It's amazing,
How when one is down in the dumps
one finds melancholy in everything
Like the simple sound of water as it collects in the porcelain sink

Stark loneliness like razor blades licking the flesh
The piercing silence once cherished becomes unbearable
Sometimes all a human needs is the sound of another person flipping pages in the next room

No trace of the morning's lucidity
Or serenity

Like clockwork the numbing ensues

The perennial rain complements the lingering depression
And so does the black hoodie on my back.

That hospital gown really
brings out your hazel eyes, baby
Your crippling self-loathing
Affinity for Alcohol abuse
And drug dependency
Make you so magnetic
Girls do love a troubled twenty-something

Those dilated pupils  must really  pull them into your merry go round of calamitous habit  
Leading to nowhere at three hundred kilometres per hour.

The only grip you have is on that bottle of two dollar brandy
Desperately scratching away at your epidermis
Puffing cigarettes as though your sanity and  life depend on it

Voluntary admission at the place of rehabilitation
The third attempt to mend your broken self
And purify your soul
Knocking at death's door
This time it will be different, you say
No one is holding their breath.

My dear mother managed to reel me into the mandatory pre-christmas cleaning
Which drives me wildly insane
Rearranging cutlery and scouring the sink is not my ideal way of spending a Wednesday morning
I could think of worse things to have been engaged in
but this wretched activity is way up there.

In all honesty my mother's (bless her) kitchen qualifies to be on an episode of Hoarders

Depleted from obsessively dusting off countertops
I sat down sipping my green tea
Watching her take on the rearranging of the pots in the dreaded corner cupboard
Chucking out the old
Indecisive when it came to some
When the job was done
The space left was aplenty
Seeing the rusted pots and charred pans to be thrown in the trash
Then it hit me
If one harbours filth, negativity or the past
Newer and better things have no space to make their way into and settle in one's life
Re-birthing is only possible if one completely purges that which deters them from metamorphosising.

The tumultous pull of religion versus the heart
Religion dictates actions sometimes at the forefront and most times in the background
Residuum of beliefs
I was raised in are forever present
You cannot simply  forsake what you know no matter how stifling it is
My faith is paper thin
Like an exterior skin I wore
It is sliding off me
And I lay bare exposing my authentic self

A hybrid
A product of both sides
To truly be free cut me
right in two
Perhaps I will win
this tug of war between two worlds
In the midst of confusion
Both sides pulling me in the opposite directions

Asphyxiating in this  cardboard box of conformity
I was never sold to their ism to begin with
Sick of pretending
Squeezing myself into a jar of good behaviour
A sticker on my forehead
For being an obedient girl

The rigid rules of the little black book are weighing me down
I still believe, I do
The rope....  needs more slack

Faith latches on and never leaves
but
My heart speaks louder.

You can take your approval
And shove it where the sun don't shine
Weary of running on your hamster wheel of validation waiting to be fed tiny morsels of **** all at irregular intervals, when you see fit
No more waiting anxiously for the faint green light
Or the half arsed thumps up
Before proceeding with any course of action
Who the hell do you think you are?

Please get off your highly horse or I swear I'll shove you off it myself

Treading on egg shells around you everyday  for 8030 days
Today I choose to stomp on them
Repeatedly
Go ahead and blow your lid off
Master of savage rows
See if I care

Remember how 3 years ago you uttered your vile sentiments
What was is it again?
I would never excel in my studies
Those words reverberated in my head in each and every examination I wrote
In my rage and pursuit to prove you wrong
I prevailed

Thank you for lacking belief in me and the negativity I guess
Narcissist assoholic.

Not much observation is required
To recognise that the only thing epic about her is her sadness
Which she wears well
Like a snug cardigan
Severe disregard for life varied with an intense desire to thrive not just survive
A tragic paradox

Her repetitive nature is aggravating
All who have listened have, absorbedly
Offered advice which she blatantly declined to take
The saga is getting old and tiresome
They tell her to see the light, curse the dark, and the shadows that  hover over her
They expect their words to make all the difference
And she would skip away with a smile and new found appreciation for life and all it has to offer

Riddled with guilt
She feels accountable for the pain inflicted on others by her actions
Harbouring the guilt that eats and never dies
Forever harbouring the guilt

A desperate "poet"
Finding tranquility from linking words
To form sentences, a poem
To express and create some form of art
Seeking ecstasy
Through purging of emotions

A confused little girl
Who is not so little anymore
The years are violently adding up
Though young
The sand through the hour glass is running out
Growth of the self stunted by sickness of the mind
Ricocheting from the remainder of classic teen-angst to the inevitable adult crash

All of the achievements
Do not mean anything if she cannot feel it
Looking at pictures that hang above the fire place
Her teeth indicate she is smiling
Her eyes do not
Vacant
She is not really here
She could be anywhere