here we go again
the feeling of not feeling
the music without melody
the poem without metre

it all swims in my head devoid of emotion
these stanzas, those paragraphs, those conversations, that knowledge
they swirl and they shimmer but where has the tone gone
those non-verbal shades just evaporate like water

dickens, tolkien, tolstoy, plath
mozart, sheeran, queen, presley
van gogh, hirst, dalí, ito
nothing but noise when your heart isn't in it

now down some pills
write it down
go to sleep
and repeat this tomorrow.

will i be remembered?
humbly i offer this forget-me-not
keep it in your back pocket

the past is fading
the future is grey
i am condemned to live in the present
slogging away
exhausted
too cowardly to pass on

And there it is.

The vengeance.

Bubbling, broiling, red-hot rage buried below the surface.

It feels like magma in the pit of my stomach. It bursts and breaks, a tsunami encompassing my Isle.

No longer can I separate the self from the sea. No longer can I keep my head above the magma. No longer can I breathe my precious, stoic oxygen.

It rears its ugly head and I, perhaps missing the monster, dive willingly, confidently into it.

I hope you think of my lips when you kiss hers. I hope you see my chestnut brown in her sapphire blues. I hope you moan my name every time she tastes your nectar.

Choke.

I like to write in free verse,
And my poems don't have much rhythm
I don't know iambic pentameter
And I don't really think about structure

I change my metre rapidly
Because I like to throw people off in
Hopes that
It'll make them think about
What the words mean
Instead of about the restrictions

I often decide not to rhyme my words
Because "love, my pure dove" is less genuine
Than "love is my poison"
Or "love is my jailer".

I know I won't get high grades for my art,
And I know I won't be very famous
But I don't care about likes or biographies
I care about writing my truth.

Dearest Skye,

Hello.

We haven't spoken in a long time.

Forgive me. I isolate too much.

I've been sick. I'm still sick. I'm going to be sick for a while.

But that's okay. I have hope that it won't last forever. Eventually I'll find something that works. One day I'll leave this self-imposed quarantine.

I apologise. I'm oversharing again. You always told me I did that too much.

How have you been? Did you get that degree? Have you travelled to Japan like you said you would? Did you learn to play the drums?

Have you fixed your relationship with your parents? Did you finally forgive them? Have you kept in contact with your sisters? Your school friends?

And have you solidified your identity? It's hard. The hardest challenge I've ever faced. If I can't do it, you must. Or else you will be miserable for the rest of your life.

But you must not close yourself off like before. You don't have to hide your emotions. To master them, you have to let them consume you and then climb out of the abyss.

You're strong. You can do it. I believe in you.

Write back to me. Let me know if you're happy. I hope, for both of our sakes, that you are.

Sincerely,
Skye.

Lunar lady,
You pull at my soul
Like the moon
Pulls at the ocean.

Lunar lady,
Your gravity whips
My calm seas
Into furious tides.

Lunar lady,
Your glowing form
Guides me towards
My home.

Lunar lady,
I need you.
Stay with me forever.
I hope the sun never rises.

1:29 PM WAKING UP

1:35 PM INSPIRED

1:36 PM EXHAUSTED

1:39 PM EXCITED

1:45 PM EMPTY

1:47 PM ANXIOUS

1:52 PM NERVOUS

1:59 PM NOTHING

2:03 PM ASHAMED

2:04 PM TIRED

3:27 PM NOTHING

4:05 PM DISAPPOINTED

4:28 PM IRRITATED

6:08 PM SAD ???

6:33 PM BORED

8:16 PM AMUSED

9:48 PM NOTHING

1:45 AM TIRED

3:19 AM GOING TO SLEEP

everywhere I go I see broken things.
broken families.
broken relationships.
broken people.
i can't bear it.
god, i can't bear it.

i feel it burning in my blood.
i hear it screaming in my head.
i see it scribbled in my notebooks.
i exist to help others.
i need to.

they say everyone has a purpose.
i know mine.
i'm already broken beyond repair.
but that doesn't mean i can't fix anyone else.

I am stained with your colour;
Royal purple and blinding white.
I am smothered by your scent;
Marlboro cigarettes and cheap alcohol.
I am lost in your words;
Mellifluous syllables and sage proverbs.

You must be a sorcerer, for I have been bewitched.
You roam through my mind, casting hexes as you go;
I see you walk with that charming little gait of yours.
The memory of your face is hypnotising, infatuating;
Perhaps I have been cursed, but I hope this necromancy lasts forever.

I
Want
To write
A poem
About things I know
Numbers and mathematics but
People don't like maths
It's boring
It's just
Hard
Work.

There's poetry in scars.
Do not romanticise them, they do not deserve such compliments, but
There's a story there.

Often I stare at my own and I remember
What it was that drove me to put them there
What forced me to guitily indulge in my habit.

Scars fade but they never disappear.
They're a melancholy reminder of my narrative.
They are the promise of a sequel.

On the 1st of February, I learned that
My stepbrother committed suicide during the previous night.
It is currently the 3rd of February, and
I'm still in shock. He was just 22.

I wish I could have helped you when you were alive,
But even pills and therapy weren't enough.
We knew you were struggling, but we didn't
Realise how bad it was until it was too late.

I can't process what happened without writing it down.
I feel like I'm in a dream.
I think I'll feel this way for a long time.
But that's okay. We all have different ways of coping.

Time still unwaveringly, furiously, steadily treks on.
It makes sense. Your death means nothing to the businessman on a different continent
But still it feels
wrong.

One day we'll come to terms with your death.
One day life will feel normal again.
We will deal with it accordingly.
But it will take some time.

We love you, Aaron. We'll think of you every time we close our eyes.

It wasn't the course material, I understand it still,
But I'm having frightening thoughts about ropes and knives and pills.

Counselling doesn't mitigate my anxiety or depression,
Although I've been to many different appointments in succession.

I've driven away my friends by withdrawing into myself,
I've lost half my teenage years, forgotten like the books upon my shelf.

I remember writing fiction, creating lands of mirror-men,
Today I can't imagine any unique storylines to pen.

I'm just a useless ******* dropout and that's all I'll ever be,
I used to get straight A's and now I barely scrape a C.

What makes you happy?

Cat videos?
Rain?
Vocaloid?
Friends?
Memes?
Candy?
Video games?
Snapchat?

Recently I've been struggling to work that out.

Sleep?
YouTube?
Work?
Dark?
Birds?
Introspection?
Warmth?
Poetry?

I don't feel happy very often anymore.

Fields?
Freedom?
Submission?
Alcohol?
Counselling?
Familiarity?
Normality?
Academia?

Just sad and anxious.

Cats?
Technology?
Boyfriend?
Rope?
Scarring?
Stoicism?
Hugs?
Presents?

Just a plateau.

Memories?
Posters?
Care?
****?
Christmas?
Silence?
Headphones?
Money?

Just...

Constellations?
Grandparents?
Politics?
Failure?
Certificates?
Proof?
Phones?
Health?

Nothing.

She's tired.
She has been for a while now.
Sometimes she forgets things she shouldn't.
Or she thinks too much about death.
But she's just tired.

She's staying inside more often.
She hasn't met her friends for days.
She gets a little sad sometimes.
Maybe she should text them.
But she has a lot of homework.

She can't concentrate.
She tries revising but remembers nothing.
Her grades are getting worse.
She's trying as hard as she can.
But she's just tired.

My niece told me to tell her a happy story,
But I don't have many of those.

I wish I could be awake 24/7
Just to be there for you when you need me.

I've slept through your crises twice now
And I can't imagine
The hurt
The betrayal
The disappointment
You rightly feel.

I wish I could be awake 24/7, because
You deserve the world and I've given you nothing.

I see sunlight streaming through my curtains.
Specks of dust dance in the glow.
And I'm here, sedentary in my bed.
Why should I get up? It's cold outside.

I hear the hustle and bustle of the morning routine outside.
A soft laugh rings out, echoing, echoing, echoing.
I shiver, sitting up in my bed.
Why should I turn the heating on? It's a waste of energy.

Time happily skips along today.
Like a child, innocent and oblivious.
I crawl back under my sheets like a cockroach, resigned.
Why should I go to my lecture now? It's too late.

So I guiltily choose to sleep again.

I don't want another void day.