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Regina Williams Oct 2024
the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m cold,
and my shaking fingers are
shooting missiles toward you from
fifteen miles away.
texting is the worst form of communication.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
can’t you ever answer the
******* phone when i call you?
do you even love me? do you
care that i’m in pain?
do you care that i’m waiting here,
alone, cold,
while you have your car and
some other ***** snuggled up under your arm?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what am i supposed to do,
leave you when you say you don’t care about me?
others have told me that i’m resilient
and i don’t want to make liars out of my friends.
i can take this. i can take this.
i’m not afraid of pain.
keep hurting me. tell me to **** myself
and i’ll kiss your calloused fingers
and worship you like nothing else.
i am on my knees
and the lentils you had me kneel on
are beginning to cut through my skin.
baby? do we still call each other,
baby?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
do you remember that morning
when you called me a fat ******* *****
because i spilled coffee all over the kitchen floor?
do you? because i do.
and i would crawl through the coffee and the
scattered glass like a dead man does through hell,
trying to get to something better
but knowing they never will.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i am not crazy.
well, i am crazy.
but i’m not crazy here.
here, i need you to hear me.
don’t just say you do-
actually do it.
pull my heart out and look how it
pulsates with love.
every beat was made for you
and you just won’t look.
you won’t listen.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i have put my hands
through blazing fire to
soothe your enormous ego
and you can’t pick me up
from the ******* bus stop.
****! what’s a girl got to do
to find a man that will
lick her wounds and devour
her fears? am i not worthy of love?
should i just **** myself?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m a mistake. i am unlovable.
i am a ruined being left alone by God to
suffer in this hell we call life.
everything he says about me is right.
i’m difficult. i cry too much. i’m too depressed.
i’m crazy. i’m crazy. i’m crazy.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what was i thinking?
i don’t need a man. i don’t need anyone!
i am more godly than anything up in the sky
or beneath the earth!
i am the vacuum of space
and i’ll suffocate those who think
i’m anything less than perfect.
why won’t he pick up
the ******* phone?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i check my phone.
it’s 7:11pm.
the bus isn’t coming.
i don’t think it ever was.
This is a fake scenario. No person was a real victim of abuse. No persons were harmed in the making of this poem. This is a work of fiction. It is a look into the mind of someone with borderline personality disorder, spoken as a woman with BPD.
Falling Awake Oct 2024
Hunting the marrow of my brain,        
Raptor talons feast through flesh,
Shredding tissue with each tear–
my neurons scream.

And as pain pulses in violence,
I’m swallowed by a cloud–
The external muffles, then drains,
Leaving only the talons.
Falling Awake Oct 2024
It seems I don't know quite how to respond,
To the pain present, within and beyond,
So, my subconscious defaults to the lead,
With habitual patterns, I proceed…
Reliant on instincts and emotions,
These primal pathways take me through motions,
Now I’m acting rash, values misaligned,
Hurting loved ones in this stressed frame of mind,
All because I’m unable to pacify,
My cortex, drenched in stimuli.
CS Modei Sep 2024
Locked up?
Ha!
For my own good?
Don’t make me laugh.
I know this was for you.
To make YOU feel better.
To make YOU the hero.
But heroes don't gloat;
They can’t act like they float
Above it all.
Not my prettiest work, but I think it captures my emotions well.
James Sep 2024
Content in madness
Serene in insanity
Happy in my own brand of delusional apathy

Should I be locked away?
Doesn't matter to me
Put me in a padded cell and throw away the key

I can be crazy
Sedate me
Medicate me
Put me to sleep

Leave me
Bereave me
Keep my memory

Remember me when I was sane
Before my brain went absent without leave
Emma Kate Sep 2024
Did you know? Did I know?
Did I bury you before death?
Am I culpable of a sinful sentence?
Snippets from a piece about illness and death.
Daniel Tucker Sep 2024
I once laid in my bed content
With mama’s prayers tucked in,
Listening to trains far off across
River trestles on rails stretched
To places I could only dream of.

Beginner’s luck the magic strong;
Reality and dreams synonymous.
Early the seeds of wanderlust
Planted.

Talents forged of
Large cardboard boxes and
Old trunks in the attic
And of games with friends
In woods and streets.

Old Mr. Robling’s eyes looked
Beyond . . .
Child’s play would end
Someday.

That day eventually came in
Linear time
But much longer to this
Wandering mind
That thought beyond the grade
School desk when my adolescent
Peer’s noses were buried deep.

Wander and travel lust left this boy
Rootless and restless when time
Came to stop chasing mirages
Of greener pastures.

He then looked up and saw
His little one’s growing up
With a somewhat similar
Bittersweet taste of chasing
Elusive islands of emerald green
Seen as lush vivid images
On their built-in larger-than-life
Mental GPS screens
Programmed to ****** the
Wanderer into the delusion that
They can take extended or even
Permanent excursions far from

The
Great
Gray
Banal
Sea.

Not very long ago this ageless
Boy was forced into settling for
Stark reality.
But he is slowly growing a bit
More comfortable in his own skin.

The grass is still a bit green
But parts are a bit dry
Patchy and crabgrass ridden.

At least it fashionably matches
His soul--
Poetic justice for trading
Most of your life for
The elusive
Obvious.

I still cling tight to my childhood  
In my own non-linear time of
One hundred years ago;

But far too young in linear time
To be residing in
A tired body
Which many define age as
Value was once
Measured by quality not
Quantity

And as those running the track
And roaming free over
Thousands of acres
Of wide-open
Plains as opposed to those
Put out to pasture or waiting
In line

At
The
Glue
Factory
© 2024 Daniel I. Tucker

Another dance through my life memoir.
The long & winding road in linear &
non-linear time.
Mark Toney Sep 2024
Your own terminal illness
Though you have reasons to dread
think good thoughts instead
Your own terminal illness
Though you have reasons to fear
keep your loved ones near

  Can’t sleep at home
    feeling all alone
    Thoughts do roam in
    dark places unknown
    Thoughts of no tomorrow
    fuel uncontrolled sorrow

  Overwhelming stress
    from so many tests
    Under duress
    with no success
    Lost hope of recovering
    Now death is hovering

Don’t stay discouraged
Face it with courage …

Your own terminal illness
Though you have reasons to dread
think good thoughts instead
Your own terminal illness
Though you have reasons to fear
hold your loved ones dear

  Can’t sleep at home
    feeling all alone
    Thoughts do roam in
    dark places unknown
    Thoughts of no tomorrow
    fuel uncontrolled sorrow
    Lost hope of recovering
    Now death is hovering

Face it with courage …
Your own terminal illness

  Don’t stay discouraged
  Face it with courage
    Beware of rancor
    Hope is an anchor
  (Don’t stay discouraged)
  Face it with courage
    Hope is an anchor
    Face it with courage …


© 2024 Mark Toney
Lyric poem. © 2024 Mark Toney. Inspiration for the poem came from the song "Personal Jesus," by English band Depeche Mode, written by Martin L Gore.
Jeremy Betts Aug 2024
The result of life is death
The price of life is your sanity
The toxins leach more from each drawn breath
Eating away at both mind and body
One day more replaces you with one day less
A simple enough concept conceptually
Everything living is born with this terminal illness
No one has ever survived this tragedy

©2024
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