I’ve been resisting the current for some time now as if I’m determined to sink instead of learning how to float. I know how I feel but I’m terrified of actually feeling at all. I’m tired of being dragged around the same whirlpool yet what the **** lies out yonder? What a ******* irony because I’ve been drowning in the sea of schnapps for years. It’s all clear yet the weight pulls me under. Do I inhale the liquid or fight to the surface? Maybe drowning isn’t the most peaceful way to die after all as I choke for life once more.

A verdict was reached today. A jury of my peers depicted my character flaws and the judgement ruled I am an awful human being. The defense tried to argue the validity of my consistency towards psychosis but the commonwealth didn’t buy it. Now I’m left here, awaiting my sentence.... as if I wasn’t already serving it. When time is a mere construct that passes awfully slow. What is to make of concrete walls when I’ve been trapped within the square my entire existence? A little more time. A few more dreadful stares. As if any of it really matters at all? Just give me my ball to bounce against the walls of this construct until my time is over. Satisfaction is a mere state of mind and perhaps if I get the angle just right it will catapult back in my face and end it all for good.

Your memory hangs on the wall of my mind like a prized work of art. In those moments, when lost in a day dreaming daze, I drift through the halls of my gallery and find you there. Each emotion painting a different perspective of your canvas in constant flux, an abstract view that changes with the phases of the moon. But I can’t look away. The boldness of the hue leaving me in awe, yet the blood streaks down from my bleeding heart, reminiscent of the agony of the wound that’s still open. I lock it in the room in the corner of my thoughts, like a *******, a glutton for the pain that the sight of you brings. I can’t bring myself to take it down, despite the pleas from my tired soul. I cling to that moment captured in time, in foolish hope that one day you will return. Return to acknowledge all the love, pain, and destruction that created these masterpieces in my collection. If only you could see the passion in every brush stroke. The subtle way the pigment whispers the truth of my intentions. Maybe then, you too will be in awe. Maybe then, you’d want to stay.

A tortured artist’s muse, an abstract concept that could never truly be defined. Though, they tried. Aspiring Picasso’s came like passerby’s, setting up their easels, trying to capture the essence of a moment. An ever changing scenery in constant flux. A single clip of time, forever evading the masterpiece. There was only ever a beginning, as frustrations with the unrelenting storm tore the portrait to the ground with each passing breeze. They failed to see the beauty in starting each day with a blank canvas, always determined to brush every stroke perfectly into place before the sun set. The love for the view was lost, so desperate to embody it completely they forget to appreciate it entirely, as layers of color paint a picture of indifference. But tell me Pablo, would you label the bird as callous for wanting to leave the branch...or would you gaze with the all the wonder of life watching it flap its wings?

The smell of you is on my sheets
There’s ***** on the wall
Three empty bottles near my feet
I think I drank them all
Awoke to find you here
Though I truly can’t recall
The night before unclear
Did we **** or have a brawl?
Please wake up and leave
I’ll walk you down the hall
Feel like I’m going to heave
And you’ll probably never call.

A play unfolds in my mind each night
As two opposing forces fight for control
The nefarious darkness assembles its army of thoughts to lay siege upon the throne of light.
Reason fires down from the compassionate wall
As the guilt slithers its way to the top.
The loathing berates the beautiful moat until the trenches give way to a cleansing flood.
As dawn emerges the enemies call a cease fire...to replenish their armies for the twilight to come.

There was a heavy sadness in her eyes, as if a decade of lonely nights took refuge in her tiny frame. She carried it well. The pain. She had grown numb to it, the blows only stung at first until the waves of agony rippled out into her tranquil lake of despair. Perhaps it was more of a friend to her, for it was the only one who was always there. The pain was loyal. The only one that never left. If not for it, how would she know she even existed? What would there even be besides a void? Nothingness. Perhaps she needed the pain, which is just as well because it certainly wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It had moved in long ago. Long before it was even welcome. A permanent resident. A fixture. Embedded into her very existence. No, it wasn’t leaving, it would be there always.