Her eyes are weary, but she’s wide awake.
She can’t seem to shake this feeling away.
She knew what you were, but had to learn the hard way.
She broke out of the asylum.
Night terrors still haunt her in the dark.
Blinded by her dreams.
There’s a disease in her garden.
She had no choice except to abandon all of her sins back in autumn.
Here in the shadow she cries.
Every night she holds on for dear life.
Barely making it out alive.
Here in the shadow she only just survives.
In a bed she doesn’t want to sleep in,
In a world she doesn’t want to live in,
In a universe she doesn’t want to exist in,
Is where she lies.
She wants to pull her stomach over her head and swallow.
The weight is adding to the baggage she always carries.
It’s not as strong as all of this tormenting sorrow.
She suffered through the invasion.
Her soul forever paralyzed.
If she ends this now, she’ll never feel anything again…

It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends  being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue

A CAUTIOUS STORY HAS BEEN BROKEN
BY THE UNIMPEACHABLE WASHINGTON POST
PRESIDENT TRUMP ALLEGEDLY LEAKED CLASSIFIED INFORMATION
TO RUSSIAN DIPLOMATS ONLY WANTING TO BOAST


THIS NOW HAS BEEN QUOTED
TO BE WHAT WE KNOW AS FALSE NEWS
ALL THESE DIPLOMATS WERE DISCUSSING MILITARY ACTION
AND EXPRESSING ALL THEIR VIEWS


THIS FALSE NEWS IS ALWAYS UNSPOKEN
AND ALWAYS CREATES SUCH MAYHEM
WHEN ALL DIPLOMATS DISCUSS MILITARY ACTION
PRESIDENT TRUMP MUST ALWAYS LEAD THEM

A rush I used to feel, stress that seemed much too real
On this time I look with nostalgia, but from a rerun I may not salvage

Sleep always escaped me, an hour here and there how great that would be
But my greatest enemy perhaps - loss of control would cause a relapse

On rising I was oft unsure whether my thoughts were pure
Ready to fight, I felt I’d been up all night

My body is white and shakes with terror,
The effects of adrenaline caused by fear, countless times in the first year

My members swing as if to fight, acting as if they’re in fright
In addition to this, my tics are amiss

My vision is foggy and gray; I guess I can see halfway
And the edges seem dim, so in this misty night I remain; this is nothing to disdain

Thoughts which are surely not mine, images race with speedy pace
They clearly have no logic, I wonder if this result is neurologic

Sudden terror I feel, but alone I am and this alarm is not real
My sanity I check, glad I did before I hit the deck

My insides churn and swirl, I almost want to hurl
Soft and tender I am inside, it wants to come out the other side

My limbs I sometimes feel; if not lost, then here and seem unreal
Surely they are not mine; they haven’t felt like this since I had a child’s mind

Perhaps from my body I’ll detach, and float up here holding for a rematch
A chance to process what’s happening down there I guess, this is such a mess

Always on alert, with blind death I will not flirt
You’ll never stand behind me, this is my new reality

I know you’re real, but an orchestra I now sense; your legitimacy is concealed
This weird world appears strange to me, a lot smaller than it used to be

Oft I feel generally ill, I fear that **** me this great general will
A day or two sick they say is normal, but after a year or two this became my normal

They say exercise is good for the heart, but I think palpating like this is not smart
Sitting here still, now at a hundred and fifty – on its final race it may be

In circles I tend to walk, my bearing I’m trying to clock
Wobbly I stand with my head in my hands; I must look like an oddity

My thoughts drifted to life and death, what was more serious than breath?
Life I must content to preserve and defend, what is more basic to comprehend?

More than daily I faced my God, on the brink of death I thought
Powerlessly mortal I always felt, now immortal I tend to feel

Pleasant memories from this time are few; I wonder if I even get déjà vu?
Of this time I have little sense, was this for my defense?

If you wonder what good came of this, look to God without whom I’d be in the abyss
And that’s not all: accepting death repeatedly, to face the enemy I am free

Intensity of this degree I may never enjoy again; to wish for this I feel I am crazy
This is broken, can’t you see? A prisoner who doesn’t want to be set free!

A life filled with adventure took its toll, always testing my heart and soul
On the other side I am now, fighting boredom and that event – but in a way, I feel dead anyhow

I'm tired and
my eyes burn from posting
these poems on private,
so many I keep hidden
due to my dreaded
overthinking process.

Somewhere there is a piece of paper flying over an ocean,
over mountains no one can measure or name,
over houses that haven't felt a heartbeat
in years.

It's a paper with your initials and mine,
a message to me from you.

And while it travels over magic and forgotten adventures,
I sit in anticipation for those strokes of ink
on paper, and the warmth of your fingers
with skylines in my sight.

Are you lonely after a divorce?
Not as lonely as you were before,
Are you ever going to 'do it' again, mate?
Yes, if you get really desperate,
Shall you ever remarry, missing it?
Yes, if you are a total *******!!!
Post trauma, post divorce,
Disenfranchised, just like before!