I have such torturous confliction
on whether or not I'm long gone
and I don't know what it's like
(to be here at all)
what if I never get better?
what if I'm worse than I thought?
what if it's never been real?
what if it's all that I've got?

I have always yearned
to make music
maybe
I just don't have any music to make
Simply so much to say
but no courage to converse it
in need of beats and melodies
to camouflage
the vulnerability
that I present with my words

wednesday
isolation like
that forgotten middle syllable

I'm choking on
suppressed understanding
of this slow but sturdy
change
in your contact
in our formality

I hate to admit that
I would ever want anything
to stay the same

your chest so tight
threatening
to crush the ribs within
to silence
the heart cried raw
that reminds you
what you've lost

melancholy
has this
terrible accuracy
when it anchors down
right where
you needed security
the most

the tangible enormity
of your absence
is unsettling
especially considering
you were
never here at all

Somewhere silent
We’ll wonder where the miles went
Somewhat quiet
Wanton mental dialect
Will be forgotten as it’s thought

Somewhere silent
While finding love to dissect
Somehow quiet
We’ll live with love so violent
And pray it never be forgot

You bleed out and in
These tempting sentiments
Blending into consciousness
Forgetting what is sin
Chills of the ending witching hour
The thrill of isolated power
Alone and wandering
Through barren streets
Feel your bones and your ponderings
Getting honest, losing heat.
Cobblestone streets
Calling out to restless feet
Taunting wired minds
To give in to a sleepless night
And venture into the ever-crisp air
To breathe in smoke and frozen breath
To dare to find what lingers there.

You say its anger turned inwards
I’d agree
But the words are caught in my throat
Like the sobbing yells for help
My jaw is locked down like a cage
For introspective hell

Anger turned inwards
Yeah that sounds about right
Hatred or loathing might
Be more true
So I’ve got anger turned inwards
But I still have so much left
For you

I guess it’s in your job description
Measure my mentality
Pump me up with prescriptions
I’m like Charlie ******* Bartlett
I’m your favorite emotional harlot
Give me five minutes
I’ll make you feel connected
I’ll show you my false trust
And I’ll make you regret it

It feels mechanic
Programmed medicating
When I’m still half asleep
Not conscious enough
To pay attention
To my not so subconscious questions
Asking
Who are you
To tell me
That I need to be fixed

I hold so much resentment
For the time that you spend
Surrounding me
With all the facets of help
That I don’t need
Anger turned inwards
Staining every breath
Heavy panting
Straining with this weight on my chest
Anger turned out
Guilt and blame
Overwhelming shame
Because you taught me to never give up
But there’s nothing I want more
Then to slip up
Trip up
Get so high I’ll never come down
Get so high
To get six feet underground

But then again
I got “better”
I disappeared for three months
And I can’t even remember
Why it was so hard
To stand back up
On my own

Compromise
I’ll comfort your mind
But first
I’ve got to confront my lies
See,
I wanted this
Don’t you ever think otherwise
Of course its for attention
But does that make me not ill?
All I wanted was affection
But here I am
Popping pills

Conflicted
With the concept of sickness
I’ve been so desperate for
Identity
Just to feel ******* special
So insecure and lonely
that to get it I felt
I had to purge out my mortality
Make my self unwell
I lived a lie
Until it was true
I wanted this sickness
Until it was all I knew