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I don't know why I can't, seem to find happiness for myself
I've tried so hard to love
But I always push away
Afraid to get attached
It hurts deep inside, feels like I'm dyin'
But I mask my feelings
Pretend to be happy all the time
I'd give anything to be content
**** I hate this feeling
The dread inside
Drives me to suicide
And I don't wanna let you go
So the only way is to die
I'll dig my own grave tonight
Burry myself
Then I'll be free from the thoughts inside
Break ups are hard, but writing helps
Sometimes I wonder
If those who've never experienced the grueling lows of depression
Truly experience the moment
When the sun catches your soul in just the right way
And you finally feel warmth in your bones.
CAL 6d
except in pictures
ladder rung scars
blonde and black and back to
acne scars
tongue rings

human

beautiful

gone

nothing gold can stay
and no one bold will either
the path less taken
and help left unrecieved

never again

i didn't really ever have a mom
she didn't know me

but maybe i should've tried
or done more

a piece of rope ate my mother
like jaws of a beast

if her monsters took her
what about the monsters she gave me
how to reconnect with your estranged brothers and family: have your mother die
My emotions are like water
Pouring out of a faucet
They sometimes are
Too hot
Too cold
Too much
Too little
And sometimes, they stop altogether
I'm surprisingly still alive! This is a quick one I thought up. I've been songwriting a lot recently.
Poor Steve Cash decided that he wanted to die.
When we lose a good person, we always ask why.
He made "Talking Kitty Cat" videos and that was great.
But when he took his life, it was something we would hate.
Steve suffered from a mental disorder and it was a terrible ordeal.
He was Bipolar and I'm paranoid Schizophrenic, I know what it's like to be mentally ill.
When poor Steve took his own life, his fans sure didn't love it.
If I could've talked to him, maybe I could've talked him out of it.
I would've told Steve that life is worth living even if a person is mentally ill.
If you have a mental disorder, I know what you're going through and how you feel.
DEDICATED TO STEVE CASH (1979-2020) WHO TOOK HIS OWN LIFE ON APRIL 16, 2020.
Back and forth,
What am I worth,
My brain tells me not much,
Maybe you can cure it with a touch,

If they want you, you'll feel better,
Just let them take off your sweater,
Let them rip away your skin and flesh,
Until your damaged soul is all that's left,

Kiss me harder, make me feel something, anything at all,
This numbness is written all over me like graffiti on a wall,
I will give myself up, my body,
Isn't that what you want,
And then you'll walk all over me and away from me,
All nonchalant,

The highs don't help me outrun the lows,
Impulsive decisions are always in tow,
Who am I,
The party girl or the sad one,
Maybe both,
I feel everything and then I feel numb,

Please doctor tell me what to do,
Because I don't know what is true,
I'm in a constant tug of war,
I'm either a hype or more of a bore,
How do I stop these wolves inside,
Because I'm tired of fighting for my life.
Bee Burnett May 17
Her body lights up,
every nerve and fibre of being shiver.
A caffeinated corpse.
Highs and lows intertwine like lovers lips,
They marry a blue flame, scorching under skin.
Unfulfilling desires creep under her temples.
Give in-
it serenades softly as she sinks into her seat.
Heels burrow into dirt in attempts to ground the soaring impulses.
She is possessed by this heat.

My flame flickers,
Put your hand in your knickers.
My inferno insists,
Slice your wrist.
My blaze bellows,
Substances mellow!

When the wick wears thin, down cools her skin.
Like the sea crashing into cove, she sinks into deep blue,
An icy numb hollows her chest,
Laced with convoluted breath.
Freighted by the weight of a heavy heart, she sighs as tears linger in her eye.

The cold is calling,
I feel myself falling.
I wrote this about what I experience during a manic episode and the adrenaline rush and impulses.
Our world decided to reopen.
A deadly pandemic polarizing its people.
A dollar bill weighed against a heartbeat.
You’d be surprised what we value.

But what about me?
The inner alarm on a continuous loop.
Shouting in shame.
My plague has no cure.

“Isolation” and “shelter in place” are household terms
for those under the weight of depression.
We are jealous of the cardinal that sweeps past our window,
the elderly man who waves from the street.

Freedom.
To rise each day with an appreciation for life.
To be touched by another.
To fall in love with yourself and someone else.

But today, I cannot.
Today, my eyes stare out the window.
A celebration of “opening back up.”
One day, I wish to join them.
How those that are depressed feel during this pandemic. Maybe. Maybe just me?
It seems like a free fall, really.
Like when you are 12.
On a roller coaster, topping the first drop.
Veroomph!
Your face contorts itself into disfigured smirks and smiles.
You don’t control the expressions. They just happen.

And, so it is in death.
It’s a free fall.
A letting go of all restraints.
The tension and tears rip away like a massive band aid.
To say you aren’t scared would be a lie.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The graduation of height opens the landscape.
You suddenly see the world from above.
Everything. Everyone is a microscopic version of themselves.

And then it pauses. The ride.
Your life.
Waits. “One Mississippi…two Mississippi…”
It’s not an open invitation to get off, mind you.
You’ve purchased the ticket. A price has been paid.

So, with a slight hesitation, you calm yourself.
You settle into the seat.
Stare at the birds.
Lift your hands to heaven.
Silence. Silence.
The world makes a picture for you.
But, you are no longer in the frame.
Trigger warning. Reflection upon those that can identify having such feelings.
A silent shriek,
morning hues of red and orange glitter through the pines.
Shadows form across the bedroom floor.

His vocal chords strain to be heard
above the laughter of the lilies.
Thrusting to and fro in a synchronized stance
they’d been practicing since the first of May.

An ominous cloud crosses over the heat source,
calling into question the events of the day.
Rays or rain?
A quarter, spinning and twisting in slow motion,
heads or tails?
The stakes are high.

Mr. Anthony, my neighbor of two decades,
rounds the corner of Dibbens Street.
Completing his morning trek pass the Weeping Willows,
he pauses to look in my window.
Pauses.
Does he see? Can he possibly know?

Heads or tails?
And for today, the decision is made for me.
I decide to stand.
To repeat it all over again, tomorrow.
An honest reflection, although scary, carrying hope for another day. Opportunity for faith to cancel out fear.
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