You’ve overfed me everything you had at your disposable
Staring up at me as I’m hanging from the ceiling.
Chocolate, syrup, honey, lollipops.
My belly’s rumbling.
It’s scaring me.
Sweat continues to wash over my pale face.
With trembling hands I try to tear my stomach open by myself.
And there you are waving a bat right underneath my feet.
“Blindfold on or off?” You ask amusingly with a growing grin.
The black fabric peaking from your pocket which you ignore to take out.
I’ve lost. My mouth sewn shut. I can’t be saved now.
I mumble uncontrollably as you raise for the first blow.
It hurts, my whole body is ringing of burning pain, as I swing around fast side to side.
You spin for another blow with your eyes closed this time.
You miss.
You do it again, eyes open.
Pain explodes faster everywhere.
I’m muffling praying to fall any second now.
“COME ON YOU’RE GREEEDY YOU KNOW THAT?!!” He shouts jumping from below.
“OPEN UP!! GIVE ME SOME!!! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND YOU DON’T SHARE??”
Tears are falling. I’m the one at fault. I’m the empath and you’ll do anything to make me feel this way, no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.
You overfed me and I ate so it was my fault.
You tried getting it all back but couldn’t expel it out of me so it was my fault.
You did your part, and all I did was intervene.
It’s all my fault.
It’s not you.
It’s all me.

He preferred unwashed and touched skins
I was ripe and fresh, with my green leaf
Shiny as if someone polished me against their polo shirt.

He loved texture, bruises, and discoloration
while I was smooth, absolutely bump free.

No patience left in him, he needed to gorge his hunger,
biting down and ripping it's other half trailed with a string of dripping saliva.

It wasn't a want, but a must.

Worms were wriggling out from the rotten core begging to escape from his monstrous pointed teeth.

He preferred them just the way they were, abandoned, unsure, insecure.

He however never preferred me; smothering myself of perfection to be picked from all hands who only ever picked the others...

Perfect apples can't always be picked up.

This fiend, he's black
but not in colour.

He tracks: not you
but your brothers' brother.

He wins and jeers
and sits and cheers
and loses and who says
strange words that confuses.

But for all his whim
and dashing trim
he's bound up, wound up,
he's ready for sin.

This skin he bears, drained and cold,
grows thin with wear, and frees his soul.

The Prantercalt lives inside
he's cosy, got a stellar ride,
but anger burning,
envy churning,
these the weapons at his side.
Don't let him out,
he'll run about,
and you'll find your mind'a turnin.

Borderline Personality Disorder...

It's this thing that lurks in the shadows, a feeling that doesn't quite always manifest the same way.

BPD...the silent killer.....or maybe that's what all diseases are. I'm not so sure.

What I do know is that I never expected to make it past 18 much less to 23. What I do know is that BPD has a mortality rate of 8-10%. What I do know is that I'm scared.

Scared that one day the hidden thoughts of my mind, those things we like to keep in a box, will soon find their way to the frontal lobe of my brain and send my consciousness soaring.

Scared that one day I'll finally get tired. Then, I'll get tired of feeling tired and then I won't be tired at all anymore.

Scared of my ability to hurt others even more than I hurt myself.

What I find to be the sick irony of the whole situation is that BPD manifests solely from immense abuse. You cannot be born with it, the mannerisms are all learned. Therefore, I am now forced to bargain my existence, tiptoeing through memories that should be long forgotten.

Trying to remember what my childhood was like while overcooking my breakfast.

Trying to shower but my brain continues to replay that time she raised her hands to me.

Trying to sleep....but my brain doesn't allow that comfort much anymore because those thoughts find their way into my dreams.

When we struggle, they like to remind us that "we are not alone". Yet when I dream at night, I am the one to close my eyes. When I walk into a restaurant, I am the one that can't sit with my back to the door anymore.

I want to give a special shoutout to everyone who played a role in me obtaining this diagnosis. If it weren't for your years of abuse, I wouldn't be living through the single most wonderful years of my life.

Without you, I'd be free and freedom from ourselves is much easier said than done.

The biggest shall protect the small
That’s how the doll’s life goes
Lies that cover up the truth
So weakness does not show
And even if you think you know
What really lies within
Another face laughs mockingly
In secret with a grin
Each one is different, yet the same
With layers stripped and worn
Who can tell what’s real from fake
With this ever changing form?
I realise now, they are not masks
Nor lies or false facades
Instead they are a spirit, whole
Made up of different parts

The social personality test,
Labeled me a villain!

A vile twisted man with morals not,
A stinking marauder with a heart of rot,
A mindless ravager incapable of thought!

All because I said that I'd do things that no other would,
To ensure safety to those I wish to save,
So am I villain not?

In the shadows deep, a hidden self resides,
Shadowy moments, secrets carefully hide.
Masks conceal, terrible, masterful deceit,
Hiding desires that hopelessly tear the soul apart.

Each stolen glance, stories endlessly untold,
Understanding fully the consequences, remained ruthlessly uncontrolled.
Embroidered shadows, i dance through the night,
Soul aflame that seeks freedom and its light.

Secrets unfold, longing leaves for peace,
Quiet nights, where mystery shadows cease.
New pathways unfurl, dawn ascends, a radiant light, dispelling night's despair.
Hope's strength sustains me; I step towards soaring heights.

Trapped within shadows, as I cast off the disguise,
Facing endless fears, with courage in my eyes.
Freedom awaits, reaching beyond the crafted scene, revealing its embrace.
Constraint Path, yet mysteries still remain, a mystifying presence.

Whispers of doubt, an insidious refrain.
The weight of the past, never-ending ache.
Devastating reminder, for goodness sake,
As Overwhelming loneliness creeps in, stealing the day.

The masks fall, after a long day of charades,
The freedom sought, tragically feels distant and far.
The cruel illusion, leaving hideous scars.
With cunning hand, he builds enigmas that are hard to find.

Concealed within that emptiness, darkness springs.
Their arrangements symphony, the instruments, played at his own will alone.
Threads of silken fate, a tapestry completed.
Chess master strategist, emotionless with cold and calculating mind.

With deep calculations, strategist orchestrates every move.
Checkmate is now declared, the final game is at an end.
For endless nights, the game continues.
That even resigned on his power, he was trapped within a dream.

In this ceaseless, darkly deceptive game, a bitter truth appears.
That even in my invincible mastery, i'm utterly empty.
Weights of countless broken hearts, never easily forgiven, and burdens that are hard to bear.
Archon's orchestra fades, but the echoes remain.. does he hear them? or devoid of shame?
The nefarious price of power, is the wearing of many masks.


Do we deeply, truly know who we are, or are we forever lost in the labyrinth of masks we create to hide our true selves from the judgment of others?

I wish I am the chosen one,
the one that is so essential,
can I be better in the future?
I can’t even answer that.

Like a mirrorball suspended in a dimly lit room,
I will only say, “yes!”,
“you can have that” “you can do that”,
I would never say no,
I don’t dare to,
fret that I’ll hurt their feelings,
but did they think the same way?
this time, the answer is yes.

Sometimes, I wish I knew everything,
the scent of uncertainty lingering in the air,
sometimes, I wish I knew nothing,
the taste of regret like bitter coffee on my tongue,
either way, I’m a mirrorball
the one that’s just there,
the gentle hum of unnoticed existence,
no one even notices it,
until they need it.

Like a mirrorball, when it’s break
it’s shattered into a million pieces,
the sound of splintering glass echoing in the silence,
but that’s what makes it shine,
the dazzling light refracting through the shards,
that’s what gives it attention.

I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.
I am born of the trees and stars, of cold winds and breezy nights.
I am a son of the red sand hills, and the lost letters to neverland.
I am the making of love and pain, of lost will and false strength.
I am the lord of memories of longing and heartbreak.

I am born of an island of stone, and seas of stories.
I am a child of hatred and spite.
I am King of a long-lost land.
I am the farmer of an ancient plant.
I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.

Listen,
poems read
differently
when you're close to the poet

Listen,
run your hands
across my pages
caress the dents
feel the depth in some
and the lightness in others

Listen,
come closer
place your ear
on my papers
listen to the waltz
my pencils do
with every
stride, every curve