I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
waisted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.

I step in the shower
It feels like it's been hours
Since I turned the faucet on
but the transition makes me pause

I push the curtain to either side,
Making sure it lines the walls,
Spills are something I avoid
Then I can face the waterfall

It surrounds my every fiber
I start to feel like it's a part of me
I connect with my body,
Closing my eyes and remembering

But a loud noise startles me
I hate the anger I feel,
Every sound, crash, clang that's made
It rattles through me

And suddenly I have to face reality,
Reminding myself of who I am
I'm no longer seven or twelve,
I'm an adult in a safe house

The water covers me as I realize I sat down
Sometimes it's easier to find comfort on the ground
I get up and am covered in bubbles
It's nice to zone out and forget my troubles

A paper thin film boils over a white lake
A black fog in the middle
It’s sort of grey
My eyes are peeling back

The red vines beneath ache
Tugging for attention
I no longer seek

Pours are poor for crows that beneath
Break when I smirk
Upon my face

The red vines inside me rip
A privileged date

Blind but noticed
I no longer seek

Slipping beneath this

Thin
White
Lake

Blackness is here but
I hold my breath
Swimming down into a deeper depth
A paper thin film over my thoughts
Remaining my own
I keep them in the dark

~J.B.

thick swirling clouds
of black and rotten thoughts
that plague me
how they cry
when I am weary
no soul should feel so
crowded
no heat should carry this
burden
when the song in me has died
and the glass slips
from betwix my fingers
warm and weary
the sand shall weep
and so shall you
for the  time is up
and the lights are off
no one is home
inside me

I feel the shadows
running in to greet me
I feel me, my skin and bones
And growing old
I wonder
If this was ever real
I ponder
On why I was ever here
So tell me, will you play my game?
Cause I'm often sure that what I play
Is result of a dissociated state

There's this wire I keep tripping on
the string that lays parallel to current divisions of reality
a plane of moments
strategizing time fragments that correlate with the general population
but keeps me cloaked behind a veil of
they call it
dissociated
the illusion that I cannot fully connect
my atoms don't seem to just align properly with the whirling visions around me
and I slip into the seconds of grandiose prophecies
consumed with the mentality that I will never be enough
that my moments will never really
quite line up.