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Countdowns have always seemed bittersweet to me..
The steady ticking away of time
The trickle of sand through the hourglass.
The fading of connections not curated.

I’ve always been morbidly aware of my own doomsday clock,
Slowly beating, decreasing, releasing my
Seconds into the atmosphere around me,
As I wait, sometimes impatiently, for it to hit zero.

Some days, I hope for my hourglass to run dry,
And while I know that that isn’t a healthy mindset,
Some days it is all that I can do to not hurry it along.

Not to take that revolver in my dad’s lockbox,
Not to take those pills in the medicine cabinet,
Not to take that rope and the one wobbly stool
that has sat at our bar for the past five years…

Just beckoning me.
Just wanting me to take that final step
into sweet, sweet oblivion.

If I do take that final step..
Who would be there to pick up the pieces for them?
To clean up the mess that this disgusting body left behind?

Who would be there to finish my paintings,
To sing my unsung list that is ever-expanding,
To write these words that have seemed so forced these past months?

Who would be there for them, when I could not be?
Someone, I am sure, but I have been told that I am irreplaceable,
And while I may not believe that,
I am scared of leaving a mess behind
That my mother cannot bring herself to clean up.

I am scared of leaving behind a mess that would irrevocably break my father,
A mess that would torment my brothers,
A mess that my sisters would never even remember.

And maybe..
Maybe I am scared of the call of oblivion..
Or scared of the unknowingness of it all, rather.

Or perhaps I am tired of thinking
of myself as a mess to be cleaned up,
Nothing more, and nothing less.

And maybe
That is all I need
To survive one more day.
I haven't been as active as I used to be.. Life gets tiring after awhile.
M Sep 2022
It scorched the Earth beneath my feet,
Forever tainted and augmented how I experience my world,
the world around me.

Things look different. Taste odd. Sound funny.

You can never go back. Never undo.

What's done is done.

And now,
Well, now,
You must live in the aftermath.

There has only ever been the aftermath.
The before time was a story you'd tell yourself to sleep better
        at night.
Stories of being Loved, Seen, Cared for, Known.
All fairytales that you'd gorge yourself on,
Imagine living in.

Anything to take away the pain,
Anything to make the loneliness stop.

As you grew, you leaned on other things to take away the
        feelings: cutting, eating, distracting, dissociating.

Make it numb.
Make it tolerable.                    
It hardened you.
Broke parts of you.
While the world around you continued to take.

You tried to stay afloat.

Sometimes, flirting with the idea of going under,
Wishing and praying to let the waves wash you away.
Never letting them.

Always trying.
Trying to rebuild from the rubble at your feet.

Some time, along the way, forgetting,
                                                                ­   it wasn't your bomb.
                                     You didn't detonate.

It wasn't your dilapidated, abused house - you Just lived there.

It wasn't.
It isn't.
It wasn't your fault.
It never was.
Wrote this after therapy. It is Never your fault.
Cat Mar 2022
I want to die
But I can not right now
It’s scary and forever
But it is sounding so nice
Right now

It’s overwhelming and
I feel frustration
On a daily rotation
I cry and complain

You're always there for me
I feel like I am emotionally
Draining to you my dear
I want to not feel this way
But everything feels not ok

Please take away this feeling
Because I feel way too much
It is like I am always overfilling
Emotions always cloud my day
I get stressed and I can not focus
On really anything or anyone that matters

I feel selfish and annoying and rude
I can not help it and I am sorry
I feel useless and I want out
I want to not exist but also have a happy
oh so happy life.
Please fix me, please save me,
I’m so scared without you.
jude rigor Mar 2022
i started this poem
when i was
nearly 23
i'm 24 now
almost 25
but i still feel
like a child.

trying drugs,
loving the man
who would **** me.
and i'd forgive him
take him back into my arms
let him touch me anywhere
just to feel something.
he smokes
and smokes
and smokes
through a haze
of drugs and
shame. he spoke
useless fragile
words and i drank
them up eagerly.
they tasted like
and ice.

when i'm 20
i find a therapist.
no more drugs;
still loving him.
i slide a new slate
across the kitchen
table just for him.
but it's cracking
as his fingers
pick it up,
shattering in
place. he moves
from stone
to skin. rips
and tears
until i'm

still in therapy,
i tell him
it's okay
that he
it was
the drugs:
not me.
but when i
tell him how
much it hurts
he says
maybe you
should work on that
in therapy.
i lean into
his side
but being
near him
never quite
feels the
same and
i ache for

i'm 22 when i find out
that being pressured
into *** after
saying no twice
isn't consensual
and he's not
round anymore
but at night
i hold my breath
terrified that he'll
appear. in my
dreams there
are flash
backs lying
in wait, even
though i've
begged for
some dream
less sleep.

when i'm 23
my third or fourth
tells me
she's sorry that
i had to go through
it all. and she listens
as i fade away and keeps
listening until i
can feel the earth
at my feet
once more.
she's a good
sort. i'm sad
when she

24 creeps
upon me
like a scratchy
sweater. i want to
shrug it off of my
shoulders, but it's
too cold. i'm no
longer the things
that happened
to me in that
darkening room,
and at twilight
most nights
i no longer find
myself thinking of

i feel so old.
my bones always
hurt, the cat's food
is so expensive, and
i always have chicken
in the freezer. but
i can't bring myself
to eat. the medications
keep the ache at bay
but i feel it waiting.
at least my cat always
purrs when i feed him.
makes me feel
a little

my chance to grow
got pushed back a
few years
and i probably grew
anyways, unknowingly
pushing back against
invisible walls waiting
for one to finally give.

i hate that i'm here
trapped in adolescence
i hate that i'm still
writing about him
about what happened
and how much it still
hurts me.

maybe when i'm 25
i'll try to edit
this poem.
i found this unfinished poem and decided to re-write it. it's a lot. i tried to tag trigger warnings so i hope this didn't make anyone upset. i should edit this one day. [tw: sa] = [trigger warning: ****** assaul t]
There was once a fella named Jules

Who packed his bags, and got nothing to lose

Before he passed away,

His mother was sick

Dad went off his own way.

Jules went on to a life worth knowing;

That to love is to heal

And we learn by hurting

As he was leaving

He looked on a picture

Of a former lover who hate him

He felt nothing but one thing

That she loved him dearly.

He went to the bath

Closed the door behind his back

Laid down on the floor

With mom and dad.

As he stared at their lifeless bodies.

He shared them a laugh:

"Mom, dad... your son was bad"

Sirens wail from a distance

As I stared on the floor and caressed

My dear Jules' head

"Oh what fools we have become"

"I wish I was there"

...He did what he needs done
For he still does care.
Been keeping my dark thoughts far too long...
I just needed a release from everything.

Everyone please take good care of yourselves.
Eddie Brewer Dec 2021
the blood drips down my legs
oh my
what have i done this time?
The warm feeling of
the blood leaking
is the worst,
but it's comforting
knowing the blood is real
knowing that I'm still alive.
The blood drips down my legs
Its stings a lot
what happened to the happy
little kid I once was.
"That's okay though"
I whisper to myself
as i close my eyes and
fall asleep.
The blood drips down my legs
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