Shouldn't be in public
Not fit for company
Won't remember names
Might interrupt, awkwardly
Failed attempts at humour
You must hate me
Failed attempts at flattery
Please don't hate me
Didn't mean to say that
Small talk breakdown
Why am I still talking
Self sabotage takedown
Why am I still here
I'm the absolute worst
This shouldn't be so painful
I wish I wasn't cursed
NCL May 2019
Anxiety knows the world is burning
Even if we can't see the flames
Anxiety knows predators are out there
Even if we don’t know their names
Anxiety knows bad luck happens
Simply unfortunate events lay claim
Anxiety knows less about statistics
And much about things that maim
NCL July 2019
A broken maze hides inside my mind;
Revelers rambling round never find
The end - lacking signposts or guides,
They tread eternities while the exit hides
From echoing clatter to blinding roar,
From gentle pitter-patter to take no more,
Crowds mill through in groups and pairs;
The walls vibrate, as do I downstairs
Food trucks ply their bountiful snacks
Feeding frenzy, launching scent attacks;
The noxious steam combines to rise,
Waft out, confound and desensitize
Enclosed in walls impossible to climb
Trapped all together in layered time
The revelers begin to sway and swerve
Blundering on networks of frayed nerve
With no path to success or even escape
The horde begins to push and scrape
The walls - tremble, creak, quiver, quake;
The maze, my mind, my universe - break
NCL August 2019
One foot in front of the other days
Long, slow and ponderous
Grey with clouds that rest
Heavy on my heart
And drag along behind
Wiggle out the worries
Until the sky is full of furies,
The what ifs and might be’s
Swirling on a tight breeze
Tease out all the tension
Into the third dimension
Gather all the strands
Braided into supple bands
Navigate the nerves
Know their subtle curves
Tie each to a tension line
Watch the cords intertwine
Into a net, thrown in the air
Capture all the worries there
Pull the strings, cinch the net
What a fine price you'll get
NCL July 2019
Churned butter in my stomach.
Leave before they can leave you.
Try fight the feeling.
Take a breath or two.
Let others hurt you.
Seek out pain from untrustworthy sources.
Let it eat away at you.
Call it a self deprecating break away from self infliction.
Because you ache to feel pain and you throb to hurt.
All you do is hurt.
But you're so much better at hiding it.
Everyone thinks you're improving,
though you still feel like you're dying on the inside.
Every action or word is salt in an old wound allowing it to re-open.
Swallow the blood in your throat before you choke on it.
You are paper thin like you always have been.
You are as insecure as you always have been.
You're scared, your fragile, you're vulnerable and foolish.
You will rely on anyone with a sweet smile.
And your demise will be just that
Bite the hand that feeds before it feeds you bad luck.
Overthink every possibility until your face turns blue.
Let paranoid arouse your darkest fears.
Allow it to convince you that bad is good and good is bad.
Everything is bad, everything is a danger.
People are beginning to find strength in you.
But when they lean upon your shoulder they will only hit the ground.
People are beginning to think you're stronger.
Your childish attempt to not seem a burden will be the biggest burden to them all.
Churned butter in my stomach.
Punch the pillow before you punch yourself.
Try fight the feeling.
Take a breath or two.
Take a breath, close your eyes, fight fear with trust.
I miss being a teenager.
Like a "Real" teenager.
Where you'd play disobedient loud music in parks full of rejected youths shouting lyrics about how you hate yourself and the world.
I miss when I was unaware.
Wearing short sleeves revealing fresh scars.
With a bottle of 2.00 cider in one hand and a cigarette your older friend sold you in the other.
I miss smoking biffs until your face turned as green as the leaves you'd smoke.
I miss laughing until you'd choke on your own spit and everyone else found it hilarious because they were doing the same.
Nothing was really funny, we were just blissfully unaware.
I miss abandoned building and hot summers days.
Climbing damp moss walls with brittle bones and bruised skin.
Scraped knees and whimsical hair over your face.
Skipping school to dip your feet in rivers the government tell you not to tress-pass on.
Lighting fires in forgotten quarries and saving captured tadpoles from the traps of the local tory schools.
Becoming passionate about the welfare of animals, but not of yourself.
I miss house parties.
The weird ones,
The ones where you'd walk into a room to see your best friends experimenting their new found ****** desires.
Girls on top of girls with their boyfriends watching in the corner?
Kind of like the 'CRAZY' ****** you'd get sent that made you feel uncomfortable inside because you preach self acceptance but suppress your own sexuality.
I miss the house parties where you'd eat biscuits off a kitchen floor whilst catching someone ******* a cucumber in the corner of your peripheral.
Loudly oversharing the trauma of your early years, gross sobbing to people you met hours ago as they'd do the same back.
Seeing drugs for the first time not knowing the damage they can do.
Laughing at the friend that threw up from too much drink though you throw up dinner every night, but you didn't think about that.
The best friend who told you kissing each other was normal.
Then abused your innocence 3 years later.
You no longer questioned your sexuality after that.
You didn't question anything back then.
Now you're 19 and you're still just as sad. But a mature sad.
You hide your scars under longsleeve shirts praying no ones sees because you should have 'grown out of that by now'
You no longer smoke **** because it made your psychosis worse.
And you can't bare the thought of alcohol because you became dependant at 16. Who could imagine speaking a word of truth before 3 double ***** cokes?
You still love animals and you still hate yourself.
You've been vegetarian for 2 years but it didn't help the eating disorder.
You just gained a few pounds to shut the professionals up.
Because the professionals are still there and you fear they always will be.
You're silent now.
You can't even speak an ounce of truth of how you feel to your new therapist. You can't even confine in your friends without feeling like a burden.
You no longer attempt suicide because last year you tried one too many times in the public eye and started to get a name for it.
But it was just a 'rough year.'
You now sit with crumpled suicide notes under your bed but what's the point in even trying?
the skipping rope didn't work, trying to drown your self in the bath didn't work. The skipping rope while trying to drown yourself in the bath didn't work. And all the overdoses became a pass time.
You now think about a sustainable plan with a real outcome,
but you don't tell anyone about it.
You wake with a smile to paint the garden shed.
To think about the calories of your next meal and how everyone will think you're better off dead.
But you're growing old now you'd be best to do it soon.
Make your mum a cuppa, smoke a cigarette and calm down.
Write poetry at 3:30am,
Look at the pencil sharpener and put it back down.
Overthink and reminisce about the years of your youth.
Romanticise and glorify the most intense years of your life.
Because you don't want to think about the trauma, you want to think about the palatable self destruction.
You'll probably do the same tomorrow.
And the day after, and the day after.
You're older now, you're still just as sad.
The only difference now is you have 5 diagnosis' to the reason you acted that way, to the reason you no longer speak, to the reason you no longer sleep, to the reason you no longer go outside.
You've grown but you haven't flourished.
And you don't think you ever will.
Lucifer was my first lover,
Now I have a twisted fantasy seeping darkness into my head.
I can no longer grow brain cells but I can now grow horns.
Splitting out ot my skull like thorns from a branch.
There's dried blood dripping down the crown of forehead again.
Dancing with the devil is child's play.
He's wrapped a chain around my neck.
Belts upon my arms, ties around my legs.
I'm fully undressed and unholy.
Light the circular fire while I become my purest form.
Lay me on dirt while the embers silhouette around me.
I'm burning like amber, illuminating the nights sky.
This is a ritual, I can take it. I'm not human, I'm reborn.
Mephistopheles' forked tongue spits gasoline over pale skin.
Imp's are beating on drums as the ceremony begins.
Sacrifice me, I am the chosen one.
Beat me until I believe.
Face down in damp soil I'm a mural against the green.
The mausoleum next to me will guide my spirit where it needs to be.
Lily-livered eyes cremate excervasion into my flesh.
Taloned hands drag my body to the crypt.
Bathe me in others as unfortunate as me,
Then dress me in Ivy so those in the underworld can see:
I'm the "Purest Form Of Innocence."
The one who was once "Me" has finally become "We."
The Archfiend tells me to kneel and I obey his every command.
Falexn eyes control me to undress myself once again.
" Filia Diaboli" He calls me as he places his hands on my head.
I feel my body ascend through the dirt I used to lay.
And when I open my fawn eyes, I'm in the real world once again.
Is this a poem about *** or a poem about possession.
I swallowed an AK-47 when I was 10 years old.
And ever since that day I've had bullets shooting out my mouth, ears and nose.
My emotions are nail bombs exploding around my organs and skin.
Eternal bleeding has become critical.
My words are shotguns whenever I open my mouth.
I'm scared to speak how I feel.
My actions are fighter jets causing collisions and collateral damage upon myself.
I'd suggest taking a few steps back before you have to bare the brunt of it.
There is no beauty in warfare and I'm at war with myself.
My body is a post apocalyptic tragedy of deceased aspirations and mutated dreams.
Covered head to toe with crevasas and holes where my two halves fought to become one.
I'm exhausted from the toxicity of the air I breathe.
No flowers grow here and the rivers have run dry.
There is no source of food, progression or hope.
I have tried to endure all forms of natural disasters but the only disaster is me.
My life is fiction and I am not real.
I'm the in game character no one wants to choose.
I have no good and I have no bad.
I cannot defend for you, me, or anything to be had.
My half life is shorter than the length of your arm.
By the time you find stability on this cavern floor there will be nothing left to stand upon.
There's a sinkhole forming and I fear you're going to fall in it.
I'd suggest you choose a different character.
dnt do it
I am so much more than I ever expected to be
Despite drowning in this insufficiency
A chorus of deafening inadequacy
Proving myself and others wrong,
I never expected to be so far
I expected to be much farther
I never expected to be alive
I expected to be demising
I know I’ve hurt
I know I’ve broken others
I know I’ve bruised
I know I’ve used others
Regretful I suppose
Just reactionary behavior
And I have succumbed to my darkest depths
Though they have never won
And I have fallen back 12 steps
Yet still, I scale the rungs
So when I say “I’ve given up”
Never do believe me
I am capable of getting up
Love, I’m just that crazy.
I mean it was inspired by you, but like also I needed this anyway.