Am I the only one that has their demons feasting upon their souls?
They say it is easy to tie a noose around your mind,
To overcome the urges and temptations of ending your life with a suicide
They don't know the true pain and torment that is going on in my head
An epic battle that leaves me with restless nights in bed
"End your life already" they say, as they prey on me during my weakest hours
Sometimes I give into the voices, carrying the sharp blade to my wrist
Crying as I struggle to mutter three powerful words that keeps me going
Choking on my sobs, my lungs deflate with a desire to say that God loves me
I try to convince myself that God is trying to test my faith
And to just wait, wait and wait
Then my Demons will eventually go AWAY.....



~Imperfect Desire **

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

Balled and rolled
But never been told
What was once tied
Will set loose and die

I should stop being so ridiculously naive like that one time when I met a boy who bluntly admitted that he was too conceited and full of himself I didn't pay much attention to how true it was, thinking that he just wanted to impress me until it was too late. I got to him first. He became one of the cool kids. I was deserted.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive, believing that boys actually do fall for anything other than a fully made-up face, a heavy, talkative tongue with irrational words and meaningless sentences flooding out of lips, a ****-head with no thoughts of the universe, a statue with the appropriate body parts and long, shiny hair, and deceiving, shallow eyes.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because for once, I thought, that this other boy who had trouble talking to me might like me back. He second-thought handshakes, hellos, but never eye contact. And when our eyes met, I could've swore he felt it as well. I fumbled with actually speaking to him. I could never get him alone.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive that one time, my best friend was that same guy's best friend and laughed about how we should get married one day since we're the exact opposite. She said I was sweet and calm like an impending storm. She said you were reckless like a hurricane. But oh, if only she knew you were the reason behind my silenced grieving.

(Yet my heart shall do as I command, soon.)

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because I realized that the boys I'm most comfortable with and so close to are the ones I don't write poems about and give much thought to. I should stop writing poems about you. I should be neutral towards you.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and develop a solid personality and a loud opinion to stick with. I refuse to be a third wheel.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and find my own voice because no one is going to speak up for me.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and be thankful for the fact that there is no other me but me.

I'll fight one day at a time,
Face one demon each day.
Until I get by,
I'll fight one day at a time.

I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.

This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.

Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.

I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.

The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.

This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.

Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.

I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.

This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.

Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.