My favorite time of the day lately
Is when everyone else in the house is sleeping.
This is my alone time.
Laying in my cocoon of warm blankets
I take in the silence
My mantra ensues

This is my time
And no one can take it from me.

I get lost in daydreams that fade into real dreams.
And as I hit snooze on my alarm the mantra continues

These next 10 minutes are mine and mine alone.
I am safe in my cocoon and I am safe in this room.
Hold on to this feeling of calm.
The day will pass at times constant speed.
No one can change that no matter how it feels.
This is my time
No one can take it from me.

For weeks, all I wanted was to paint.
It felt like the solution
to nothing in particular,
to particularly everything.
The easel collects dust in the corner of my room now.
An empty canvas rests upon it, mocking me
for thinking I had an easy way out.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

Existence is shimmering through
A litany of souls,
Ever-bustling and occupied.
The greys blur and blend,
Drowning in an ocean
Without saturation or warmth.
Colors wilt as the petals of a rose,
Perception compromised
Under the spell of deep grief.
Frost creeping up the frame
Like icy fingers
To announce impending frostbite.
And in the vast expanse
Of ever growing darkness
There is a glimmer of life
A sign of hope
Dig
Climb
Run
Jump
Do anything you can to feed that hope
By any means possible
Escape that place

no
i will not do you
any favors

my words
will not mold
to your reasoning

thoughts
from one mind
do not adjust
to another

and mine
are built
in concrete

if you don't
understand
then you are simply
not meant to

and that
is the beauty
of poetry