(she has the sea beneath her lashes and fire burns above in her eyes)

shes winter
with the eyes of autumn
little apricots burnt by fire
hidden in her skull
the song from a broken box
the light in a black wave
the flame from a broken match
you're alive,but
where are you?
you look as the soul of a century filled with crippling heartache,
baby,
you look like a question,
i am asking of you now.
answer me?
- a.m

Optimism is my mask
Hurt is my soul
Pain my shield
Laughter my sword
Silence my wall
You may not enter
Trust is violent
Kindness my instrument
You can not have the bullet to end me
I hide the true me

By B. Peterson

Crowded room with quiet voices,
I stand in line with anxiety thrusting through me.
In a line with a board spouting words,
Different flavours and styles steaming below.
Choices of familiar or new,
Too many people to really choose.
Soft voice, cracked with fear.
I sit in the crowded room,
Separating myself from the crowd,
Silent and lost in my mind.
My drink is served and I begin to write.
Muffin crumbed, drink stirred,
The day begins in quiet anxiety.

80 days from now your name will just be a name

it wont be a sign of significance or importance

and my heart wont race a thousand miles

and my heart wont skip a beat at the sound of your voice

i will not reminisce on old voice recordings you left me

saying your apologies

which were just a routine after you’ve ****** up repetitively

you’re now yet to be just another one of my journal entries  

and nothing else but a name.

GM

My fear lingers behind
I'm unable to rewind time from when it begun.

Thus fear follows me like a shadow on a sunny day,
And the only way to escape is to walk through darkness

its late afternoon in the winter and the sun is dripping into the horizon,
the creams golds crimsons making love to each other in the reflections in the snow. the air is frigid and whistles as i push further and further down on the accelerator.
60. 70. 80. 90. 100. 110. the steering wheel is practically vibrating and i have to grip it with both hands to keep it steady, my fingers are turning blue. there are fields and farmers' markets nearly hidden by the walls of snow plowed away earlier today. my knuckles are white, the pool of my ***** in the passenger seat on top looks like it's freezing over on the edges.
my phone is ringing, i know it's not him, i can't look at it anyway. the sun hasn't stopped dripping below the horizon, the glow of my phone lights up the whole car. the radio is playing a song i don't know, it's so loud that i can feel the beat in my heart, but not even my pulse has a sense of rhythm beating ten beats between 1 and 3, my phone is still ringing, i know it's him but i know it's not. the ***** has developed a film, this car is putrid and i am inside of it.

i know i should pull over but i can't get far enough away.

i slow back to 80 and throw up outside of the window, i don't stop.

I'm peeling the skin off my face
Because I really hate being safe
The normals, they make me afraid
The crazies, they make me feel sane

I'm insane, maybe , I'm mad,
The craziest friend that you've ever had,

You think I'm ******, you think I'm gone,

Tell the psychiatrist something is wrong,

You said I was " Over the bend, entirely bonkers"

You like me best when I'm off my rocker
So I'll Tell you a secret, I'm not alarmed

So what if I'm crazy? The best people are

Where is my prescription?
Doctor, doctor please listen
My brain is scattered
You can be Alice,
I'll be the mad hatter.

You'll try to lock me up,
And tell me to keep my mouth shut,
These visions that I'm seeing are slowly but surely decreasing.

I see a man with yellow eyes,
He's scratching at his own face,
He tells me to run but I know they'll try to chase.

So I stay locked up,
Kept quiet and buckle up,
For the next therapy session,
Where they'll tell me I'm  crazy with discretion.

(written to be read as spoken-word)
There is a bird inside my rib-cage,
I swallowed it whole four years ago.
Its weight drags my feet further and further into the earth below
And its screeches never cease.
Sometimes I worry that it will **** me
And other times I wish it would.
Occasionally,
it would scratch at my lungs and bruise my ribs with its flailing,
It doesn’t do that anymore though,
Sometimes I wish it would.
The talons reminded me that I was still here.
But now the bird simply lies inside my chest making it difficult to breathe.
There is no longer fury in its wings, only the burnt out embers of what used to be.
I fear that the bird has died and that his little bones are the only part of him left to weigh me down.

I dream about freeing the bird, cutting open my lungs and letting his dark feathers seep away,
Tearing skin from bone and bone from bird.
That would surely **** me, but at least the bird could be free.

(lines added later)
I have written this poem a thousand times and I will write it a thousand more
Because I want it to be perfect
I will say to you a thousand times that perfection is unattainable
and yet I will try a thousand times to attain it.
That is the curse of the bird
I’m beginning to conquer my bird,
But like a long had pet, it is difficult to let go
A close friend, a pretty drug, it’s difficult to put down
But when I do,
The entire universe will know
Because I will sing without feathers I my throat,
Because I will paint without darkness in my eyes,
And because I will wake up in the morning to see the sun rise
And I will walk for miles because I want to
And I smile and smile and smile
Until my face forgets the shape of a frown