I need help
so I yell and I scream at them
until my lungs give up
and my heart gives out.
silently wishing, hoping
they’ll understand that
I’m not a terrible person.
I’m just hurting

I need help
so I etch the pain into my skin
pleading, begging, praying
for someone to notice the glaring welts

I need help
so I skip one meal
then three
make a chart for the weights
and the calories
waiting to reach the impossible goal

I need help
but I shake in my seat
suffocating in my own lungs
tumbling out of control
I grip my seat so tight my knuckles turn white
wait until
my breath hitches,
my breathing stops

I will never
hide
my story.
perhaps
a warning,
or a precaution of what not
to do.
but frankly,
I wouldn’t change much.
It really did make me stronger.
allowed me more empathy,
let me see
into a little
bit of horror
others go through.

don’t you dare
judge scars,
be grateful
you’ve been
trusted
with their
story.

I sit
in silence
but never
is it silent
when you live in
my head.

Thoughts will
always
flash by,
like a race car
in a thundering
arena.

They don’t
just leave
though.

My head is a
Venus fly trap
for ‘bad’ thoughts.

It latches
on.

Some people try
and say
to be grateful
for all of the
opportunities
the thoughts give me.

They say I’m
creative.

That’s not
the right word
though.

Creative is too bright,
too chipper.

Wild imagination,
another common one.

It’s better,
to an extent.

But what no one
can seem to think of
is struggling.

It’s not
that it’s hard
to think of.

They’re just
scared.

It’s okay,
I understand.

I’m scared too.

She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist

i want to leave not because
the world is too much,
but i am.
dancing in the sunshine,
singing in the rain,
smiling as if my life is brilliant.
my outside life if pretty perfect,
but the inside is rusty.
too many cracks and snags,
too many broken pipes, fractured beams
to be useful
anymore.
you wouldn’t use a vase that can’t hold water,
so why use a life that can’t hold joy?

what a blessing for a writer,
to suffer.

adds validity,
better to speak
from experience
than imagination.
see, fiction writers
write to escape.
us poets?
we write
to release.

ink allows us
to bleed
onto
perfect plain paper pages,
our true canvas.
a ‘healthier’
way
to bleed.

perhaps
it’s because
they don’t see
the wounds words leave.
never experienced
that punch to the
gut, i’m sure,
from
one
single
line.

does that make them lucky?
i’m unsure.
perhaps it suggests
they’ve never
been that
misunderstood,
neglected,
lonely,
as to where words
are their only friends.
on the other hand,
they’ve never known
the pure
bliss
that is
understanding.
sweet, sour
relief.

those of us
that have experienced
it,
we long to feel it
again.
so we write,
to understand ourselves,
and hopefully,
help others do the same.

eyes don’t lie,
but they’re shockingly
easy to miss.
glass irises got unnoticed,
bloodshot pupil silenced.
our eyes pretend
to be
omniscient,
so why
don’t
they
notice