Shouldn't have to go to rehab.

They shouldn't have to spend a month,
surrounded by other ****-ups who are ruining their lives,
to get their **** together before their family disowns them

Girls your age shouldn't be addicts.

They shouldn't have drinking problems,
manic spending,
kleptomania,
or a coke problem

Girls your age
shouldn't have problems.

You're seventeen. Shut up and get a job.

swallow the stars
whole.

glow from the inside out
as the pain of what you've done
spreads seeping through your body
filling your veins
with excruciating light.

close your eyes against it and
find it's to no avail
the bright follows, the light suspends
behind your eyes, pinpricks
finding their way out
working their way in.

sell yourself for borrowed silver
scatter it on the ground as later
you cry out for a redemption
that never came.

finally
submit to the silence
you've swallowed the stars now
and there is no one else
there is just becoming
numb.

Running down the halls.
The dull white walls of those crazy halls.
Yes I was mid mania.
Screaming!
I should have been ashamed.
Then again it wasn't me who took the blame.
I needed to let loose.
I needed to Scream!!!
So I ran down the halls.
The white dull halls of Willow trees.
Yes I was there for five or so months.
Way more than the expected 90 days.
I was running.
The staff told me to calm down.
But I can't and I'm not hurting anyone.
I rannnnnn!!!!
Screaming!!!!
The hall Tecs stared.
I laugh.
Then later I leave my mania behind.
I lay in front of the blue doors and wait for the boys to come back from dinner.
Travis would be with them.
He was like a brother.
I lied by the blue doors.
Depression swept over me.
It was the mania dropping me down.
Meds were late.
I went and found Sammy.
She was my crush.
She had a beautiful voice and was like family.
We all were family

Welcome to the house of addictions: please, leave your assumptions at the door. . .

             I emptied my pockets
I sorted the change
                My conscience receding
Mentality, deranged

                A straw in my nose
And a blade in my hand
                The velvet of breathing,
Crushed on command

                A line of white rabbit
Appears on my desk
                Clean, and well sorted,
Yet I am a mess

                If a substance is stronger
Than myself, alone,
                Perhaps I should ***** it
Addictively prone

                For, the path of assumptions
Undoubtedly leads
                To the house of addictions
In which you’ll find me. . .

My car is in the bat cave,
The lower chamber's lit;
All the doors are locked,
The drapes don't leave a slit.
I'm in here all alone,
Haven't shaved for days;
My fingers need attention,
My bed is like my grave.
There's dishes in the kitchen sink,
The refuse starts to stink.
I'm underground.
No calls, no texts, no tweets.
I have my bread and butter,
If only I could eat.
I have a need to peek outside
Where the living own the streets.
I'm better off than dead,
I'll rise up from this sleep;
Don't call my name
To call me forth,
At present I'm too deep.
When time is ready,
And I'm steady,
I'll push aside the lid,
Walk from this crypt,
Abandon ship,
And bask in light above.

When I was a child, I was told the story of my Grandfathers mother she was a refugee from mother Russia.
He told me that we were no longer considered white that is a luxury.
And we have become subhuman in most places.
We were either locked behind iron walls to be kept in or out.

He told me how they sacked and burned our villages.
Then they proceeded to chase us on horseback, with swords pointed too the distant future.

She was led to the nearest boat, headed towards The Land Of Opportunity.

At the island she was locked away for Tuberculose and possibly Lice
When leaving she refused to put an X for her name for obvious reasons.
So she signed ****.

Years later I found out, she had opened a pawn shop down south.
In what now is the forth most segregated area in the states.
She sat outside with a shotgun in a rocking chair and windows barred.
when there King died.

Sadly, the last thing remembered by my Papa's mother including my family is a fist fight.
In Santa Barbra.
I saw the look of panic and pain on her despondent face.
At this point that look was a common occurrence in my day to day life.
Hence, the reason I wasn't allowed at the funeral.
I was locked away at another rehabilitation center.
For crimes I had of course never committed

Since then I have not laid any tulips or morning prayers.