as i draw
the room temperature blade
across my skin
little white marks
scratches like a cat
remain
a hidden sign
of the pain
the torture
of the hopelessness suffered in amongst the peaceful serenity of destruction that is currently swallowing me whole

i wish
i had the courage
to draw on my hands
like normal
or my wrists
for a change
but this time
it must remain my private little secret
my ***** little secret
or those the closest to me will get hurt and  that will only
make things
worst

if i had the courage
i’d draw
dainty sparkles of crimson blood
i’d push hard against the mottled canvas of my uppermost thigh
i’d do it properly

but i can’t
bring myself
to push
any
harder

i pause
for the second time
since i began
i think
of those i’ve seen around me
in public
at school
college
wherever
some try to hide their masterpieces with age old techniques which do nothing but cry louder and more desperately than the lines of ink which they so desperately want to keep so secret
it
doesn’t
work

some hang theirs up on exhibition for the whole world and their wife to see
free of charge

no
one
cares
or even
really
notices

as i draw
the room temperature blade across my skin
i finally feel
okay.

Silence is quite unusual, really.

Because Sound is always there.
It ticks away in the background like a friendly face in a classroom on that first day at a new school; someone to greet you and wash any and all fears from the very depths of  your soul, bringing with it that ever-welcomed sense of reassurance, that everything really will be okay

The gentle sigh of inhalation.

Sound is always there.
Even in the darkest days when nothing is going right and all you want to do is curl up in a ball and cry; your ever-familiar friend will guide you into tasting the salty tears which glide seamlessly and endlessly down your cheek until suddenly they’re not and you can hear your breathing and see a glimmer of hope in the sky but you can hear your breathing and you know that you’re not alone, you’re never alone, you were never alone and after everything that has happened you finally stop and take a deep breath and think that everything really will be okay

The steady plod of a heartbeat.

Sound is always there.
It passes by, day in and day out, as reliable as the chirping of birds raising you from the depths of sleep on the first day off you’ve had in months; outwardly you curse and you groan but on the inside you don't care because you're happy and you're safe and you've got a comfortable bed and a warm home and people who love you and it is in these moments that you are really are finally sure that everything really will be okay

The careless whisper of exhalation.

Sound is always there.
Apart from when it’s not and you are left alone and scared and in the dark and there’s nothing that you can do; nothing that anyone can do and suddenly everything stops and you feel the crushing pain dominate your entire being and it is painful yet strangely relaxing yet you just want it all to stop and carry on and stop and you don't know what you want, what you should want, all you want is somebody to reassure you that everything really will be okay but you know that it won’t; you won’t; you won’t be okay ever again but all you want is your familiar friend to come back and reassure you but they won’t because they're gone now and they've just left you alone with the silence that they've always protected you from, kidding you that everything really will be okay

But it won’t.

You know it won’t.

It really is true that silence is that deafening.

Freedom

What a magical idea
Just think of it,
Stop and really think
There could be a space
A time
A feeling
A notion
That your time is your own
You can be whoever you want
No worries
No stress
A time
A feeling
A notion
That you don't owe anything
To anybody
Just to yourself
To you
Just that you deserve to be calm and happy and free and feel like

Finally

You are

Free

I curse your name, and hold you tight
For you are my sparkle in the dead of night
You are the rock that keeps me sane
I am the picture, and you the frame

That is the way things ought to be
You are you, and I am me
On days like today, though, the line gets blurred
You march straight through me, undeterred

You **** and poke 'till your heart's content
I groan and moan yet eventually relent
All day long I push the thought of you away
Knowing full well I'll succumb before the end of the day

But I don't understand what else I'm to do
For I'm always going to be me
Plagued by you.

you sit
try and write
cram
the words
into your tiny little brain
out
out of your tiny little brain
and onto the paper
the screen

what

ever

they don't fit
useless
you tell yourself
you convince yourself

for weeks you've been hoping
praying
yes praying
to whatever deity will accept the shattered fragments of soul you have left

if only
it would be okay
if you could figure out
whether 1+1
is really
two

or is it three, or 4, or fifteen-hundred-eighty-six
at this stage
who knows

i don't know (do care)

i don't want to, though,
care.
nobody else does

apparently

you never really know
but you can tell

you can

that glimmer of joy in their eye
when you're counting the seconds 'till you can go home
they don't care

that echo of love in their words
when your heart is full of fear
they Don't Care

that glimpse of satisfaction everyone else seems to get when something
any
thing
goes well
or even just
ok

it's unfair
they couldn't care less
if it were true
or
just
a
lie

what you'd give to steal a taste of that feeling
carelessness
just for a second
or two
or three or 4

to be carefree

that's how you know
that
they. do. not. care.

i don't know (do care)

how to get it
feel it
think it
want it
taste it
even, maybe, just for a fraction of a second, believe it

i do know (don't care)