I find very little encouragement
to live my life these days,
it used to be different when I was ten.

I remember walking down this street
humming and skipping in full joy,
Like I had the juiciest fruit in all of the world
and that fruit held secrets,
carrying more than just sweetness,
It was big, golden and shiny
I think that fruit was my heart,
It was always so full.
Almost overflowing
with sickening sweetness,
exasperating energy
and a sticky smile that was always there.

I would dance around, walk fast then slow
I would roll around, talk so loud then low.
It sickens me now.
Why was I like that ages ago?
What made me so excited about life?
To wake up every day and just....live?

It sickens me even more
That I can't have that again.
It also confuses me
because what is human life
if not a change after change after change?

My mind is a tempest,  
thoughts clash and collide,  
a bluster of worries  
I can’t seem to hide.
It feels like a storm-tossed sea,  
where wild waves surge with the tide,  
bearing burdens heavy as anchors,  
as my heart sinks,
pulling me down,  
with a weight that drags me under,  
while I helplessly drown.  
I look up to the heavens,  
yearning for a tranquil sky,  
somewhere beyond this suffocating grey,  
to soothe my restless soul,  
to find a way  
to simply rest  
and call it a day.

©️Lizzie Bevis

It's easier to embrace smudged crimson
And washed jet - they hurt with an E-string
Staccato, a familiar and a constant.
Come, let me don my madness once more
And laugh in the face of well-known shards
Like they love me. Take my filigree of words
And tell me nothing, not even that it's beautiful -
I cannot be answered, I, who would eat the night
Whole, I, who break at the slightest tremor,
And love it, too. Nothing was so true save falsehood,
And no love was sweeter than its cold kiss
Flung back in my young, still innocent, face.
Did you ever think to ask? I thought you never would.
I've accustomed to the silence now. I fill it with storms.

I had cookies after lunch
I had it, to tell myself
I could do it
I could eat cookies
and not think about the numbers
I could eat cookies
and not stare into the toilet bowl
I couldn’t do it
I looked into the toilet bowl
Reached into my mouth
And pulled it out
With slow and painful shoves
Though slow,
The way it happens
Is expedited
But it’s not enough
It’s never enough
The inside of the toilet bowl is stained with regret
The inside of my guts are still full of regret
But I cant get it out
It stays
I couldn’t do it
I don’t know when my food
Started tasting like regret
And looking like numbers
I miss how it made me feel
When my parents got me a donut
The smell of the warm bread
The feel of the chocolate between my fingers
I could eat 2 at once
And not give it a second thought
All 2 donuts are now
Is 500
500 too many
500 more of regret
I don’t want to think about the numbers
On the scale
Of my food
The number of scars I’ve painted on my thigh
I’ve never preferred math

Am I the way I think, the way I dress,
Or the way I speak?
Or am I defined by the way
I broke my own heart through rotten adversities?

Am I kind, am I bitter, or am I stuck in between?
Does everyone remember the ways I hurt them
Or the ways I healed?
Am I shaped by my destiny
Or by the paths I carve myself?
Will I make a difference,
Or will my life just quietly pass?

Am I the things I hate, am I the things I love?
Am I the things I do, or the things I think of?
Am I the words I write or the scenes I paint?
What happens if I stay? What happens if I go?

When they look at me, do they see a face or a heart?
Am I the way I spurn or the way I laugh?

Am I this? Am I that?
I am a thousand things,
everything plays a part.

The art of not caring does not come easily to me
I constantly think about who I am and who I ought to be
I could think all day about what was and what’s about to come
I have spent days stuck in my thoughts,
there have been days when I got nothing done

The art of not caring is hard to master
I just spent hours thinking if I’m too slow,
should I go faster?

I care a lot, I care too much
About things too trivial and things too big,
I think about everything.
The spots on my face, the shape of my teeth.
The dress I wear, the way I speak.

I am in the middle of caring as I write this,
I heard someone talk on the phone,
They got the best paying job, with the best team, with the best firm.
I saw someone else post a picture about a party
someone was out on lunch with a friend,
I see everyone finding someone who cares about them

I sit here caring about things wondering if it’ll ever be any different.  
I care about myself, I care about my friends and I care about the world
In exchange, I get a feeling that I might be a loser.
I paint things nobody sees, I write words nobody reads,

I dread what I do, I dread what I don’t
I feel like I am always falling behind, I don’t even know what I want
The art of not caring is something I should learn
I would be happy with a B, I don’t need an A
If I carry pieces of caring too much with me,
I would be okay.

As much as I care about if I care too much,
and I want to let that go,
As much as I want to care less,
As much as I want to be someone else,
I hold on to it,
I keep caring.
It has taken me this far, It has stuck by me.
Maybe I was born with the art of caring deeply,
Maybe it will take me places meant for me.
Maybe I will live differently.

There is a woman, whom I know
You are so beautiful
Yet so often, she won’t let it show

There is a man, I may be he
I have always loved you
Yet so often, she cannot see

He won’t give up, no matter the pain
Somehow, I am the enemy
Were the last 10 years really in vain?

Warm light of Sun sets
Cold black darkness sets in


But did the Sun set?
Is darkness even new?
Or has darkness always been here?
Do we simply now have a view?

He is told he is the problem.
He is told “don’t blame me”.
He is told he has not valued.
He is told he cannot see.

He is told he is not good enough.
He is told others were better.
He is told she is not the problem.
He is told “only he has upset her”


Why, why oh Lord… I do not know…

This is my life’s calling, this is my conviction
I know not why, but I trust this is my mission
And while in this place of terrible friction
A “why” starts to appear among the most awful affliction

He knows he’s not perfect, he knows he has flaws
For these, I am so sorry
But he cannot find in good conscience, that he was the cause

She is hurting and confused, feeling such great pain
I am here for you my darling
There is much brokenness, feeling such great shame

She hides so much, even from family and friends
Please let me in my darling
He won’t leave her side, in this journey to the end

There is a woman, whom I know
You are so beautiful
Her opening up, is letting it show

There is a man, I may be he
I have always loved you
He hopes she will see

When will it stop?
The constant, confusing whiplash
Of hatred
Of acceptance
Of compelled shoving fingers down your throat
Of etching paintings into your skin, with a pointed brush
If only to release
When will it stop?
The hypocrisy of trying to help someone
When you can barely help yourself
Sitting in front of a screen, telling them it'll all be fine
But you have a blade in your hands
And a finger in your throat
When will it stop?
The vicissitude of everyday
Blythe simplicity on one
Slowly killing yourself the next
The good days, I'm able to have a painful relationship with food
Thinking, but not acting
Even if for an hour
For that hour, I am whole and I am free
But the bad days, silent ruminations engulf my head
Of painting scarlet
And expelling
When will it stop?
The compulsions taking over me

want to reach out

want to grow the sprout

so why is the weight of the phone a block of cement in my hand?

why do i feel like every word still wouldn’t make people understand?

want them to see through my lenses
want them all to come to their senses

how do i make you care the way that i feel will keep me above ground

i didn’t go through this to be your slutty little rebound

so hold my hand and kiss my softly

although the end of the receipt is quite costly

The plaster peels around the windowpane
as Virginia creeper clings, hangs low
on the old stone wall that crumbles, veined
by the cracks from the hourglass’s flow.
The weathered wood of her rafters frame
this battered house that’s fading away
like the troubles and cares she’d contained
which are silting fast into the sandy soil.
The creeper‘s five leaves grasp like a hand:
Gaia hugs this house in her tightening embrace
to fully devour all the follies of man
until only the quiet creeper remains.