Just a second ago
I cut my own risks
And watched myself slip around
In a pool of acquiescence

Tell me why the air feels thick,
Tell me why the trees seem to be crowding me,
Tell me why the floor is spinning,
Tell me why I can't breathe.

It's as though the air in my lungs has turned to liquid,
Like the oxygen in my blood is poison,
Like my breath is stagnant and stale,
Like there's to much wind for the sky.

The trees have moved closer together,
And no light can get through the leaves,
The road is dark and I can't find my way home,
And the air is too thick to breathe.

My anxiety makes the air in my lungs feel wrong,
Makes the shadows in the trees look worse than they seem,
Makes dark streets full of monsters,
Makes is hard for me to breathe.

Someone please tell me,
Why the air feels too thick,
And the trees are crowding around me.

Someone please tell me why I can't breathe.

So paralyzed by my own self hatred
I can't even feel the bugs crawling across my skin
I want them to eat me alive so I become one with the earth,
Because I don't belong here as a person

I heard the train, and I ran.
Desperate to make it to the tracks before it passed.
Is there a way to pass this as an accident?
I'm desperate to die as the positive, loving person people think I am.
And die to make up for the mistakes I've made and people I've hurt.
Here I am, I hear it near.
I'm gripped by fear that someone will figure out it was self inflicted.
It passes and I break.
So ashamed of who I am, with the knowledge that only I can change it.
And I gave up on myself years ago.
Never really gave it 100%
I regret it now, as I carry myself back to the world.
A cloud over my head.
I will smile as people greet me and compliment me.
But I am a tortured devil that one day, won't be scared of being viewed as a coward, and I will run into the train with a heart finally full of happiness.

mum asks
why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?

mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see

poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings

mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind

and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece

mum asks

I don't reply.