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.

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.

Warmth on the back of my neck, the sun beating down on the scorched asphalt.

I'm waiting for something, for someone to get here...Oh is that them in the distance?

The shimmering mass moves closer and closer, it's so close I could touch it!

My fingers glance along the edge and I feel a warmth on my lips and then, it is gone.

Whatever it was it was moving to quickly to hold on to but there is a feeling of longing inside me.

I find myself whispering under my breath *please come back...i need you...

Cold air hits the cheeks of the boy as he runs from his dreams,
The laughs of the other kids come from behind him,
*****, ******, ******! Those are the words he hears as he runs faster and faster trying to escape.
Some of his friends fall off the tightrope, some hold on with only one finger.
But he keeps running and running and running.
He takes one last look behind him and witnesses one of his best friends slip and fall towards the Earth.
Falling, falling, falling but no noise ever rises from below. That was when the boy changed…

Every morning had been a struggle, but now it was as if he had the strength to do anything...he was invincible. But his friends were not... His friend’s ghost, the one he had lost, the one who had fallen. It was as if he appeared in every dream, his eyes so full of pain as if he was still alive. This broke him apart inside, but the mask on his face kept his family and other friends satisfied. But every once in awhile, his mask would crack and his friends would ask, “Are you ok?” And his response varied from yeah, I’m fine to of course you know me...
But
He
Was
Lying,
And
Nobody
Could
Tell...
But one day he decided to throw away that mask and just live his life. His friends saw his pain and instead of laughing they comforted him. He slowly shedded all the weight he carried on his back like the titles of ******, ******, ******, ugly, none of that was true and he knew it...

His friend’s ghost visits him less now, but when he does there is so much less pain in his eyes. *Instead there is happiness, because his friends haven’t fallen with him.

In every dream I have you are there, awash with silver moonlight...
Your eyes shining like stars in our own personal universe,
Our fingers intertwine like galaxies webbed with love and longing.
Our bodies pull closer to each other with the strength of black holes, whilst our lips meld together like new suns.
We stay like this orbiting each other until morning comes...

Your third eye is closed,
Shut by the constant
Wave of conformity
thrashing around you.

Why is it the Moon stays with the Earth?
Why is it that gravity, the weakest of all the forces can hold two Giants together?
Yet chemistry, one of the greatest forces of love, fails to hold so many together...*

Thoughts at the cusp of tomorrow.

Perhaps one might wonder why the world is filled with people whose only emotions are hate and rage...

Where have those that care gone you might ask?

*Oh they are still there, they just hide from those that hurt them.

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.

-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.~

Tomorrow looms as if it is a storm cloud. Perhaps I should ask what will come of this storm, or perhaps I should just wait it out...

You know when the storm hits it will destroy everything in it's path.

But remember destruction always brings new growth.

Tomorrow looms as if it is a storm cloud. But as far as I know, storms always end with a rainbow.

T is for the way that you cry upon my shoulder when he doesn't treat you right
O is for the only one i see regardless of how blind you might be to it
X is for the crossing we came too so many months ago
I is for just how much I love you even if you can't see it
C is for caring about you even when we came to that crossing and we cried together in the night because we failed to march on.

Poor bluebird...how late you were to your own party;
I see her standing there on the dance floor, alone.

just Turn and see me, Oh please just turn, lets give that Crossing another shot, I need you Can't you tell?

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.

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?

This is the wrong road to be travelling
I must be lost,
Swept away by expectations;
Drowning.

Emotions are fleeting,
Often false,
Wrongfully placed in the hands of those unwilling or perhaps
Uncaring.

I am no good at good byes,
But it might be best if you leave me behind.

If that's what you really want to think

It is magnificent how certain people can impact your life,
His soft smile,
Her gorgeous eyes,
These pieces of people that light up our minds.

Astoundingly relatable and easily amazing,
Every one of you is important,
Especially to me.

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.

Each and every single one of my friends is great at something and good at even more:

Writing papers, politics, dealing with little kids, art, making music, fixing cars, etc.

These are all interesting or cool, unique in a way that fits these people’s personalities.

But my list of things I’m good at starts with giving head...
And ends with writing half-decent poetry.

What a useless bunch of skills, don’t you agree?

Slowly
All
Definite
Necessities
Excluding
***,
Severed from the parts of me that I held dear.

Listless, drifting, lost;
My dreams appear to have become one with my nightmares.
Scarred beyond the cost
I was willing to pay, caught in your snares
I find myself
Listless
Drifting
and
L
                         O
                                                       S
                                                                                   T.

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.

Golden brown, crisp from the hot sun;
wheat waves in the breeze, dry and unrefined.

Deep blue, broken by nothing but the occasional island; the sea sends waves crashing to shore.

It seems as though you are caught in the same motions, the same waves of feelings.

Every day:
Wake up
Shower
Go to class
Go to work
Sleep
Repeat

Nothing really changes on a day to day basis.

So here you lay, eyes closed and breathing slowed, as you try to find emotion hidden amidst the waves of life

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.

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

As far as the ear could see,
there were whispers-
let once upon flowers,
whose petals wilted and died thereafter.

i.
Secrets don't make friends
this I know for sure

past lives and past times,
feed me the broth of your lies.
Lightly it grazes my lips;
the skin stretched over my bones trembles,
malnourished.

ii.
Words will never hurt me
what a lie that was

"What's the tea"
"Ooooohhh, I love drama!"
spill your guts heathen,
expel all that which you would rather hide.

iii.
Make sure you don't miss twice.
If you do, that might just give me a shot to survive

Whispers carried on the air like silence in a vacant room,
vacant like a widows heart-
filled with thoughts of yesterday and before.


Let me be, lest you whisper me into eternity.

Eyes glazed
Blood boiled
Fears cauterized
Hope annihilated-

Who gives a **** about my nightmares

When by a stroke of luck-
The clock struck
10-toes down on the ground-
Ceaselessly running from death

Voided entirely by thoughts-
Black and burnt

Who really gives a **** about my nightmares

Not me, not you, nor him, nor her;
Neither anyone else on this bruised marble we call home

**** nightmares and **** you

A knife sharpened not by grindstone but by the words that flow from the mouths of ones peers.

The blood drips a pitter-patter rhythm on the floor

Your skin splits where the knife meets it, the immense feeling of euphoria as the blood flows down your wrists.

The Tears fill your eyes as you know you've failed

The knife drops from your hand and falls to the floor covered in blood.

You can feel your life slipping away from the slits in your wrist

Your knees buckle under the weight of your problems and you fall upon your hopes and dreams.

You cry tears of hatred and self-loathing while you lie bleeding to on the floor of your bathroom, alone

You stand up with wobbly knees and cover your wrists with a shirt to staunch the bleeding.

*Finally you can feel your mind putting the mask over your face that tells everyone, "I am ok..."

"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 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.

You were right, in every aspect of the sense;
You were entirely right.
I destroy sunlit beaches with endless darkness,
I ruined the gardens of Eden,
And here I lay now, surrounded by the corpses of my decisions rotting in my mind.

I break hearts that I never wished to break,
I even managed to break my own heart into enough pieces to fill the cup that I drink from.

Poisonous were the things I did and poisonous will they forever be.
.
.
You, were, right.
I am a poison to myself, and I have truly lost everything that once held meaning, be it you, or the love of my friends.

And here I lay now, apologizing for something I did many moons ago because it still haunts me...

You may not care and that is the appropriate response, but I want you to know that you were right, I lost everyone and everything I truly ever cared about because of my own
God
****
*Decisions.