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Jane Lame Jun 2015
Doxycycline
Tetracycline
Fix my flaw
I want to be free

It doesn't matter
Or so they tell me
Self worth killer
My own worst enemy

Discomfort in a crowd
Pretending it's class
I want to be loud
Hey, look, a mask

Substance crutch
Just one glitch
There's never enough
Got lost in a trip
Nothing Much May 2015
Between the angry sea and I
There stands a sturdy barricade
A wall of sticks and bones and teeth
Another fortress that I've made

It starts to sway and bend and crack
As waves beat it relentlessly
I rush up with handfuls of mud
Trying to fight away the sea

Eventually the sky turns clear
I take in the flotsam scene
The ocean outside still churns
Just the sea and I, with a wall between
I am an emo twelve-year-old
KM Ramsey May 2015
My calendar isn't on paper
it doesn't hang on a wall
neglected pages to be turned
two months behind.

It isn't on my computer
in the cloud
synced to all my technological tortures
physically formed as notifications
short chimes to coax time forward.

My calendar is plastic
it sits on the toothpaste coated
counter in my bathroom
and I tell the day by which
of the seven perfectly segmented
little boxes are open and closed.

S, M, T open
it must be W
Wednesday
the red capsule and three white tablets remain
it is still morning
i trust my calendar
the light outside
or the absence thereof
can be a trick of my mind
day and night are not so
clean cut as the purple pill organizer
which contains my madness for me.

When things seem clearer
I approach my calendar
knowing beforehand which
cube on the string I must open
and retrieve these drugs
that keep my feet planted firmly
on the rich earth.

When I know the day
I rue these pills.

Why do I need them when
each day flows effortlessly into the next
like iridescent pearls strung along
into an unending sequence
of beads on a string
each one singularly unique
imbued with the essence of
the divine mollusk who incubated
this precious day?

When I can turn the pages
of the socially acceptable
calendar on the wall
I am a perfect imposter of
what is considered the norm
and I can look at days as
units in months
or years.

I stop living inside a partially
opened weekly pill organizer
and I am convinced
that I've taken up residence
outside of that gravitational
pull of the underworld
who buries me six feet under
to suffocate by the weight
of the soil pressing in.

My castle
my palace
is seated atop
a mountain carved into
the rugged stone
enveloped in a downy blanket
of cloud.

I'm miles from madness
light years from the person
who doesn't recognize her
face in the mirror
distorted
melting.

It is a seemingly endless summer
the easterly sun's warmth on my face
harking morning's glorious arrival
and hazy lilac hues dancing
an unparalleled pas de deux
with the sun's last pink rays
peeking over the western horizon.

My mornings are not
one red capsule
one white tablet.

It is a morning flight
free amongst the last stars
clinging to the pastel blue
of night's retreat.

Night is no longer
two white tablets
one yellow
it is sitting on my
mountaintop and watching
the god of the sky
falling in slow motion
imperceptibly lowering
into the horizon.

And the cycle repeats itself
in a euphoric loop
of twenty-four hours of heart-breaking beauty.

But the cycle is not in fact endless
just as day turns unfailingly to night
my cicada days
turn to static
and the churning black clouds
take hostage my paramour
the sun
and lost in the abyss of un-delineated time
I run to my mistress.

The weekly purple calendar.
Mandee Patterson May 2015
People of modern society are blind.

They've lost sight of what it means to recognize and accept basic human emotions.
They're frightened by feeling.

At the first sign of angst, depression, anxiety, discomfort, or anger they're convinced it can't be natural.
It must be some disease or disorder that is causing such pain.
No other answer, diagnose and treat at once.

Children, teenagers, young adults, the middle aged, and the elderly
all desperately seeking some sort of instantaneous solution
for themselves and their loved ones.

Those that they should hold dear pawned off on medications
from those commercials with smiling faces
that they wish to be their own.

While in the end the only smiling faces are those with full pockets.

We as humans must confront the fact that sometimes there is not a light at the end of the tunnel
and adapt, as our species so often has, to our individual and collective darkness.

For without that darkness we would never recognize the light.

Because once was a time when we sought to not mask our pain but to understand it.
( see: Neitzche, Kierkegaard, Sartre, Camus, etc.)

When experience and education actually provided freedom and enlightenment,
where the youth were given tools to understand themselves, their society, and their emotions,
to find themselves, to learn, and were encouraged to ask the important questions, to question at all.

To question it all.

Who am I?
What are we?
When did we get here?
Where did we come from?
Why are we here?

Open your eyes.
June 26, 2014
Atypnoc May 2015
Is it worse, being it that
my plight has no doors?

The line of sight agreeing with-
stand failure to converse,
despite seeing the design I fight myself with my own curse:
to die of thirst while they ignore
the gasping they have heard before.

I might have given more.
I might have given more.
I seen beneath my eyelids
I was a black silhouette
of an entity outlined in
platinum aura eclipse
and the visions fell
far & fell hard
from a teardrop chandelier
hanging from the ceiling
in my skull &
shattered
the crude
jewel encrusted
crescent floor

then thunder roared
in the distance &
erupted the crown,
unleashing a copious
explosion of white
gold light
& my skeleton
sheds the snakeskin
& escapes
thru the hole in my head;

just crawls right out,

bubbles up & becomes
a pink heart shaped balloon
& it floats

up. out. away.

creeps thru one of
the holes in the ozone,
straight into the sun
& burns up.

star burst.

&  that's soul.
Introspection.
Cat Fiske May 2015
I try and paint my ugly *** feet,
with black nail polish,
but my medication,
isn't allowing me to feel my hands,
so they shake,
and the only reason I know,
is because of the darkness they've painted,
over my fat uglyer now blackened toes.
just a poem about me painting my nails
Jack Thompson May 2015
These drinks that I drink.
Unload my all, meet me at the brink.
More and more just one more.
Bring me the words I should ink.
Take me through ecstasy past pain.
Show me the light I'll pour it down the drain.
Show me reason and take this pen.
It's forgotten as I was then.
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2015
Jay Apr 2015
some days I miss the little sailboats
dotting the horizon
keeping me floating
as they sat on the shore
smiling at the watercolour painting  
watching the clouds blow away
leaving the picture perfect
but they couldn't see the sea so choppy
the wind so strong
the paper-thin sail
the hull breached and leaking
they never saw
I lacked a sailor's heart
I couldn't lift anchors
or keep weathering storms
while taking on water
content to drown
So I turned the ship around
they tied it to the dock
and I swam away
but to this day
I remember
half a small white pill
half an oval blue pill
make a little sailboat
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