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KTea Carolan Apr 2016
I'm bummed
I'm poorly
I'm down
I'm low
I'm off
I'm discouraged

I'm dissatisfied
I'm discontented
I'm discouraged
I'm dispirited
I'm unhappy
I'm unfulfilled

I'm sad
I'm rotten
I'm terrible
I'm miserable
I'm horrible
I'm forlorn

I'm useless
I'm hopeless
I'm nothing
I'm trouble
I'm a burden
I'm in the way

I'm melancholy
I'm pathetic
I'm wretched
I'm morose
I'm unstable
**I'm depressed
KTea Carolan Apr 2016
I'm distracted
I'm inattentive
I'm unfocused
I'm preoccupied
I'm fuzzy
I'm lethargic

I'm spaced out
I'm indifferent
I'm thoughtless
I'm apathetic
I'm detached
I'm unresponsive

I'm uncontrollable
I'm frantic
I'm unruly
I'm violent
I'm unrestrainable
I'm toxic

I'm confused
I'm frenzied
I'm insane
I'm crazed
I'm ******
I'm berserk

I'm disturbed
I'm delusional
I'm neurotic
I'm deranged
I'm demented
**I'm ******
Lauren R Apr 2016
Day 1: You're always shaking, you're like the grass under the whirring blades of a lawnmower. I laugh at that. You're so funny when you can't breathe. You're so funny with your scars, hidden beneath sleeves like white soldier grave stones, underneath a blanket of shaking grass, tall grass, dead grass, laughing grass, long forgotten names. Like, like, firing squad death row under sheets of blood- no- fallen brick walls. Civilians, awaiting rescue. You tug at your shirt awkwardly, I am staring.

Day 6: What are you asking me now? What? Them? No, they don't hate you. The stars with molars, canines, and needles out their sides don't at least. You're asking me about the fish? Scales, fins, aquatic? The star fish with self-esteem issues doesn't mind you. He's just selfish. The narcissistic parrot fish loves you as much as her own reflection. The high strung cat fish is kinda infatuated. He's something else. The shark? She thinks you're ****, but don't tell her I said that. You won't? You never do. I like that about you.

Day 23: You been okay? You haven't been asking much about me lately. Me? Funny you should ask. I'm not sick. Not now. Haven't tried to bash my skull in in a week, it's progress. You? Oh ****, that's too bad. I wish you'd stop opening up your forearms. I wish you'd just stop popping pills like after Chinese food dinner mints, bursting them in your stomach to spread like fog, milky white to drown out whatever your drawing from your wrists.

Day 72: You're drunk again? Jesus, what will it take for me to leave you? You've already bitten the hand that feeds too many times you sloppy wolf puppy you. I mean, sure I waved it in front of your face but don't you know your own teeth? *******, quit throwing up and get back to work, paint me a pretty picture pathetic *****. Put down the knife or broken glass or razor or whatever the ****, I don't want to do that anymore it stopped being interesting after like, the fifth time. Yeah I know I said I cared! I know I said I wouldn't stop caring, wouldn't leave you! But have you ******* seen yourself? Go ahead kid, count those scars, make some more, whatever you do in that basement of yours. I can't stand you! I can't stand your stupid brain, you're always crying what's up with that? How old are you now? Right. My point exactly. Jesus Christ, shut up for once.

Day 95: No wait- ****- sorry. I didn't realize. Hey, you know what sweetheart? Let's shake hands. Your end of the deal? I won't be the reason you **** yourself, you stop making your arms look like bulldog wrinkle jowls, or like, sliced bread, cracked sidewalk, blistered vein soup, running like drippy little kid noses, whatever- just make it stop. I won't tell you all the ways you fall short in 3 words or less. Deal? Deal.

Day 103: Just kid- keep breathing. I won't do it for you. See ya', have fun ******* yourself up and over.
A conversation with anxiety or alternately, the only way I've ever seen mentally ill people be loved
Pride Ed Dec 2015

(her 2am moods
were monotone
on the receiver

is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
cheap perfume
bottles on the
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions

(empty, jejune...

with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words

a waking hour's only
an insomniac's
internal monologue
sophie Dec 2015
my lungs are full of water
i know I'm drowning but I'm trying not to be an inconvenience
my throat is stuck and i can't sleep at night
my anxiety is yanking my hair out
and my headaches are breaking my bones
and i am trying not to be an inconvenience
sophie Dec 2015
my blue gooseflesh bores me
i lost my lens and i want to build a wall between my body and my blood
i painted all my nails so i would stop biting them
and i bit the polish off
i told everyone i loved winter
every year before i felt at home
i hate winter
it cracks my bones and i overthink everything there is to think about
i think in monochrome pastel
and it isn't as poetic as it seems-looks-sounds
when you feel like your whole body is turning against you
and your bones are shivering with a garish black
tar paint for blood
if god exists
i want a ******* explanation
im so melodramatic sorry
Pride Ed Nov 2015
i didn’t want their
endless white
with their
cold rooms,
and cold coats,
and cold pen-tips

i didn't want their
sunken IV bags that
Jesus Christ, or
Mother Theresa

i didn’t want the
pale noise
hammering about
inside my head...
i didn’t want it’s sterile
humming a lobotomy
David Crum Nov 2015
I can't
I can’t always be there for everyone
in the perfect little way they've invented
every single time they have a problem
believe me, i want to be.
but sometimes even though its irrational
i just need to be there for myself to keep my head above water
and im sorry for that.
but ****
Pride Ed Jul 2015
Apparently she was a mermaid;
there wedding was
to be a plastic Malibu affair.
Her dress, a bedazzled, gaudy
sarong with leis for a train, and coral
bits for the rings…

She said she was addicted to pearls, –
ate them like candy,
until about a year ago when they plucked
her from the ocean,
and gave her pills instead.

“Entertain her for a bit,” the other nurse said.
So I picked up the Ken doll,
and let Barbie buy another pet dolphin.
In which a mentally ill woman thinks she is a mermaid...
Pride Ed Jul 2015
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.

just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
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