup,
It just isn’t enough.

Anymore.

I need love, need care, need to lay my heart
Bare.

Hopeful, wakeful, joyous,
Emotions scarcely known to me

Yet still I stand,
A person broken down to their very beginnings,
Powerful am I, and powerful are my insecurities.

For I am me,
Hopeless, yet undefeated.
Or
Defeated, yet hopeful.

Cold expectations;
Slightly blessed relations-
Ships on the sea,
Please, Breathe some life into me.

Vacations aren’t the same,
Empty
Social obligations confounded,
Awkward.

The things I write will always stay,
Showing up at the end of the day
As if to say,
‘Goodbyes are okay.’

It’s confusing, really-
Vacations, social obligations, and me,
But I promise, I’m not an emotional absentee.
-some guy named Charlie

Shredded in parts-
That piecemeal heart
Her gorgeous art

Peace
Piece
Pees
P’s

Four meanings
Same sound;
Seem familiar?

When You are old, will you remember me?
The good, the bad, the best and the sad?
Because time passes by as fast as can be,
And I think I’m going mad.

The clouds drift, the sky splits-
fire and brimstone baby.

Little sparks light up the dark;
A dance of intangible ideas
trying to make their mark.
But the deal is-

Nobody wins.

Would you still love me,
Honey?
If I just let it all be,
Lovely?

I think someone is whistling; a tune of longing
falls on deaf ears, but maybe I could remember...?

Momma used to say,
"Honey-"
My ears; not as deaf as they
are now, could hear,
"-we ain't got no money, but you, you are still my lovely-"

-too bad I've forgotten those words since:
But even if it seems to take forever,
I promise I ain't that hard to convince-
-That life is, in fact, a worthy endeavor.

A series of un-
Fortunate events, they say;
can change your whole world

Hozier said it once:
“Sweet as cherry wine,“ lovely-
But wrong nonetheless.