they told me to write, so I wrote.  they told me to dance when a sound sung its chords directly in my feet so I found some grounding in my movement
some protection with no boundaries
I flew on table tops and vacuumed magic off of carpets
drew fables with drops of veritaserum and Mad eye Mooney’d everyone
even myself.
Right now I’m writing about things other than my chaotic past few days
they told me to write, so I wrote.  they told me how guilty I am, how incapable I am.  they told me to eat. they told my tear ducts let loose, and my airways to flood with panic.  I told myself I can’t submerge myself into the river ways I’ve been swimming in, if I keep hearing them tell me things.

it’s the wailing ones that always crack first
you can hear their cries any time of the day

wide eyed and stumbling, they walk among us
hands, either shaking or ****** mice
hiding amongst arm and tightly knotted torso

you won’t watch it happen
you don’t get to see the shatter

it happens with a horse’s tail dipped in cement
dragged along a body filled trench
type of movement that required
a lot of dead people

the mothers listen to it
unwilling ear glued against keyhole
unwilling hand held in the ambulance

the doctors try to explain how the wailing
fluctuates between needle piercing eardrum
and icicles shoved in mouth-holes
and the mothers cannot listen to it

Why do you think you’re so weird all the time?  it’s nothing more than insecurity
not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to
you know that flaley
spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey
which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re
there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re
creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much
stop getting my ******* in a bunch
you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls
i like writing: i like
and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******* like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble
this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam
and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham
in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay
but only until the vyvanse wears off and
your **** jar is empty
and your cigarettes have been smoked
and all your klonopin has been digested
and your bank account is empty
and the only thing left to take out your self pity on
is this poetry

i like writing words like cigarettes
and rhyming them with causal **** like
regrets
i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place
i regret smoking all those cigarettes
*but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one

Once Upon a Time, in a countryside field that expanded far and wide
there grew a massive population of Black-Eyed Susans
Due to the duration of their lineage in this country
All the other flowers admired them quite jealously

They were not lavender delightful like Venus’ pride
or magenta seductive like the frail petaled pink fairies

Black-Eyed Susans grew like Spartan warriors
and sprouted healing wisdom like Aclepius
Their bulbous heads attract butterflied so exactly
every caterpillar is born in love with the color yellow
born in lust for their persistant nature
born with their meager caterpillar lips
parted in marveled awe of how
wonderfully healing Black-eyed Susans are
asking for nothing but the sun’s rays to be warm
and the rain to quench their thirst

Stories about people aren’t really about people
this tale is a separate reality
full of opinions and perception based senses
I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast
the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know

She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets
flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph
through our quiet suburban town
she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution
you see, she was in love with blinding pain
out of control burning rubber scented pain
and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt
I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat
because her words are precious diamonds

Her mind is a museum built upon three floors
the first floor is tragedy
concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions
of what feeling safe is like
shadows with shark like teeth
she can never escape their threat of gnawing
it even reaches her on the roof

the second floor is forest green
in-between escape and peaceful freedom
she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities
an explorer of broken wide eyed hope
she could smile at a mosquito and every spider
would willingly starve to death

the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire
a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean
everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras
of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country
dependent on chemicals
she will never get the shooting star she deserves
because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears
a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids

You contradict mostly everything you say
and it every day fall breeze blows
with these every day falling leaves
their woes of death and decay
know it is not the end yet
they’re crinkling cries of rotten demise
sound finite
just like us
we are a pair of finite dying leaves
fallen from strong trees with histories
prosperous and motivated
expecting us to live a future fabricated
by society our cracks feel too deep
to replenish what held us
we lack the normality
in relying on gravity because
we’ve been thrown too far
become lost in our scars
taken above where we are
like prisoners to our minds
re-lived the evil which we thought
was put behind us
so it’s ******* difficult to listen
to the world when straight arrow
tasks become mangled and curled
at least we have each other

I’m becoming quite sick of myself
that’s when I know I’m in trouble
not that I’m not always sick of myself
Just- I always find solace in the rubble
leftover debris of purity that burned down
just as it was building itself
I came to terms with the darkness
we shook hands
acknowledging one another
I respected him, he could only ever be darkness
respect becomes debris in the dark

Human emotion, powerful eruption
of one’s sanity is so ******* beautiful
because it exists, and we exist
but we’re pre-programmed into this thinking
a schedule a life plan an inkling
that our purpose is to be the best we can be
Yet, we have hearts and souls
and no matter how strictly one
may abide by the rules
punishment finds us all
in the cruelest ways

“Life’s cruel punishments are lessons”
^ this was my explanation of
conducted after years of contemplation
about why the **** am I alive if I’m ******* miserable all the time
there is no answer
there s no reason
there is simply being

I know something is wrong when I can’t focus on anything
but my inability to focus