Death awaits
Beyond the gates,
Of the mortal walls that we call life.
The man that's there,
Gives an empty stare
And carries a heavy scythe.

An abstruse hand he lends
As he tends,
To be generous in this fateful gest.
The lost soul reaver,
The great bereaver
Who delivers your eternal rest.

Tricho-tillo-mania.
It rolls quite nicely off the tongue
Like the type of disease one with
Deep seated fears and complex facades
Would possess
When did this bad habit begin and form?
Has is always been silently lurking within this body?
Ready to pounce on any destructive opportunity
That would arise from my gut

Tricho-tillooooo-maniaaa.
I can overcome it, I know I can
Wait no, an hour went by and oh
Another pile of discarded hair on the floor
Again. And again.
If this luxurious mane of thick, dark hair is so
Admirable and wanted.
Why can I not stop plucking it from the very
Fibers of my skull’s skin?

Tricho-tillo-mania.
Keep it up and there will be naught
A single strand left on top of this girl’s head
My fingertips are aching and raw
Pleading with me to stop this
Nitpicking of these brown straws
Even as I type my nails
Scratch and burrow into my flesh
Pricking and prodding for what?
I wish I knew so I could tell you.

Trichotillomania.
Maybe my innermost desire
Is to rip this bruised skin and broken hair off my body
Until I am nothing more than a hot, ****** mess
Of congealed, dripping, internal organs
And a new case of polished, refined
Poreless, porcelain skin
and ruby- red sensual lips
Could **** me up and out of it
A perfect stranger would emerge
Free from my vice and sin.

Wake up. Half dazed. Another day. Once again.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Get Up. Clothes on. Down the stairs, eat the stale toast.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Get in car. Drive off to work. Fight the traffic. Make it on time.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Sit at desk. Hear complaints. Boss, not happy. Big shock.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Unfold the tuna sandwich, take a bite. Hear coworkers mull and gripe.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Fill the forms, do the inventory. Fall asleep at desk. Good God the Boredom.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Get in car. Drive back home. Take off those work clothes. Collapse on the couch.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Surf the web. Read the book. Watch the news.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Put on pajamas. Brush the teeth. Get in bed.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Always repeating….
What am I reaping?
Is this what I have to look forward to in life?
If this is true, dear Lord, take me so.
Your kingdom must be more fulfilling.

I suppose I have been too
Harsh and quick
To place all my grief and heartaches on your
Unfortunate shticks
No, we are both at fault for these
Burdens I bear
We were each other’s fixes
Simple as that
Equally to blame
I know that is fair.

A former lover stuck you
In a romantic rut
You needed healing and a worthy distraction
Guess I was good enough
I latched onto your affections
To ease this loneliness I had amassed
You would defer these depressive complexions.

Yes, we are equally to blame
For both of our pains
But make no mistake dear friend
I am not a strong believer in His doings but
Maybe we were meant to teach each other
A thing or two about more selfless love
And a greater realization.

The reality is
He won't seal your cuts
With all his sweet kisses,
He can't excavate
All the demons from your mind.

The reality is,
HIs hugs won't put
All your broken parts back together.
His texts won't make
Your entire day brighter.

Maybe his kisses
His hugs,
His texts
And his words
Can be a temporary fix.

But the reality is,
If he really loves you,
He'll make you fix yourself.