I barricaded the door,
Screaming, lurching,
Gripped by myself,
Fear searing through every fibre,
Desperation tearing apart my soul,
My eyes and heart on fire.

I screamed loud,
You heard me but couldn't reach me,
Because I didn't want to be reached.
Or did I?

I smashed the glass,
Drew the shards across my wrists,
Slipped under, as warm blood poured down my arms,
Searching for sweet release.

In the haze I heard you knocking,
Then banging, then screaming.
Sirens in the distance,
Then closer.

Noise; a saw maybe.
Loud bangs,
Bright lights.
Beeps.
Beep, beep, beep.

I saw myself on the table,
Surrounded by doctors,
My body a ****** mess,
The green line becoming weaker,
Then flat.

As a child they said that you go to hell,
If you *******, or hurt other people,
Or if you hurt yourself.

It's the only thing that kept me alive so long.

When I returned from the dead they told me to get help;
The church, doctors, charities,
Be mindful, watch the world,
Relax, meditate,
Get better.

But there's no getting away from yourself,
And when you're this broken you can never be fixed.
Not by anybody else, not by yourself;
Not even by those who love you.

And so I sit here, again.
The door locked, more secure this time.
The glass sits on the shelf next to me,
Ready to be broken.
I know to be silent, not to scream,
Not this time,
But to silently slip under without saying goodbye.

It's selfish, I know, to find peace for myself,
And to leave others screaming,
My friends, my family, my children,
But they don't know this pain,
Only I do,
And I know it has to end.
Maybe then, they can stop worrying,
Move on with their lives,
Forget about this 300lb weight they were carrying,
Which was causing them to sink,
A millstone, not a man.
A failure who was supposed to provide,
Make things better,
But who instead destroyed everything.

I feel calm, not terror;
My hand doesn't even shake as I write this note;
Yet I don't even know why I write.

A pause? Clarity?
A goodbye?
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.
I've cried all my tears.
Unrepentent, yet sorry for everything,
This is, without question, the end.
Adiue.
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.

You wanted to convert me,
But, conversely, we conversed,
And I converted you.
You saw my point of view,
Saw you,
Saw them for what they are,
Decried the false prophets in your mind,
Lent yourself to freedom,
And left behind the shackles of your life.
I freed you, I thought,
But your freedom came at a price.
Instead of joy, your soul swelled with hatred,
The lies you had faced became too much to bear,
And, in your pain, you lashed out,
Then jumped,
In the hope of finding the freedom they'd promised you,
And I was left alone again.

The hill pulls me backwards;
My legs ache, I can go on no further,
But somehow there is the energy to retreat,
As I fall victim to gravity, and tumble, run and spiral back to where I began.

Except, this time, I begin again in more pain than before,
More broken, less able to climb.
The hill looks bigger, much more daunting,
And my mind screams at me to stay put.

But isn't life about conquering hills,
Whatever the gravity of our reality is,
Regardless of how gravity wants to chain us down,
Pull us back to our point of supposed no return?

Maybe the aches, the pain, the sense of despair;
Maybe that's just part of the game,
And it's not those with the strongest legs who reach the top,
But those with the strength to simply go again.

I watch you, you villain,
See you creeping, stalking,
Making nice, taking notes,
Preparing to make them yours.
Seen, but unseen,
Hiding in plain sight;
Your snake tongue conniving,
Laying the path for stealing lives.
Your eyes betray you, you villain,
To me, your intentions are clear.
They may not see you, you villain,
But I see you standing here.
I look you in your eyes,
You smile,
I don’t.
In my dreams, I place a hand on your shoulder,
And a gun to your head,
And end their pain forever.

If I was plasticine,
Would you see my potential and mould me,
Or would you crush me under your boot,
Roll me in your hands,
Or just make me part of a colourful dinosaur?

Your good book couldn't save me as I saw the abyss,
Yet your rage, and fury and bile drew me to Hell,
And I saw that Hell is so subjective.

Looking down at a thousand souls screaming,
Writhing, drowning, dying,
I realised that they were all my own.

I looked back at a life battered,
Burned, scorched earth,
Filled with constant plagues that I hadn't earned.

I tried to reach for help – my sides, the sky, the ground,
But there was no voice from above, nobody beside me, and no ground below me,
I just hovered in stasis.

Is this your 'purgatory'?
I doubt it, because that's how I'd describe my life;
Just one bitter, broken period of waiting for something every worse.

Every emotional floor, cracking bones like cracking thunder,
Heart shattered by lightning, eyes torn out as pennance,
It was all so ******* biblical.

Outside the sun smiles brightly,
But I am dark.
Light filters mockingly into the room,
But I am in pain.
The room is whitened by the glowing rays,
My room is darkened by despair.
Snatches of sunlight appear on the tops of the chairs:
On the chairs in my world the devil sits.
The sun brings light and heat and rules this world,
Fear and deprivation rule mine.
This great yellow ball brings love and happiness,
Red flames are my only light.
Where others are loved,
I am scorned,
Where others are warm,
I am cold,
Where others are found,
I am lost.
This is the contrast.

Close your eyes, you tell me,
Think back to a better time,
Feel those feelings, smell the smells,
Hear the laughs,
Smile at the innocence of it all.

But my life's never been filled with innocence -
Every moment in my past is either a blur, forgotten, or tarnished with hurt,
And hate,
And being hated,
And hating myself.

There is no special moments of long summer days -
At least, none which don't trigger memories of harm and abuse,
And so, I'm not an innocence fan.
How can I be, when I'm no innocent man?

Naked, I sit in the meadow,
It rains, my torso gets wet,
Some days my foliage protects me better than others,
Yet when summer comes, I can feel but too hot.
I am never happy, even when I have visitors,
Never more alone than when surrounded by those unlike me,
Wishing forever to be mobile,
Wishing forever not to be Tree.

I could spew words,
But they don't mean a thing;
Not in this worst moment of pain.
All I can do is hug my children tighter tonight,
Count my blessings,
All the while mourning yours.
But is the chill that runs through me a selfish grief?
A need to express myself, to relate my own fears to your loss?
Not a gift, not to ease your pain,
But to try in vain to understand my own?
I don't feel lucky, I feel guilty,
Because it's so close to home right now,
And it reminds you just how precarious life is,
How precious,
Yet how dictated by forces beyond our control.
My god, I am sorry for your loss.

I love travelling,
Journeying afar,
Not broadening my mind, per se,
But broadening my inner log of miles travelled,
Giving me stories to tell the friends I hope to have,
The friends I dream of as I sit alone in distant hotel rooms,
Ordering meals for one,
Praying for somebody to see me.

I try not to dread meeting you there,
But the harder I look in the mirror the less I want to leave.
I want to stay, make bread, howl at the moon,
Anything but face the one I've hurt,
And yet I know I'm coming for you.

But will you hurt me back?
Use this opportunity to surrender your own hurt,
And make peace by breaking mine?
I gave up that life so long ago,
But you're here, now, and that life is mine again.

How far do I go?
Far enough to gain the energy to run from you into the distance,
Or just to your door?
Who will be there?
You, them... God, us?
Will I find us there?

Are you hearing me?
I'm not sure I ever see me.
At moments like this words seem so very empty,
Ringing around the empty halls,
Bouncing off the walls,
Echoing my soul,
Killing me like the ghost I already am.