Held deep inside my gut, it chokes but not quite
It’s more like a firm pressure, I can’t place it
It’s like having your head underwater, in a pool
But not in a warm feeling, in a way that makes me feel like a fool
It’s like drowning, drowning in the silence of my own words
The quietness and stillness of my bedroom once brought comfort
Now it irks me along with the little things that **** me off
“It’s fine”, I say over and over again to the same old tune, masking it with a cough
But only I know how the multiple scenarios play into my head.
“It’s fine” are the words that tumble out of my mouth as I yell at myself
I figure that ‘it’s fine’ becomes a mere escape to the mess in my head
Those same words ring out like a broken radio, even if I imagine what would happen
What would be everyone’s reaction if I let out those drowning words?
Head up in the air, that’s the only way I can try to hold myself up not to drown
Sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep,
It ends with the same old conflict.
A pair of squeezing hands, I shout them to stop
I can’t breathe, my own words die on my tongue
With watery eyes, my surroundings fade
But something grounds me– something I can’t name to keep me brave
“Nobody is coming to save you, so get up” rings softly.
The pressure lifts, it leaves a scar but I can’t breathe
It was never the water that made me feel like drowning
Nor that nagging pressure on my throat that made me feel like dying
All along, I was dying by my own unsaid words
Who came from my heart, was directed in a scenario to my brain, but died slashed mercilessly on the sharp blade of my tongue.
Alexithymia, the inability to describe emotions in a verbal manner
Maybe that’s why my fingers have etches of endless typing, I let myself choke on my own words
The winner is never the heart or mind, but the spilt invisible blood of my killed words
And the loud screeching of my own soul
Maybe that’s why they say poets sit in darkness and warm their solitude with their own sweet sounds.
Because they are a clump of words of what was left unsaid but never quite left.
But even then, I know I’ll always nearly drown in my unsaid words
And spit them out in a clump later in what poetry is formed.

I saw a fox just past the gate,
her eyes like dust, her breath like steam.
She didn't run, just watched me there,
half in the world, half in a dream.

Her coat was stitched with falling leaves,
the kind that never touch the ground.
I took a step, she took a breath,
then vanished without making a sound.

They say the wild won't wait for you,
it teaches fast, and leaves you slow.
But still I stand where foxes go-
too scared to chase,
too old not to.

Some have fear
of the dark.
Some have fear
of loss.
Some have fear of
having fear.
Some have fear
of people.
But I have fear of
myself.

there is peace to be found in stillness,
watching life play out from a distance
like a belated guest that joined halfway through,
like none of this pain belongs to you
and you could stand up and walk away
anytime if you wished to.
when you see yourself on the screen, does it move you?
do you want to step in and interrupt it,
knowing exactly what's going to happen?
of course, you can always edit it later
before it gets sent to storage,
before you decide which one you like better.
for you are the viewer and the director,
making commentary on your own lack of skill;
an omnipotent deity, if you will.
now that's a comparison you could get behind,
but it's all taking place inside of your mind
and the next scene's coming up soon.
it's a shame you've missed on so much of the plot
worrying about small mistakes.
now you know that nobody else seems to care,
so just take a seat and enjoy the view
like none of those fears belong to you,
watching life reveal itself in the distance.
there is hope to be found in stillness.

Sometimes,
My mind,
Decides,
To scare me.
Feeling,
Indifferent,
All-consuming,
Apathy.

My kindness is simply my atonement for my shame.

My goodness only exists to hide my selfishness.

You aren’t your thoughts, I know,

But why do I feel them inside of me?

Why are they crawling,

Dragging through my veins and leaving jagged marks?

Why are they nestling into the cracks of my bones?

I am not good,

But my love is real.

It may not be pure,

It may not be beautiful,

But if you’d let me,

I would rip my own heart from its strings to let you see it.

They would stretch until they were snapped stiff,

ringing out like the threads of a harp.

I’d bare myself to you in all that I am, and all that I am not.

And if knowledge is power,

If ignorance is bliss,

I’ll sink my fingers into my skull,

I’ll dig out my brain and fall to the floor,

I’ll offer it to you, and watch with lulled eyes as you hold it gently to your lips.

Yet I am terrified.

I am terrified that a little girl is watching me,

Silent,

Bearing witness to the monster in her skin.

Lightning, dad keeps watch,

I must be silent, I won't --


make it more angry.

You collect sunlight and
swallow it down,
like it's tylenol.

You feel a lot more real
in my dreams, than you do
in my arms.

The ashtray keeps overflowing
Why won't you
replace it?


                
                     There is a fine line
                              between
                      courage and fear



With you, it's always been
sink, then swim
burn, then crash
leave, then love.