The thought of you terrified me at first.
Another reason for someone to never love me.
It brought me to tears.
But when I heard my diagnosis…
I smiled.
I was relieved.
My thoughts.
My obsessions.
My compulsions.
They now had a name.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
OCD for short.
My thoughts no longer defined me.
They weren’t a part of me anymore.
I knew what to call them.
They had a name.
And maybe since I knew their name,
I could tell them to ******* leave.

The nothing pushes me away
To my room
Or rather, what remains of my room
For it has filled it with tar
And desolate shadows

The nothing tells me to stay there
For I have been defeated
Monsters roam the streets outside
The radio screams of danger
And I am the only prey

The nothing melts my wings
And turns in into mush
Here, the sun is king
It's heat is the formidable queen
I fall into a sea - forgotten

The nothing tells me I am forlorn
That my body is a black star
Being ******
To non existence
By a black hole

The nothing says that they love me
That they exist to protect me
And I have no choice
But to believe them
I fall into their arms

My heart is a flower
Pollinated by electric bees

The pulsating weather
The vagabond soil

Creates oh! A dangerous vine
My soul is a bastardly garden

Tomorrow brings more life
But what life is there for me?

Dead butterflies surround me
My body is a sick country

Oh my heart! Find God! Find God!
What is your precious?

Do you smell corpses around?
Or will you not curse the ground?

I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

my mother always cleaned
it was her thing
more than hobbies
more than friends
erasing every previous day
it's accidents
it's happenings

little hand prints
adorn my walls
pencil scribblings
from budding Leonardos
and when I pass the second stair
a stain on carpet
from God knows where

I live the past everyday
making new futures
along the way.

he cuts the grass into stripes
annoyed that the fence
doesn't run parallel

he will sit with a beer
after a long day
watching the sunset
his OCD screaming
it's not symmetrical

it's all he will see
amidst this natural
beauty

Four clocks on the wall,
telling me that I’m running out of time.
There’s only me in this ghost-town,
keeper of the hands,
and I have to reset each clock
before it develops a mind
of its own.

The problem arises in that I
am flawed, and slow,
and by the time I have reset
the fourth clock,
the first is taunting me
to run back and start it all over
again.

And what’s worse?
I can no longer tell
whether I have been at this
for hours, days, months, even.
My Hell-shackles are the very thing
I am trying to push back.
I could call it a prison
of my own creation,
but I wouldn’t want to plagiarise God.

I’m having a lot of waking dreams,
like I’m hypnotised. Sometimes,
I hear voices telling me what to do
in catastrophising extremes. Set
back the clocks, or you will die one day.
Set back the clocks. Set back the clocks.
Set back the c—

please leave me alone
to walk these pathways solo
I was hoping you wouldn't notice
but I think you already know

I know I have problems
and I'm trying to fix them
but what words can be enough
for a desire to even say them

for every time I open my mouth
I wish that I had closed it
remembering the times I messed things up
and the disappearing moments

I give far too much
and I know that I shouldn't
cause I have nothing left to give
so at least I know I'm used to it

throw the page away
so you can make the same mistakes
tear the edges so it frays
i just want my hand to fade