I’m the one who walks a lonely road the only one I have ever known

With my own ST. JIMMY who I ask to GIVE ME NOVOCAINE

The one who gives me my novacaine, so I won't feel a thing

And be a 21ST CENTURY BREAKDOWN losing what's left of my mind

Just being one of THE FORGOTTEN inside someone’s memory

Always singing the punk SONG OF THE CENTURY

Wishing I wasn’t the song EXTRAORDINARY GIRL

Hoping that I’m not always ST. JIMMY THE AMERICAN IDIOT

Poetry can hand me
a hand rail for the steps down,
can steady me for the unexplored depths.

Poetry can hand me confidence
that I am not alone
that there are words
gifting markers of hope
leading me back to the surface
should I choose it.

my mirror
has been screaming at me
for a while
I chose to walk away today
but it began to follow
became a black shadow
creeping into my cranium
to stay

broken reflection
in my head
that closing eyes
couldn’t save
shaking the grains
in my brain
didn’t help
like shattered glass
it slithered and sliced
my skin and scalp

cutting the chords
of light from my eye
bleeding fingers from braille
left me blind
without vision
there’s no escaping
the mirror
of reason
in my mind

I am lost in the memories
Of what my mind did to me,
Trying to take an accounting,
So I can unravel the mystery.
I am searching for answers,
So I am not a casualty,
Hoping that this heart will keep beating
In a body that once tried to **** me,
Demanding that there's a different ending
To this accursed story.

I am terrified of what I may do to myself if I let my guard down.
It's not that I don't want to be happy.
It's that at my core,
I do not trust myself.

What's it like to be free
Like laying in the middle of a wide open field
Still, mind haunts and head rots
There's a plague in the air
Silently taking over us
It affects all
weak, young, strong, old
A certain stride in your step while you decay
Brain in shambles yet you stay
At night those who rot feel their sickness spread
Lungs caving in and organs sick with rage
There's bile in your closing throat
Swallow it down, choke
Disguise your growing illness
Despite its universal despair
Quietly we fall
Clawing our way out of the grave
With one hand in hell already

The Highs taste like Lemon Heads
Before burning my mouth like Cinnamon Red Hots.
The Lows go down like soup of ash and cold water.
I am forever trying to find a balance between the flavors of mania
And the blandness of depression.
Often, I find myself hungry in the wee hours,
Dismayed by both options.

How do you begin to describe your feelings of loneliness
and your mental seclusion from the world
when your surrounding world
only sees the built facade of belonging.

I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.