my therapist says, it's time you write about your psychosis
I show her a journal full of names, and some dreams
That I may or may not have had.
Inside my journal, there are pieces of my body and flowers,
There is a to-do list with nothing crossed off,
There is a hidden script for a medication I never got filled;
There are pictures over every word, disguised in a metaphor
I can't remember the language to describe.
Expression makes the most sense when you are
Expressing the bad.
This is eruption, compulsion that is combusting from my pencil and into black ink.
I point to the bugs that crawl over the page and say,
I don't have to. My psychosis is in every line.
It is in my eyes darting back and forth.
I write so much the page turns black and I have to erase it.
My psychosis is the shadow trail behind every letter.
It is the blood coming out of my mouth when I say I'll Do Better,
The scratches on my hands and feet are from holding on too tight
To demons that know how to fight back.
It is my teeth, and the holes inside of them, spit onto the page.
Spit onto the floor of my therapists wooden office.
I wince. I turn the page.
I try to say it so many times it becomes meaningless.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
I spit again.
My mind looks like a ******* minefield and these words are just the smoke.

i insist on suffocating slowly
still
    i refuse to die
    imposing my will to weakness
    avoiding applying the "why"

implications are closing in, oppressive
my mind is open, fluid
suggestive
interposing meaning and form with
    the spoken and written letter

the light source filtered through all this
            wreckage
  the squeaking moving in, oppressive
  regressive, the way my vantage remains
a disjointed unit-whole

you persist, and i suffocate quickly
you ask so nicely for me to die
deposing my God ****** will to power
why do i seem to avoid the "apply"?

THE SYMBOL ON MY HAND IS BURNING

    into the flesh, and back out from inside
illuminates Prison, a chasm, a prism
dividing a spectrum of impossible light

we wholly refract the soma, the psyche
The Panic transforms into beauty inane
compulsion, obsession, redemption, addiction
we know we're alive    
                      we perpetuate pain

When I was nine years old, my mother threw me into the shower.
Holding the removable shower facet in my face and proceeded to drown me.
This wasn’t a regular occurrence, fully clothed body and screaming for her to stop.
Choking, crying as this water cascaded into my open mouth while I struggled against the grasp of a plump body.
This scene, shattering protrusion of fear and betrayal.
A woman clawing out of flesh from the inside. “Don’t hurt her, she’s your daughter” one voice said but the urge was too strong.
I knew this woman, as she ripped me sleeping from my bedroom.
The smaller room in a two bedroom duplex adjacent to the bathroom and not very far.
“God wants me to do this”echoed repeatedly.
My brain registers the reality that she doesn’t intend to hurt me but I can’t breathe.
This only lasts a few minutes, she has done the lords work of cleansing the evil from me.
My mother apologizes profusely, but she is still my mother.
She holds me and dries me off.
I cry.
The moment passes.
And everything is normal.

Sitting still inside of a cavernous house
As the dust tickles the nose of a whitened mouse
The windows need cleaning, my bed sheets a washing
’Tis a pity I’m filthy, too.
Vibratos of floor creaks ache their pains
Throughout the haze of the summer rains
And the creased paper that lies precariously on my desk
Trembles like the madman who set it there.

Shadows float like bubbles off the ground
And rumble collectively and make soft sound
Their silhouettes quiver; their souls give and shiver
As they mix and discombobulate the atmosphere.
And now, the sounds appear once more
Could it be that someone is at the door?
I dare not move nor attempt to exist
Inside my impenetrable defense of this.

Now, I feel my volcanoes beginning to erupt
As the foggy silence is suddenly made to disrupt
For a thousand voices and more are born
And create lives of their very own.
Hands that belong to exact-looking men
Demolish the foundation of my once safe den
However, when the dust settles, I look to myself
And realize that it was once again me.

Closing without an appearance as it seemed into the mind of the clock a tick mentioned once my name and second to tick it the same and am I deferent or do I change what slept into the quite breath once too deep to further sleep  into dreams I wake to the many days of night or sleep to want more light which seems too ease through my eyes dare I blink once to notice and tire to know if anymore would late the stress that weighs like the psychotic sight to drown what left me a name mentioned to the corner of my face and speaks once as it did appear into an amount of ticking left in into my head as left unsaid I walked cornered to my face into the mirror I face my turn into the beginning of what I meant to mention smiles turn and my eyes wait far from idle and look I present the finish face of an internal clock of missing parts that were filled like the hand of mechanical man like knuckles busted turned to every click like clink a shuffling grasp of machine like hands into the machine forgotten like death onto the machine clock, tick and falls all the names goes into your name ***** the **** name