It isn't always little boxes,
you can ask who put the baby in the corner
but the only thing this one could muster up is-
Why is he there?
Did someone put him there to **** with me.
Should I kick the baby?
It's not holding any substance in my life,
so what keeps me from kicking that ******* baby.
Squint, breathe, think-
no.
No no no no.
Don't think, thinking leads to thinking
and thinking leads to more thinking
and those thoughts lead to these ones.

I'm out in public again clenching my hands,
tensing my shoulders until the veins
are the only uniformity I've come to know.
All eyes are on me
even if they're staring forward.
I assess every move I make
in each person's direction
in hopes it will not be a grenade in their wake.
In hopes these hands will not break them
or these thoughts will not harm them.

Aggression followed by paranoia
paranoia followed by over self-awareness.
Nothing makes stillness seem real anymore
is it even real anymore.
Why the **** am I like this?

Sometimes I hear voices in my head not my own.
They sound more like the people I know
The people I love telling me everything I hate
and somehow they get louder than my own thoughts.
Drown me, no drown them.
The bridge is the closest way to make their downfall
and maybe they could stop hating me
long enough for me to apologize to them
for these hands I hold in front of me too often.
These arms I flex, and this face that mimics just the same.
I start to wondering why I am apologizing in the first place-

Merely because I am existing-
****,
am I actually existing?
what if everything is made up into little boxes
and none of them in order
like my thoughts they are misplaced
misused and tampered until dismemberment
I have not agreed upon these terms and conditions
now I seem to be self depricating in the fine print
that no one ever reads
what if I'm signing my life away?

It isn't always little boxes
clean bathrooms
and the 21 times you rewashed your hands.
Sometimes it's big boxes,
trapped inside darkness
hearing nothing but your open wounds
yelling at you
telling you they will never heal
but the voices sound too familiar to not believe.
You try to run towards them,
but your feet are too insecure to step forward
your hands are clenching too tightly to stop the bleeding
you feel and you feel and you feel
the wounds they never heal.
your head never seems to heal
but you deal and you deal and you deal.

Mark the calendar for a date of death you're not sure is coming-
mark it for a life you're not sure you're living.

Know that when and if tomorrow comes
I will scream at the knock of my door
or if I accidentally knock over my drink
and spill out the milk
I have spent so much time trying not to cry over.
Seems I need it for cereal.
Seems I need this for survival.
Seems these thoughts aren't so bad after all-
seems they've made me not so bad after all
seems they've made her fall in love.

Mom, I wanted to tell you I love you
but all that came out was "Have you ever thought of the world in an existential sense to where we're not really here, but we are actually here. What if it was like the Truman Show?"
and I ramble and ramble and ramble.
But know I love you
sometimes words are hard to find
and if I take the time to write them
they are a canvas of their own.
They make sense of something
to someone other than me.

She looks at him with golden hues
and looks at the mess he had made
still seeing a canvas in his wake
waiting for him to break it
waiting for it to shatter into pieces-
knowing it will be
just as beautiful.