Some days, I wish I was deaf
I wish I couldn't hear
So that people could make their routine sounds
And my mind would stay clear

'Misophonia' they call it
It's driving me insane
A hum, a chew, a noise
Replaying in my brain

I can't abide people
Because they'll make a sound
And just like that my good mood
Crashes to the ground

Misophonia, they call it
Misophonia, I hate my ears
They pick up every single noise
I wish I couldn't hear

*Misophonia, literally “hatred of sound”, is a form of decreased sound tolerance. It is believed[1] to be a neurological disorder characterized by negative experiences resulting only from specific sounds, whether loud or soft.

misophonia is not getting angry when you hear people breathing or eating. misophonia is 'i'm supposed to feel
stronger because there's a scientific
reason behind all the pain clenched like a fist inside my own body, I'm
supposed to feel better.' that's what doctors say. but the answer is a long list of riddles the doctors can't
decode. 'we know why your heart is
breaking, but we don't know how to
stop it.' misophonia is the maximum number of pills I can hold without dropping any. it's the moment when my doctor says she won't allow me to go to a college more than two hours away. it's the effort to smash my own bones on cement just to drown out the sound of somebody talking about what they had for dinner. it's that autocorrect and spellcheck still don't  recognize it as a word. it's about hearing sounds so menacing and monumental that not a night goes by where they don't swallow me whole. it's the fear of leaving my house and hearing something bad. it's my hands not feeling like hands and everything I try to touch turning into snow. it's having to bring headphones everywhere in case I hear a word I hate. it's my doctor telling me with a sad look on her face that she'd be surprised if I make it to 45 years old. it's having to ask directors if any of my trigger words are in the script before I see a show. it's the knowledge that I'm a quickly ticking time bomb, that it gets worse over time. that I might wake up tomorrow morning not being able to stand the sound of my mother's voice. it's the fact that the most common result of misophonia is self harm but I've made it this far without it. it's my chest igniting every time I hear someone start to talk. (I'm sorry I can't marry you, I can't stand the sound of your voice in the morning). it's simple words that can cause my composure to break like a separation of continents, like all that hurt never meant anything. years of wishing, on my knees, that I was deaf so I could skip the chapters when my whole body feels like a slowly melting candle, like I'm not allowed to be afraid of fire. it's in 9th grade when the bell rang to go home and I was sitting in the back row of English class with my fingers pressed so far into my ears they popped, trembling, until Mrs Gitsis asked someone to take me to the counseling centre. it's not 'ew, I hate the sound of people chewing.' do you lose sleep because the reverberations of that sound won't leave your head? do you have to lock the windows on your second floor to feel safe? it's having to wear gloves in 90 degree weather because I can't see my hands without them. it's waking up at 3am to arms that turn into stumps, unable to go get help because the sound of footsteps makes me want to die. it's reaching for a knife every time somebody says a common word. misophonia is being taken out of school because I can't sit with other kids in the cafeteria. it's hearing clapping after a show that's supposed to be for me transforming into screeching metal tires reverberating around my skull at frequencies i didn't know were possible. it's feeling every nerve ending in my body start to tingle seconds before someone says a trigger word, like god feels bad for all he's done so far and he's trying to send me a sign. it's the fact that most therapists haven't even heard of it. it's the fact that the ones who have don't know a cure. it's that there is no cure. it's when all someone has to do is repeat sentences, words, and phrases they know will break me. it's when my second therapist told me I was making it up. it's when my parents told me I just wanted to boss people around. it's when I started not being able to eat dinner with my family anymore. it's growing up in a household with a parent affected by serious OCD who has to vacuum 24/7 but I can't hear a vacuum or else I'll try to see my pulse from the inside. it's the sadness and anger that clenches itself around my heart like a fist until I feel like the dust I was created from. it's when something as simple as the sound of a drawer closing makes me wish I were dead. it's the knowledge that one day I won't be able to handle feeling like an abandoned building and the volcano inside of my head will erupt. it's the knowledge that I can't get help. I can't ever get help.

Let me start from the beginning

It is an awful feeling to have to plug your ears and drown out the ocean of noises choking you to have a good meal.

When I say that I can't stand it when I hear you eat
What I really mean is that when you drink
I imagine slugs slopping their way down your gullet
And the sigh of refreshment means the acid has successfully shriveled them to death

The sound of carrots being pulzerized is akin to bones
Every time it is a cacaphony of dinner knives screeching against ribs
It may sound silly but when the saliva transfers with the gum you insist on smacking
Every ounce of fluid in my body wishes it could jump through my skin to the floor

I can't ask you to quit swallowing food
Though every drop that doesn't make it down
Is a reminder that humans are animals
Consuming flesh and constructed chemicals

No, I know you won't take me seriously
But spoons and knives are toys of the glutton
And poison to the one that shed tears
When they hear the dinner bell ring

apathy
sometimes
i can't bring myself to care
how you feel
because i don't
sometimes i just like watching
extreme emotions
does that make me a sadist?
i go through periods of extreme emotion
and periods of no feeling at all
often times it just depends on
the time of the month
but mostly i feel nothing
and sometimes that's terrible
it's never effective when it's convenient for me
it comes and goes
at it's will
apathy
sometimes i beg
just to feel something at all
void
and then the littlest of emotions
seems extreme
sometimes
i argue with you
even though i don't care
because i know anybody else would be angry
maybe i'm ******* up
misophonia
the sound of chewing
or breathing loud
brings out
spurts of emotion
cringe
glare
angry
but usually
there's nothing
so when i do feel
it's overwhelming
crying is a big deal
sometimes i can make myself
cry
sometimes i pretend to feel
apathy
but only when i'm actually thinking
mindlessly reading
or watching a movie
emotions on the page
or on the screen
i can suddenly feel again

Chronically
Ironically
It seems to be
All fallacies
Of things to be
That I'll never get the chance to see.

Jive and jeer
Laugh and sneer
A cough, a wheeze
Laughing at me
And all my pleas
I know in truth I'll never be free

But to clarify, don't let vague by, description of the fallen
Every molecule I'm made of has an infection, a problem.

Is it in my brain, I wonder?
Because even I'm afraid to check.
You've seen my anger, my fury
And my graphic imaginings of death.
And the jealousy that festers
And the perversions that I flaunt
And the lengths I would go
Simply to get what I want.

I've spoken of Misophonia
(God, I hate my ears)
I've explained how every sound
Causes abject anger or fear.
I've talked of how my brain
Just doesn't understand
A single 'trigger' noise and
I've either screamed or ran.

I've discussed my depression
I've described why and how I cut
I explained that my Heart wants blood
Though my Brain screams 'Enough'
I've mentioned my memory lapses
That are no longer quite selective
How the line of my memories aren't
Sequential; aren't consecutive.

I've written and erased just how lonely I am
I've written of tears through tears
I've written of hurt and of love
And even hope, or maybe fear.
I've written my family whom I hate to love
I've written my desire to be owned and kept
I've written my straying from beliefs and religion
I've written ****-themes of what has and hasn't happened yet

I've written my thoughts: why was my life like this?
I've written my thoughts: can I be someone else?
I've written my thoughts: can you change my colour?
I've written my thoughts: why wasn't I born male?
I've typed my heart: someone somewhere is gonna love you.
I've typed my soul: no one needs to see it.
I've typed my mind: you're useless, ugly, crass
I've typed the facts: I'm a *******.

And that's only a fraction of my brain.
Only a portion of what hurts.
That's only a taste of what makes me insane.
A glimpse of a wasteland of dust and dirt.
We'll go no farther there, not today
We've much more to explore.
It's not safe in my brain at all
But, perhaps later, we'll see more.

Now the problem could lie on my skin.
That's riddled with scars and life.
My skin that tells a story
Of pain, of hate, of strife.
My skin, god I always hated it
The color, the scarring, the texture
There's not a **** thing about it
That doesn't make me feel lesser.

My skin, you don't understand
My skin makes me, me.
My skin, you don't comprehend!
Color is all you see.
I was raised to be wary
Of everything, alive or dead
But skin was the selling point
I was the monster under my bed.

My skin explains stories
I never thought to tell
My skin holds trauma
In every atom, every cell
My skin is calloused
From scars and hurt and work
Like an ever-present melody
It's driving me berserk.

But the problem may be in my organs
Perhaps inside my lungs.
I remember at thirteen I felt trauma
And almost picked up and fired a gun.
But instead I chose a lighter and
A stick filled with cancer
Instead I ****** up my voice
Just so I wouldn't remember.

Maybe it's in my heart
With its irregular beating
And the constant stress
Chilling and overheating.
The unending adrenaline
The paranoia never stops
The suicide attempts
I'm sure my heart's about to pop.

And yet I may never know
There's too many issues
Every molecule I own
Needs to be made anew.
This was a checkup
And a shoddy one at best
But should I ever go in-depth
I'll write it all, I'll write the rest.

I've never been good at poker
But me and Life played a game
I pulled a horrid, useless hand
And lost every penny to my name

The consequences were harsh
Life gave me them with a smile
With very little to work with
To overcome the trials

Life gave me keloid scars
Life gave me misophonia
Life gave me depression
Life gave me paranoia

And panic attacks
And a fear of love
(And a huge nose
As if I hadn't had enough)

And I'm meant to accept my "spoils"
From a horrid poker game
And spend years of my life
Pretending I'm okay

I'm supposed to laugh
And have a smile on my face
But what emotion should I show
When the audience walks away?

I'm supposed to do this
Without being too fake
But how can one be genuine
While wearing the facades they make?

So when others ask why I'm suicidal
When they ask why I find everything bland
When they try to fix my apathy
I just tell them "I drew a bad hand"

If my head isn't right
How can I be wrong?
Shut in a box
Where I don't belong

I can't stand the tapping
The meaningless screeching
Surrounded by sanity
The walls you are breaching

Strike up the meltdown
Straight from the source
One pull of the trigger
Blows away my remorse

So far from deaf
I can't stand the noise
One little cough
Infects all my joys

One after another
You hit every peeve
The repetetive nature
Me fighting to leave

Each piercing noise
Day after day
Drowning in silence
With so much to say

By Arcassin Burnham

"Just another black boy with an half eaten cheese burger
On his bed, I pray the Lord will let me lay here",

The sun is out today also due to the troubled earth,
Life is getting shorter so you better know your Worth,
Death is inevitable to escape when it occurs,
Fears for the lucky ones that really roam the dirt,
B-i-r-d , you'd swear that it's the word,
Will it fly East or West in hopes one day to return,
You want to get right with him and not get burned,
Hope you got enough courage in your tank just to swerve,
Don't be a vamp all your life wishing hell for grace,
You want death in a hard cover , 29 is the page,
And I'll ignore every smart remarks and comments that you say,
The ripples in the water cools but slowly will age,
When you find freedom , memories will all fade,
But when you find paradise it's more than just a trace,
It's more than just a trace,
I hope to get there one day,


/

I could feel stress on your meter,
You're planning your long nights to see her,
If that's what makes you happy boy,
I hope she'll be the teacher,
My days in this life is long gone,
Sometimes I don't know what I do wrong,
To find me a shorter supply for this world will divide,
Have been alive for this long,
To know that I'm living a lie,
The purpose I'm chasing is solidified,
I could look for a good reason,
To raise a family without suicide,
Or passed on mental illnesses that'll ruin friendships in the
Flash of lightning,
Might have locations you could never find me,
I was looking for a way right now to get my weight up,
And conquer the scarring agony of misophonia,
So I'm done with ya,
No time to make friends , I believe in the God we trust,
I wanna get it back to the way it was...

I could feel stress on your meter,
You're planning your long nights to see her,
If that's what makes you happy boy,
I hope she'll be the teacher,
They use to say our skin was our sin,
And now we dress good for the black out....
A certain ability we won't lack now.

Certain sounds used to bother me.

Human noises like people breathing drove me crazy – it didn’t have to be a wheeze, a rasp or a rattle. It remained a battle to ignore the everyday sound of normal breathing, indecipherable, barely a decibel.

Another peeve, of course, was people eating, the cacophony of masticating – I flinched as I heard them chomp, crunch, chew, and munch. I recoiled in distaste as they audibly swallowed their lunch.

I didn’t understand why I found the innocent sound of a faucet dripping so irritating. I felt like a monster because I couldn’t control the flash of anger when I heard someone drumming their fingers, tapping their feet.

One word saved me from the lunacy of self-loathing – misophonia – a name for my malady.

I don’t know what it is about labels that turns your torments into traits. Labels are the leash you use to control your troubles. Ever since I discovered I am misophonic, mundane sounds, while still annoying, no longer overwhelm me.

The vagabond will come to you in the bruised black of night so keep an angel close by to reverse the collision in your digestive track. The voice will penetrate your outline, jagged starry sounds from a drooling unhinged jaw talking about something that resembles a spiritual awakening. You will become septic with acid blood, tears running down your neck, attempting to count the visions, pointing with seared fingertips. The first to die from misophonia.
Lock your door.