******.
In so many ways,
in every sense of the word.
******.
In the head,
by my parents,
by own personal vortex of self-pity and self-hate.

Red and black spots cloud my vision
when you slap me
with your words.
You tie ropes around my hands,
my chest,
my neck,
when you run around my questions,
dodging and ducking.
I can't breathe, and you wont ******* Listen.
Because you're right. You're always right.
You spin and spiral in your roundabout conversations,
but you can't see the Gaping Hole in the center of the tangle of
things you just said.
But I can.
You're blind to it, and I feel sorry for you.
I do.
You believe your own lies.
"I just let her do her own thing...shes in control of that".
No, No She's Not.
No, No She's Not.
She doesn't feel like she's in control of anything.
Can't you see that?
How can you not see that?
Don't act like you were blindsided by my spiraling,
falling
down
        down
                down.
You knew,
and you chose not to act.
You Knew,
but you decided that it would be more uncomfortable for you
for you if you brought it up.
So you didn't.
and look what happened.
You knew.
You knew

And I promise this isn't just a tale of a wistful teenager,
an, "oh woe is me", type of thing.
Because I'm angry,
so angry,
and the only way I know how to let it out
is by pressing the big red SELF DESTRUCT button
right above my bed [really right above my head, and it wont go away].
But You Don't Understand.
You don't know why I do the things that I do, and for me to explain it to you would break your heart.

Let the leash out, mom, a little bit.
I'm suffocating,
I can't breathe,
I Feel ******* Crazy.
You have to let me go so I can come back,
back in my own time.
Let me heal Alone.
Leave Me Alone.
leave me alone.

on the steps of the notre dame
i lost my sense of color
every moonbeam through the
cracked walls of the House of God
danced around me like blue gypsies
performing a ritual upon
every ringlet of hair on my head

in the catacombs of paris
i lost my sense of touch
every skull feeling like silk
dead calcium caressing
the flesh beneath which
my bones were moving
alive and restless

beneath the arc de triomphe
i lost myself
the curve of stone caving in on me
like a Parisian Goliath
and I, a madman David
names of fallen soldiers
engraved upon the walls
breathed back to life
from dust they have returned
they reach into my cerebrum
their stone fingers pulsing
with the hymnals of war
to meet with the battle
of indigos and crimsons coursing
through every nerve of my anatomy

behind the eiffel tower
i lost my art
paris lights beating down
a beast sleeping through the
tides of eulogies and odes
its orphans have to offer

in a cathedral of my own making
i am dust basked in sun light
with hands stretched out
to love the pillars
that have held me up
when the stained glass windows
were celebrated for the
light they let in
and the most divine part of me
the cracks of my temple at
the bottom of my spine were
left to widen like horizons
begging to be spread farther
were left like myths untold
but all the stories are true
and the smallest parts of me
are not fables and myths
left to keep your imagination
alive and you afloat
the smallest parts of me
are particles that have
held me up longer
than you have
and i may be alone
just as many of us are
but who has time to
count a star
when astronomers count
galaxies on the tips of their fingers
and i am but an atom of the universe
just as we all are

I will stay
until I'm dismissed
and will walk beside her
through the dark thicket
and sunlit meadow
I will cut my hands
to retrieve roses for her
I will give her all of my unbroken pieces
and nurture what little she has left
I will carry her when she hurts too much to walk
and I will leave her side when she wants silence
but I will stay
until I'm dismissed
until I breath my last breath
until she falls into the wildflowers
until my reflection fades from her eyes
until my face no longer drives her imagination
until she hates me for loving her
until we walk no more in the woods
until I fall over her
broken and empty
where she rests

luster of life is pale.
there are just demonic  fables.
faint songs
humming with deep notes
The cry of a phoenix
mountains tremble
with fear of men

There was a time when I sought comfort sleeping through the storm..
But now I lay awake listening to the howling winds outside my window and feel a morose sympathy towards its agonizing call
As if, it too is out there searching for some kind of peace
An aching reminder of a more tranquil time.

If God made man, in
His own image; he must be
A schizophrenic.