White noise buzzing about my skull,
Incessant thoughts without meaning,
No reprieve and no reason.

Other worlds all progressing steadily,
Overlapping with my own reality,
No definition between them.

You might not be able to see what I can,
Thinking I'm a fool or just insane,
No acceptance of my truth.

Always I will know that this is reality,
It is out there just behind the veil,
No way through to get home.

Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.

Pounding, pounding, in my head.

Nothing matters, not anymore.

It never did, never at all.

Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.

I think I'm starting to lose my hold.

My grip on reality is wearing thin.

It's time I let the demons in.

Isn't is amazing how there are
a finite number of words,
that try to describe my entire
existence.
They flow from my hands
like honey across computer keys.
My life in forty-seven lines.

It, to me, is inconceivable that
a text box can contain a person,
like a frame might contain a photo.
So those words
might have flown from my fingers,
but they are not me.

I am in my work.
Puzzles solved and projects planned,
each one has a small part of my
self within it's ink-stained pages.
My poetry and photography
represents me far better
than forty-seven lines.

If a university turns me away
based on a personal statement,
I would not be ashamed.
After all, those forty-seven lines
are not my words.
They belong to convention.
'Interpersonal skills' and
'self-confidence'.

I know those words are not me,
although I'll write them
because I know they are what
you want to
see.

I don't see the problem,
My body is my own,
If I need to let out the pressure,
I'll slice down to the bone.

A friend used to hurt,
Broken mind made body the same,
Emotions controlled her,
No one is to blame.

When I split my skin,
I ensure it's only me that I harm,
Collected mind united in pain,
Then I can feel calm.

My veins run with fire,
Cut them open to let out the heat,
My veins pulse with fire,
I'll burn until I'm beat.

Itching, ******, melting flesh,
With shining silver I hold my breath,
Loose, tepid, paper skin,
Sharp steel with edge razor thin,
Rubber grip in steady hand,
Why is this wrong,
I don't understand.

Pain that is sharp and mean,
So pure and clean,
Purifying fire in aching veins,
I'm lucid because of my pains.

Burning, scorching, pulsing flames,
For my pain there is someone to blame,
Sticky, ruby, viscous blood,
Not that I must, just should,
Calm mind in broken meat,
I won't stop this,
I'll burn until I'm beat.

Saturation,
no space left in my mind.
So many questions and
so much emotion
that I can't think.
All the things that I used to
see as simple tasks or
thoughts won't link.
No coherence
in my brain. Juxtaposition,
of ideas leads my actions
to dissonance.
Enjambment in
every movement that I make.

Jolted awake,
Is that banging
in my ears
inside my head,
or out?
It's at the door,
banging so hard
and fast.

I stride through
the darkness
to my sister's room.
A hand on her
shoulder and
her name.
It does not
wake
her.

Panic builds and
the banging,
it's inside and out.
She won't
wake
up, please.

Empty
Nitrous Oxide
and spirit bottles
litter my
sight.
Please, wake
up.
Please, before
our door
caves
in.

At night I lay on my bed
and I stare at the ceiling.
Sometimes I swear I can
see a pinprick light receding.

As if I'm Alice and this
is all part of my wonderland.
In the world at the bottom of
the rabbit hole lay the ******.

Like Dante's gluttonous fools
we lie in blood, mud, and pain.
Not all of my guilt can be
cleaned away by the rain.

Some darkness must be purged
from flesh with a harsher method.
We would wash it out of our
souls using our blood if we could.

Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.

Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.

Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.

In five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Exactly where I am now,
yet in a different place.

I'll always choose the third door
and probability will be on my side.

In ten years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
With so much progress,
and nothing to show it.

I'll always argue for my opinion
and there will be a chance I'm right.

In twenty-five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Maybe I'll have company,
but I could be alone.

I'll always make direct eye contact
with hope I don't look scared of you.

In fifty years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
And I will be able to stop.

On Time's ornate shelves
we will soon find ourselves.
Be it in a week or a decade,
each of us will eventually fade.
But our lexis and our prose,
kept in books stacked in rows,
black inked words on yellowed pages,
of our worth will be the gauges.

Trillions of miles away
shines a star.
It's hot and dense
and glows violet.

This star has never been
photographed.
All we would see
would be a white dot.

Those that observe are
inadequate,
to realise it's true
depth of beauty.

Beside me on this bus
shines a star.
He is warm and kind
and radiant.

This star has no fame
or fortune.
He is not yet valued
appropriately.

One day the first star
will explode.
A multitude of colours, light,
and beauty.

I know that soon he will
be set alight.
And show the world
his true value.

For all the things I can't say to you:

I used to think that boredom
was something I'd never known.
That life was full of amazement,
of so much currently unknown.
Nowadays I have realised that
thought was a child's dream.
I was perpetually bored and so
just had no reference frame.
In the years that have passed I've
naturally sought distraction.
When people learn what I've done,
I can never guess their reaction.
Some seem distressed that the
golden girl does not exist.
Others are happy to ignore it
and let my reputation persist.
Personally I don't really care what
you all think about my choices.
You are just ordinary people
with boring, ordinary little voices.

Midnight walks and dewy grass,
Late nights that turn into late mornings,
And late admissions of lazy love.

Sharp eyes between dark minds,
Sunset and sunrise separate our days with night,
And time that doesn't move.

Just stop ticking onto new things,
What we have tonight is enough for tomorrow,
And all the time we can borrow.