lah de dah de dah de dum
lah de dum de dum de dah
lah de dah de dah de dum
la dah dum de lah de dah

they called it a stroke
even then, I understood
but I never got the answer

You never spoke again
so I interpreted for you

*My journey has just begun
I travel, but not far
My journey has just begun
You must stay where you are

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

The whys or where's
nor the for art thous
or the perhaps now
I know not
the love me nows
nor loved me then
or even the when
I know not
the cerulean sky
nor the indigo goodbye
or the softest sigh...
I know not
when words tried
nor when the rhythm died
or Poetry became a lie
I know not
the how's or wherefores
or keeping score
but
I know when
love of something
begins to end
bleeding from lacerations
bashed against rocks...
*I know then...

I reveled in the smell of sulphur like that of a struck match. Then I remembered I gave up smoking 2 years ago.

I saw everything you did to me, the cut of the knife, red blood dripping down my legs, my heart beating in your fist. Yet the only intact thing they retrieved from the shallow grave was the blindfold.

You touched me lightly on the shoulder, I thought you woke me for a kiss. Then I remembered I already kissed you before they closed the coffin lid, 6 months ago.

I always smile when you speak to me in German. It's the last language you learned before you died in 1942.

My dog is always able to tell me when we weren't alone, he'd wag his tail in Hello or he would growl when a stranger was near by. He's growling now, even though he died, a year ago.

I screamed at the oncoming light! I wasn't frightened until I realised you had tied me upon the railway tracks.

I wanted to wear my Mothers wedding dress. Even I can't remove the dirt stains.

I sit in the corner of our bedroom staring at our bodies entwined. I see you tilt to the side, to text message your girlfriend, while I'm oblivious.

They used to embed bells above ground for those that may have been buried alive. Mine is missing its ringer so I just continue to scream.

I removed all the trees from the side of the house. Still the scratch at the window keeps me awake.

Married in White, Buried in Black. I continue seeing you in shades of Gray.