Anxiety sips from me
as though I’m it’s only bird feeder in the area
Depression eats away at me
as though I can only suffice for half of it's needs
And tonight? It’s hungry as it’s ever been.
Trauma kills me
As if it was an eagle looking for roadkill
Me being the roadkill
Drug abuse nailed me in the head waiting to **** me.
Waiting to **** me due to the fact I've been defeated.
So there they sit, all trying to defeat, the defeated me.

Bite me.

I should’ve been concentrating on reading a book.
But instead I sit here, at a modern day typewriter,
Asking, what do pronouns mean.
What’s the hidden meaning?
Do pronouns contribute to society or take away from society?
Do we as citizens of America understand what it’s really like to not feel comfortable in a said type of pronouns?
Or do we just feel uncomfortable in our own thoughts and use pronouns to cover it up.
Do pronouns cover our darkest, most dangerous, truth-telling secrets...
Or do we just hope and hope and hope that it will?

God, now that I finally understand what gender is to me,
I think I used she/her pronouns to conform,
And they/them pronouns to hide
And finally, he/him pronouns to accept.
To accept who I am.
To accept the “real” me.
To accept that I am different.

Depression

This is the sound of depression.
The sound of your mother yelling at you to clean your room up for the tenth time this week.
The sound of a blade engraved in your skin.
Your pencil scribbling down your intense thoughts.
The sound of the monster screaming you're not good enough.

This is the feeling of depression.
The sinking feeling of pain in your stomach.
The monster tickling the bottom of your spine so you get chills.
The feeling someone just broke up with you, but instead of getting this feeling once, you get this feeling once an hour.
You're father calling you a worthless **** and how you react to it.

This is the taste of depression.
The taste of blood.
The taste of ***** in your mouth because you can't keep your food down.
The taste of regret, the taste of sadness, the taste of hurt.
This is the taste of sadness.
The flavor of pain.
This is the taste of discomfort.

This is the smell of depression.
The smell of a dead body wafting through the vents.
*****.
Your dead body ******* itself.
This.
This is the reeking smell of depression.

This is the look of depression.
You not showering for your third week straight.
Engraved poetry in your wrist.
You almost hitting someone and everyone staring at you as you slowly lose your ****.
You losing 20 pounds in 1 week.
Not by purpose but not really by accident.
it just... wasn't the top of the depression priority list


this is depression.

If the streets could talk they’d tell me to come back to them, that I need them, I’m truthfully not “better off without” them.

If I could respond to the streets I’d say I don’t need you. This is my battle and I’m at rock bottom. I can only go up, and as I go up… I will no longer see you because I’m twelve hundred percent sure that I am better off without you. I don’t need to be high to fulfill the darkest parts of my soul. I don’t need to be high to be happy, content, or musically talented. It isn’t aesthetic. It’s not aesthetic. It. Is. Not. Aesthetic.

If the streets could talk they’d say ******* for becoming sober. That’s the worst choice you could’ve made in years. That decision is worse than trying to **** yourself. See the streets would rather see you dead from addiction, as opposed to becoming sober.

Well, ******* for making me want to become sober. ******* for making me want to die. And honestly, ***** you for everything you’ve torn from me. From sending me to jail as a tiny seventeen-year-old to making me off myself a good 4 times just ‘cause I couldn’t find drugs.

The streets would even go as far as to say: “rip everyone off, do bunches of drugs, leave everyone dry around you, and call it a day. Then sleep the high off, and next time you have an appointment, come to it high. #YOLO”

Y’anno what? YOLO is one ******* phrase. I live once, you’re right, Mr.Streets. But I want to be sober the majority of this living. I’m 18 and a half and have so much further to go in life. I want to become an addictions art therapist and I want to be at Zoe and Eden’s weddings. I want so much in life. None of which concerns the streets.

“Don’t listen to that cliche music, says the streets. Y’anno? That Macklemore **** that’s all about becoming clean? Eminem? Nah. None of that. You listen to music that glorifies drugs.” says the streets.

Also, if it takes listening to “Starting Over” by Macklemore 20 times a day and Dave’s Song by Whitney another 30 times a day, I’ll do it. Because at least I’ll be sober. Singing is something that brings me utter joy. As is writing and painting. And in order to do my best. I need to be pretty **** sober.

“No cigarettes do not count as addiction. Want to know what does? Buying pills with your disability checks. Now that ****’s ******* great. ******* for trying to get clean.” the streets say.

Bro. I’m bro-ing to you because we’ve reached that point of nonsense. You don’t get it, do you? I need to not spend my minimal money on drugs. Yes, cigarettes are a drug. I’ll get there with quitting those too. Instead of drugging myself up, I need to dye my hair, watch slam poetry, and sing. Sing. sing. Sing. Sing until my heart is full and complete.

just because i don't fit into your hands
doesn't mean
i don't fit into my own

Which has lead me to crush on a LOT of adults. Because they do the following:

Having a good conversation that doesn’t end up in some fight. So it can be having this really hard conversation about death and he won't jump to conclusions. He won't assume I'm suicidal. And he sure as **** won't assume I need to go to the hospital. I love him for that.
Telling me when I’m acting like a *******. Like last night. "Just because something happened between us doesn't mean you get to isolate in your room." Thank you for helping me get my head out of my ***. I love you for that.
Sharing a cigarette. I love you for sharing addiction with me. You know addiction, you get addiction, you are an addiction. Man. I love you for it.
Buying me coffee. Meaning, you bring me in a good bag of coffee that actually doesn't need creamer to taste good. I love you for actually having taste.
Giving me compliments or calling me beautiful, even when I don’t have a bra on and look like I well, just woke up. I love you for speaking Spanish to me, because no one is that ****, but you are.
Telling me the truth. Like, “hey Dylan, you’re being stupid. Don’t kiss him.”
Sharing interests. Whether it be poetry, or movies. Cats, or jeeps. Even kinds of cigarettes, or coffee drinks.
Telling stories about our past. It can be “hey I used to drink a lot...” or it can be “I was abused as a child”
OR it can be “I was put in the foster care system.”
All of it makes me fall irrevocably in love with you.
Because you somehow become relatable with that experience.
And, at the end of this day, friendship confuses me.
I don’t know where the line is between friends and soulmates.
I just don’t know.

I am from a crystalline chandelier
From kit-kats and crayola
I am from the dusty cobwebs in the corners of our house
sad, sweet, smooth
I am from Topaz
an aluminum and fluorine mixture.
I'm from thanksgiving and hope.
From Kerra and Beth
I am from the nervous laughter and card games
From gum rotting in your stomach and shoes changing feet.
I'm from the lack of religion, no Christianity or Buddhism in this house.
I'm from Madison, WI
Oyster Stew, and sauteed zucchini
From the horrendous stories told about my dad. Making him look like the bad guy and vice versa.
The threats of being kicked out, not realizing I'd actually get kicked out.
Under my room, lays the closet. The closet has everything our family represents. From pictures to mementos to journal entries.
I am from these yellowed pictures, pages, and cards.
Rough and smooth somehow.

Your love is like a rose and a dandelion.

Like a rose because it's thick to get to.
It's hard to find the soft, pretty, beautiful, spots of you.
Because there's thorns in the way.
It's like a rose, because you are beautiful and red.

but it's also like a dandelion.
****-y and unhealthy.
dangerous and probably will result in disfigurement, but baby bring it on.

I say this because your love is toxic.
because you didn't love despite all the effort I put in.

I tried to be depressed again but it just wasn’t the same.

I tried researching depressing songs,
Depressing lyrics, and
Depressing photos...
None of it was the same.

Nothing felt quite as...
Angsty.
Rebellious.
Sad.
Upsetting.

Nothing felt as bad.

But then he said he didn't like me back.

And everything began to feel the same as before.
I researched depressing songs,
Depressing lyrics, and photos,
All of it was the same.

The songs?
Sad,
Relatable,
and even a few help me shed a tear.

The photos?
Made me crave.
Made me hurt.
Didn't make me cringe.

The lyrics.
Yes.
I understand you, dearest artist(s).
I get it, what it's like to be depressed.

You see. When a person says they don't like you back, the typical response is to move on. But no, I didn't move on. I dwelled. I sat in that uncomfortable feeling and died internally because that's how numb I was.

You see, depression takes so much from you, it takes your freedom, words, music, and abilities. It is horrendous! Anyways, I hope I get over this ****. Because this ****'s a *****.

she enthralled me with her orange hazy glow
that golden yellow singing chorus
made me think last night if I actually saw a rainbow
oh how unfair the broken are.

she broke last night asking me,
"why can't I cry like you?"
I replied, "because you have more breakthroughs
it makes you stronger. I'm just weak."

well, now I'm getting a look into her life
but I don't want to.
get me away.
this hits too close.

I’m not going to use 5,000 similes in this poem.
Why?
Because your bones do not tickle my throat like constellations,
Instead you abused me.
And I’m not going to make abuse into a pretty aesthetic poem.
I’m going to speak it how it is.

People assume abuse is pretty because people write about it in pretty terms.
But no, abuse is scary and messy.
It’s the forgetting your birthday and how you were born.
It’s the significant other hitting your thighs because you’re “too fat”.
It’s not getting coffee in the morning because “you’re a big girl” and can sweat out the hangover
-you didn’t ask for- off in a few hours.
And most importantly, you can’t forget how much of a **** you’d look like if you shaved your head, so you don’t.
Abuse isn’t “wrap me in your arms and put me in a choke hold so i can feel what it felt like to be mom”  
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC

I can’t say it enough. I can’t phrase it different ways. I can’t say “hey dude look, abuse ain’t cool
man” BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW IT AS IT IS. AT FACE VALUE.

When clean from the cutting, the alcohol, negative self-talk, drugs... everything. When after 10 years I finally get one day where I'm numb, I enjoy the **** out of it.

I don't think about my crushes or school work. I don't think about cleaning or showering. Instead, I choose to sit in my room. Play re: Stacks by Bon Iver, lay on my stomach in my cat pajamas, and enjoy coloring, writing, and doing nothing other than what is consuming with love and beauty.

So example. I wrote a story that day. It wasn't for giggles. It wasn't for the word count. It was for the fact I wanted to write. Simple. I wanted to write something beautiful. And I did.

It's this.

Routine. Make sure you have it. Whether it be taking a shower and brushing your teeth every morning, or it is smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I need you to have a routine sweetheart, it'll serve you when you're in high school.

2. Don't use violence. Treat others the way you want to be treated. The violence part? I know, easier said than done, but your dad had such a hard time in high school. He was suspended and almost got battery charges for hitting a girl. Also, your dad went to jail for abusing the effing crap out of your grandmother.  So trust me please, when I say violence is not the answer.

3. Read. Write. Create. Repeat. Read John Green, Neil Hilborn, and Savannah Brown. Write as though your soul is on fire and this is the only way to put it out. Write every day, write about pain, guilt, shame, suffering. Write about all the bad things, but also show those glimmers of hope. Create. Make art that shocks and makes people think. Make masterpieces. Make art you don't like. Whatever you do, just make art. Do it because your dad would. Do it for the world. You have so much potential.

4. Don't join Facebook. You will get preconditioned to the fact Facebook is a right of passage and a sense of freedom, but trust me, it isn't. It'll turn you from an artist to one who searches for love in all the wrong places. One who strives off likes, and hearts, and good reactions. It will make you feel worthless on those days you get zero shares from the status you thought was golden. I love you and you can do this.

5. This one is hard for me to say, especially considering I'm one of many whose done it, but don't attempt suicide. You'll regret it the moment it doesn't work and cry the moment you realize what you've done. I will let you know regardless if it works or not, the amount of pain you put others in: will not change. There will always be pain. I love you sweetheart and you can do this.

6. Listen to loads of music. This should be your drug of choice. I'll make you a playlist of all your padre's favorite songs. Music does wonders. Music soothes, helps you create, lets you let it out, and the list goes on and on.

7. Discover yourself; embrace that. Whether you be gay, straight, or bi. Whether you're happy, sad, or content. Whether you're ill or not ill. BE YOURSELF. Be so much yourself, you have the amount of confidence of a great white shark. Those *******, those animals are CONFIDENT. (19 year old me would also like to insert that werk it qween is a totally acceptable phrase)

8. You are made of magic. You have the bones of stars and the eyes of bravery. Anywhere you walk is going to be a place where everyone knows your presence. You walk on red carpets of kindness and love, but also you smile bigger than anyone in the room.

See her? Yeah, she's my daughter. She's my light, life, and reason to function on bad days. She brings me so much joy that the only way to describe it is, become an addict, go into foster care and lose everything you've ever known for ~1.5 years, and then uproot yourself into the adult life, 1 day after graduating. After you've completed those steps and only managed to need to be resuscitated twice, then you get to go onto the pile of adult ******* that entails: paying bills, overdosing on abused drugs, being forced to sign a 'mutual termination' contract with the place you were living because you had a mental health flare up. Are you still alive? Okay cool, well now you're going to move into sober living and fall in love with the wrong person while being there, get into drugs even more than you were before (ironic, eh,) and now... after all that. You move away from hell. And fall in love with the child you never thought you'd have.  

You bring me so much happiness, it's nearly ridiculous.

one. i graduate in (now) seven days, and i'm happy, scared, stoked and excited.
two. i am not the best writer
three. but it makes me happy and on somedays, it makes me feel alive
four. i'm genderqueer
five. i am a first gen. college student
six. self-harm didn't help. self-harm didn't help. self. harm. didn't. help.
seven. death is a scary, cravable thing
eight. i need to get my **** together
nine. free verse poetry is the best poetry
ten. my loyalty is earned, you don't get that immediately

A few rules brought to you by society
Back hunched
Crying? Never.
Death cannot affect you
Enlist in the army
Fight everyone
Grow ****** hair
Hugs? Once again, never do them.
I’m just trying to help you find your way
Joke around in class
Knives are for fighting
Leave a mess everywhere
Music? Overrated
Never ask for help
Open doors for others
Please, thank you, ma’am, sir
Quiet, you must abide by these rules
Remember to ask the parents first
Sit in class, always confused
Talk with your mouth full
Understand your place in society
Very nicely, take her on dates
Wilt in sadness but never show it
Xerotic Eyes
Yes, I’m being honest even
Zebras abide by these rules

i think i need to realize something
i'm sad
i'm hurting
things are getting harder
AND
i'm coping
i'm living
i'm alive

that
is
okay

I have kaleidoscopes for a head
And bombs for lungs
I have a string for the bombs as a heart,
Pulled just right and god knows what’ll happen
I have a blu ray dvd player as feet,
“Clumsy and awkward human walking ahead,” says the sign
The sign is my skin, so everyone knows what they’re getting into
Some would call that baggage
My eyes are purple buttons, not from Coraline, but from the fact I love that color
My soul is the one unknown factor
My soul is the monster that keeps reaching for the string
My soul no one will know what it is made of

Love. Love is so much. Love can be that hug you get at just the right moment. Love can be the song she showed you. Love can be the first time you two had *** on the bathroom floor. Love can be an object.

Love is the sound of a pen writing and typewriter clicks. Love is the sound of keypad clicks because you know that means they're typing something just for you. Love is playlist after playlist. Love is the sound of knitting needles going back and forth and back and forth because she's knitting the scarf for you. Love is the sound of the perfume/cologne bottle spritzing. Love is the sound of pottery. Love is the sound of comforting words. Love is the sound of confessions late at night. Love is the sound of hang-up buttons and cars starting up. Love is.

Love is the feeling of the universe and stars moving to my brain stem and *******. Love is the feeling of you kissing my lips and moving slowly until you're at my collarbone. Love is the feeling of you moving my fingers to match yours. The feeling of poetry being written about me. The feeling of the zoo and butterflies, and even the robin outside moving around in my stomach because that's how you make me feel. Love is.

Love is the sight of you in the red dress that I bought you for our one month anniversary. Love is the sight of the paragraphs when I wake up. Love is the sight of seeing your wrist clean for a year. Love is the sight of waking up and realizing it's our one year anniversary. Love is the sight of nakedness. Love is the sight of you smiling. Love is the sight of our first date and delicious looking food.

Love is the smell of ha long bay and ginger tea. The smell of perfume on your girly days and the cologne on your not so girly days. Love is the smell of our house, along with bath and body works. Love is the smell of your hugs and your chapstick. Love is the smell of fresh vinyl and flower bouquets. Love is the smell of marshmallows and a crackling fire. Love is the smell of **** on my favorite sweatshirt. I love the smell of your sweatshirt and that's perfect.

Love is the taste of ha long bay. Love is the taste of her lips and chapstick against me. Love is the taste of wine and blood. Love is the taste of well, love. Not much to say for taste is there? Love is you.

Dylan McConnell
Born in Madison, Wisconsin
Born on November 23rd
Who is the brother of Eden and Zoe Nisam
Who is the grandson of Lynn and Tom McConnell
Who is the nephew of Beth, Dana, Quinn, and Cristin McConnell

Who loves hugs, humor, and puns
Who hates sharing a room, cable tv, and the color red
Who feels love towards all beings
Who enjoys cigarettes, ****, and company
Who likes art, creating, and writing
Who gives love to all, good hugs, and great conversations
Who desires to go to college, become a counselor, and write a book
Who plays a mad a game of rummy and solitaire
Who is unemployed
Who eats literally everything, including fast food
Who changes the way people view the world.

Who loves.

"i'm fine"
Oh you're you say?
What happened to those scars on your arms?
What happened to the crying I heard at 3am?
What happened to you?

"no i don't like her, mom"
Why not, she's getting a three point o GPA.
She's in honor's classes...
Lastly, she's humane! She has a life sweetheart. Something I so dearly beg you get one day.

"i can't, i'm busy."
****, I ain't busy.
I ain't doing jack for work.
In fact, I'm sitting home right now.
Watching T.V and eating a carton of ice cream and breaking a bottle of *****.

"i won't give into depression"
Really?
You won't attempt at 3am when the voices tell you you're better off dead.
You won't use when you're too riled up sit straight?
Lastly, you won't cry when you've been sitting up for 3 nights in a row thinking of your ex mother?

"i'm staying at (best friends name's) house tonight"
Hell, I'm not.
I'm actually smoking at -stoner's- house.
I'm going and having *** with literally everyone whose ever loved me.
I'm going to be happy.

i have an idea.
it's called: growing.
i think i used to write only when i was sick
and then i started getting better and worried i was
getting too good to create
i went through a long grieving process with
my depressed art
i thought i would never pick up a pen again
i thought i would stay sober and flare up free for a while
well, looks like i'm wrong about a lot of things
i started testosterone since i got better
i have a doctor appointment next week in which i will ask about
top surgery, upping my dose, and moving forward
with a name change
i've grown, *******, but i've fallen too.
i've grown so much i lost my roots
but i've grown so much i learned to plant new ones
i learned that sobriety doesn't end when you're ill
it actually begins at that moment you know you are so
much
better
than
that.
and wow kid, you had a birthday.
and you had a good thanksgiving
and you picked up a pen and drew.
and here you are writing ******* word after word afterword.
you're doing it.
and you're going to continue to do it.
i love you.

The sight of jail is beyond frightening.
It's locked doors.
It's watching guards tear our your freedom as if it's nothing.
It's blue outfits you're forced upon your will to wear.
The smell of jail is the smell of the girl ******* her insides out.
It's the smell of half cooked meat, but hey at least it's food.
And it's the smell of musty deodorant.
The sound of jail is the sound of T.V.
It's people yelling.
Guards screaming at you.
The feel of jail is cold sheets and a mattress just a titch too hard to sleep on.
It's the feeling of isolation and depression seeping in.
It's the not so quiet feeling of sadness.
The taste of jail is lemonade that's ever so sour and gross.
It's the taste of blood because you keep biting your nails.
And lastly, it's the taste of your own fingernails. Because it's the only thing you can do to pass the 17 hours you have all 4 lights on.

I fear my father’s hands, due to the fact
You don’t know which day
He’ll give a handshake
And which day he’ll try to strangle you
I fear my mother’s hugs due to shame
I don’t know which day it’s just a hug
And which day it’s a grasp of all that’s left in the world
I fear my cat
Knowing one day she’ll die and one day I’ll say goodbye to the
Only friend who kept me company in teenager-hood world
I fear coffee
For it’s too comfortable
Too much like home
Whispers to me, just another sip
God knows what I would do if I overdosed with coffee in hand
I fear men, funny, because I am one
I fear them because they have landed me in places I don’t want to be in
They have abused, assaulted, and hurt me in ways only god can imagine
I am deathly afraid of separation
I am petrified of marijuana
As it ***** me up more than any other drug
Lastly, I am afraid of myself, emo right?
But I am truly scared of what I am capable of.
What I can do.
What I can’t do.
Etc.

during the morning i see
a fresh start
new perspectives
the sunrise looking slightly different than yesterday
i see that i will get better today
i see i am okay
i see my life getting better

during the afternoon i see
mistakes
curses
reasons to do xyzabc
i see hate
cruelty
anger
shame

during the night i see
failure
"****-Up" engraved into the mirror
everything and nothing
i see the fact there's new scars
a comedown to face tomorrow
my life didn't get better today.

*and repeat

so, the boy and I are boyfriends now.
It's been 3 days?
It's pretty gay.

i got really high this morning
and it feels like I cheated on recovery
it feels like I ripped my sobriety from my cold dead high hands
I'm listening to lil peep again
and I feel like I'm actually going bad again
I didn't care for my broken tender wounds yesterday
and I broke down into a beautiful pile of sadness
and there i layed
for a miserable, deadly, slow 5 hours until i
fell into a deep sleep
and i woke up this morning and cheated on recovery

So. I woke up this morning thinking to myself, what are my values?
For some people, it’s trust, love, and honesty.
For others, it’s authenticity, compassion, and leadership.
Well, I thought about it, and not to sound like a hipster but some values are so stupid.
Other values, however, are pretty heckin’ cool.
I think I really value loyalty and trust.
Along with security and self-respect.
Lastly, I think I value creativity.
WAIT.
Did you see what I said in there?
-
-
-
-
I said “I think (...)”
I don’t think I value creativity.
I ******* know I value creativity.
That **** roots me.
That poetry?
Yeah, that stuff is awesome and makes my heart beat millions.

I know I value loyalty and self-respect.
Without that, we get nowhere.
I also really do value security and trust.

Lastly, I’d like to end this piece of art with a bit of truth.
I value you.
Yes you, the one reading this.

I've survived 9 suicide attempts.
Been in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) twice
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I've been molested and *****.
Been able to tell my story in multiple ways.
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I'm not a survivor.
No.
I'm a liver.
I've done my surviving phase. That was miserable.
Now?
Now I live.

I called my mom today because I thought she stops panic.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I think my mom’s the one who started the panic. She started the panic by having me three months early.
She started the panic by not believing my cousin ****** me happened.
She started the panic by putting my in the foster care system.
She started the panic by killing all the solar systems in you.
She started the panic by murdering the a e s t h e t i c.
She started the panic in all the one million ways you can think of.

Took my eager will to listen to music. I'd listen to all types of music. I'd listen to Pierce the Veil and Vampire Weekend. I'd listen to folk punk and indie rock. I listened to rap and alternative. I miss the days when I could listen to music, now it just feels like shouting in my ear.

Took my sense of life. Now? I don't know what the date is half the time, nor do I know what time it is. I can barely make it through a day of school.

Took my excitement to be risky. I used to smoke **** nearly every day, do Adderall, smoke a pack a day. I'd do risky **** and end up in places I don't know how I got there. Man, I miss those days.

Even took my sleep from me. Now? I don't sleep past 5 hours a night. I hide in my room hoping someone will allow me to come out.

Depression took my frown, instead, it was replaced with a fake smile.

Depression eradicated any routine I've ever had. I used to shower and brush my teeth every day. Ever since depression came along, my routine has died. (metaphorically.)

Depression took away so much from me. And I don't think I can ever picture a life where I get it back.

today i am yellow
not that neon yellow that
shouts at you to wake up from the bedside,
but instead that soft, quiet yellow
whispering at you to with coffee
from the doorway.
today i am yellow.
the yellow in a sunset,
bidding farewell to another day
gone awry
--
today i am abused.
not that i checked my schedule and
thought that today would work, but that
i looked at my schedule
and saw it was the 5 year anniversary
five years strong *******
five years ever changed, guys.
today i am abused.
not physically, where you can see it
but bruises that are shaped like hickies
and those hickies whisper sorry to me
and i repeat it every 3 seconds,
as though i'm on repeat.
---
today i am lost
not lost on a map as though i'm looking for treasure
but lost, like i get, when i search for my soul
my soul is fragile just like
my searching abilities
---
but just like yellow, abuse, and lost souls
i am drifting home so soon
and i see so much in front of me
but for now i am yellow
a lost soul
and abused

You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up
And when I go to bed
Yet, If that wasn’t enough, even in the middle of the day I think of you.
You’re my soul reason for living.
And you never let me down.
You give a sense of purpose.
And make me laugh as if I was 3 years old again.
I think I love you...
At least that’s what I’d call this obsession...
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you.
Well... I recently learned we can’t be together anymore.
She doesn’t want us seen together.
Apparently we’re a bad influence on each other.
I’m going to miss you.
At least that’s what I call this level of dedication

Yesterday
Yesterday I was suspended and now I don’t know my left from my right
My left is emotional
And my right is emotional
My left represents anger and resentment
My right represents suicidality and sadness
There is no middle.
There is no grey
There is no “This too shall pass”

I could be expelled for hitting a kid, due to the fact it’s my 3rd fight in a year and two months
I could be expelled because I am on contract.
I could be expelled due to the fact it’s a tiny school. Only 60 kids, and 35 on a regular basis.

Rhonda is just a friend.
“A cat scratched me”
I love you.
Never, will I hit you.
Believe me.
Obviously she’ll be okay.
Well, I’m sorry.

Love is complex..
Love is kind.
Love is simple.
Love is hard.
Love is one-sided.
Love can be two-sided.
Love can help you.
Love can hurt you.
Love can make you cry.
Love can help you mend the unfixed wounds.

Love exists. But I’m not quite sure if it’s for me.

I am from keurig brewers and phones
from grits and Bluetooth headphones
I am from the white walls,
incense, and
I am from the lilacs outdoors
The neighbors plants

I am from "Wash your hands" and "Go Cavaliers!!"
I am from No Scrubs by TLC and shouting at TV due to basketball
I'm from family cookouts and foster care
I'm from Madison, WI and short prayers around the table
From my mom going to riots,
Thick hair,
and white walls.
I am from a cozy home on the north side of Madison,
and a good hug when needed.

I'm from hard times.
I'm from hard fought battles and long talks about
why **** is bad.
I'm from dumb arguments and loud cheers from the audience.
I'm from so much, and so little.

Love,
me.

what to say
what to do
-
i've always viewed poetry as
something to write when sad
or something to do when debating death
maybe even thoughts that are always in my head
-
i never saw it as
something i could do happy
something i can think about when alive
a beautiful passion
-
i want to art
i want to make beautiful words
i want to live my life in the works of art i create
i'm just not quite sure how to do that
-
maybe i let my mental health symptoms act up
maybe i listen to super sad music from the 90's
maybe even go back to drugs and drinking
what about just no television, friends, or work...
like how it was in foster care?

I dreamt about so many things.
I dreamt about my monsters fleeing.
And my **** never happening.
I dreamt you never hit me and never gave me a concussion.
I had this wonderful dream you never left me.

I listen to your problems, which touch soul to heart for years
I still wake up, hearing your laugh
Days later
Weeks later
Months Later
Seeing your smile in your eyes
Seeing your music in your words
Seeing your art through eye/s
I still draw thinking of how elegant your lips would kiss
I still listen to that elegant lofi music, thinking of how you'd cry
I listen to joji thinking about smiling, hugs, and you

You.
Smiling.

You.
Crying.

You.
Loving.



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