The problem with writing
is sometimes the thoughts
rush through the pen so quickly
it leaves them indecipherable
the next morning.
My hands move too quickly,
and it makes the letters
loop violently like drunken slurs
under lamp posts at two in the morning.

Catastrophic.
Writing about the reasons I can
no longer trust
the time I surrendered myself
completely only to be left
dead in my tracks.
The first time I waived my
white flag and the
knife still entered my back.
Intoxicated lettering could
never completely explain.

My head is a ward
of things unknown to the normal one.
Insults trace my skin preparing
for entrance.
Words like a knife to skin,
You poison the mind.
With the scalpel in hand,
You enter the black box in my head,
And hit record, preparing for
the end of me.

She threw me for a loop.

She jumped off the wagon at full speed
and fell, like she wouldn't feel a thing
like cold, hard ground wasn't the enemy.

I couldn't rationalize her thinking.
Not if I tried for the same months
She spent struggling in that facility.

Not if I tried for the same lifetime,
She was supposed to spend fighting
and asking for the inner peace she needed to stay alive.

She threw me for a loop.

I'm spending my time looking for escape routes
trying not to end up at the bottom,
where she seemed to put herself willingly.

Forgetting all she fought for,
all the time she spent,
looking for a new beginning.

She threw me for a loop.

Now I'll spend my late nights
looking for the stability
she abandoned for yesterday's highs.

Solid ground must have meant nothing
compared to the excitement she found
in running from her worries.

My head throbs with the idea,
that she finds more comfort in toxicity
than she did in the sobriety that brought her back to me.

She threw me for a loop, and I'm still spinning.

The greatest fable in life is time.
We created seconds, minutes, hours,
to be able to set goals to accomplish,
always making deadlines.
What we don't realize,
is we're running ourselves ragged
with our own lies.
So we get high,
just to get by
and forget life.
Create juicy gossip,
about the pills that we popped,
and the ***** that we copped,
and the tokes that we took
to forget the memories
we wish had never become reality,
or simply wish they never switched,
from present, to past tense.
Repeating endless cycles,
looking for imaginary life boats
to save us from the inevitable.
We are creatures that search for savior,
in the worst possible places,
never realizing when it's time,
to drop the syringes,
put down the bottles,
and pour out the **** water,
because it's time to get back to real life,
where people hurt,
and innocent die for
no good reason.
On the surface of breaking it,
and making it,
never knowing which one is
quite the right fit.
Questioning every decision,
under the suffocating weight of darkness,
that greets us with open arms,
in between dusk and dawn.
Praying for the comfort we've yet
to find in another living soul.
Coping with the use of things like,
depression medications, tear soaked napkins,
and the slowly dwindling fire that is hope.
We are the world's worst over thinkers,
the world's greatest sob stories.
We are the chances not taken,
and the finger-wrapped-around-telephone-wire-promises,
crushed under the crippling mass of despair.
We are a generation of ****-ups,
good for nothing more than
cutting our losses, and
running for the hills.

And for hours,
I sat in this same lonely corner of my head,
remembering what it was like to call you my happiness.
I've forgotten to feed the dog,
and the plants in the window wither,
right before my crust-filled eyes; they are not important.
Nothing is important,
when I'm remembering how
the curve of your neck felt like home,
and my fingers used to fit perfectly within your own.
I found myself sneaking up to your bedroom tonight,
and crying with drought worthy eyes,
when I saw you had taken my picture down.
The text message I sent wishing you well,
has not yet been found, and I am very aware
that you most likely ignored it,
as you have been ignoring me.
I don't know what hurts more,
the thought of never speaking to you again,
or the feeling of other peoples ******* pity.
The never ending string of questions,
"are you okay?"
"feeling better?"
"have you been sleeping?"
I'm simply wondering what the point of asking is,
when you already heard the answer yesterday,
as well as the ******* day before that:
no
I'm still looking for distractions,
whether it's in school work, or friends,
or walks along busy main roads,
tiptoeing along the insanity that is,
four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two ibuprofen,
and one lousy apple to eat; repeat.
My days are numbered,
at least until I find the strength
to eat for more than the lowest class of survival.
You took away my appetite with your lies.
my stability is about as easy to find
as that needle in the hay stack called life.
Anxiety causes me to memorize breathing patterns,
and inhale so deeply my lungs may burst,
but my heart rate still spikes whenever I hear your name,
and remember that we used to be known as a couple,
now people are asking me to move on,
but I'm still wearing the jewelry,
still cringing at the thought of you gone,
still sleeping with the ******* teddy bear;
you are apparently better without me in your hair.
I am deeply damaged; you are repaired.

When I picture you mad,
I see smoke coming out of your ears,
like it does from the far end of a cigarette.

The fire in your eyes is a different kind.

There are a few things I could probably never say,
like how the curve of your smile literally
shoots electricity down my spine,
or how your embrace is better than
any prescription a doctor could prescribe.
You are my sun,
and my moon,
and its scary because before,
the stars were like simple string lights,
and now they're cacophonies of light,
that give me hope when I think all dark has descended.
Your power over me is frightening.
It's like I'm walking a tightrope,
and you're a gust of wind.
If I have to fall,
I just pray you'll be there to catch me.

The remembrance.
I'm clinging to the scent of smoke on your aged skin,
holding on like I'm hanging off the highest point,
on an unforgiving mountain top.
Less than three months and I'll feel the comfort,
and warmth of your lap,
that's so used to the weight of my sorrow,
and the salt in my tears.
Remembrance is all that's keeping me,
from slipping off the edge.
For a little less than three months,
remembrance will keep me together,
and then you will be home to mend me when I fall apart.

I would draw you,
If only my fingers
didn't shake.

You're cold like the arctic,
yet somehow, you scorch all you touch.
burning like the whiskey in the back of my throat,
only to leave me numb like the percocet,
I'd hidden away for the next time you decided
to make me feel
like leaving my body.

your side effects vary.
but I just seem to keep coming back.
you've got me hooked like you're nicotine.
and I've been smoking all your lies,
so you can ignite me from the inside,
I've been inhaling kerosene.

Summer staggered in like bruises
purple accents swelling under skies pigment,
sunlight dripping like red death
from hemophelic skin.
Midnight showers somersault,
into morning haze.
Lightning cracks in jagged edges,
leaving lines of wonder on tormented skin.

Autumn came and brought sorrow,
took away my fondest feelings,
and made me learn perseverance,
to be rewarded with a hand to hold,
someone to whisper sweet nothings to,
and hold me up when the marionettes have failed.

Winter brought bitter cold,
numb skin, and cracked lips,
yet somehow the butterflies still live,
in my stomach.

There are things that schools,
have simply forgotten to teach us.
Things that you're better off
once you know.
Like how the sun always follows
a rainy day.
Or that you're only as happy as
you'll let yourself be.

The simple things, that no teacher
has ever learned to teach
are the things that fuel us to keep going.
As long as your feet are on the ground,
it's never a bad thing to explore the clouds,
and to never let the negativity
grow to more than a whisper
in the back of the mind.

These are the codes to life
wake up; smile.
Be thankful for what you have,
and always be hopeful of receiving more,
because no amount of happiness
is "too much"
and remember that bad things
are only temporary.

Bad things may come in threes,
but so do good things,
and the lessons taught by our trials
are more valuable than gold.
If your nose is pointed at the ground,
you'll never smell the coffee
So chin up, smile.

Teachers never taught us happiness.
never taught us the delicacy required
to wipe away tears.
Never taught us how to deal with
sudden cases of sorrow.
These lessons will take us
the longest to learn.

So here's to a new curriculum,
one that teaches pain.
Because you can't learn to smile,
without having once felt tears
streaming down your face.
But also one that has an extensive
lesson planned on joy.
Just so you really know the difference.

My head spins at the thought of your embrace.
like a flame to the drapes I erupted,
and burnt down the house that held me up.

I need you.

I need all of you in the most terrifying ways,
you're like a drug I've never experienced,
daunting, and wicked.

I crave you.

Like the plains crave the wind,
or a painter craves pastels,
you're like a potion.

You keep the bad away.

You keep me at the highest peak of insane,
lost in the greatest way,
like dancing with the absence of rain.

It's getting cold out now,
trees are bare,
love is strong,
and my fingers are numb from cold.

My wrist aches from grasping your hand so tightly.

It's simply a curse it seems,
I just can't seem to keep from reaching for you;
I hope you don't mind.
It's not something I can control.

You're just too sweet to let go of.

And if you want the truth,
I ache for you.
I feel your love in my bones,
and it lights up my soul.

Tears are blinding as the page is filled,
with words written, full of meaning,
all in pursuit of wishing you well.
Our paths are distraught,
jutting in different directions,
disrupted by poor choices,
and fitting consequences.

No matter how fitting,
nothing has ever hurt more,
to know you'll be gone kills me.
With the exception of possible visits,
It's possible I'll be nearly 17 by the time
of your reentrance into this crazy,
ever-changing life.

A life where my only correspondence now
with the woman called mother,
is through letters tearstained.
I send them anyway,
knowing they'll be written
without the presence of moisture,
in the corners of my eyes.

Through the haze of the cigarettes smoke,
you seemed like a good part of my life.
But then the flame diminished,
and I realized you were part of the poison,
trapped in my lungs.

The table top is littered with empty coke cans,
and the bills are three weeks past due.
The baby is screaming for her dinner
but the poor mother is too transfixed by her own
concoction of poisons to take notice.
So while her baby girl shrinks,
her face will bloat from the sodium,
another tell tale sign that the cooking wine has been abused,
and she'll never stop sinking,
into her self created pit of despair,
because she's like an anchor that way,
and she'll always find someone else to bring down.

My soul carries the burden,
of more than a thousand unsaid words,
and on occasion, they strangle me,
grip my vocal cords and squeeze,
until mutism seems like a good thing.
When words try to find their way up my throat,
they are gagged down like a first taste of strong alcohol,
when you're sixteen, and trying to drink away the pain,
but can't stomach the bourbon or the regret,
so you pour it down the drain, and curl up,
next to the toilet, trying to heave away the poison,
you've just forced on yourself.
If I could find a speaking voice,
I'd scream at the top of my lungs,
begging you to see what your foul thoughts do to me.
Waking up to screaming, set like an alarm clock,
must not be too good for the  psyche,
for I am falling apart like the seams of,
a sweater worn with age.
But you can't be wrong.
God have mercy, never tell her she is wrong.
She justifies her mistakes,
with the pain she bottles up,
like an over-filled balloon,
ready to pop,
and knock the wind out of you,
with it's own.
This cycle will never change,
though in the midst of it all,
I don't see myself as misfortunate,
for whether or not I set an alarm,

I will always wake up.