I’m so sick of constantly being rushed, I’m sick of being told I’m doing something wrong, I so ******* done with being threatened to be beaten the **** out of it have my stuff smashed by both ******* parents. Im sick of being told that not wanting to do something is wrong or being made to feel so.
I just don’t get why it’s okay for a parent to tell you that they are going to beat the living **** out of you.
Or “oh you’re cutting yourself because you want attention, but don’t worry if I tell you that everyday you’ll realise that it’s stupid, because Tianna is such a independent, down to earth girl, who really just wants to fit in.”
“Oh yea she was in hospital, she slipped and fell. And had to get stitches, she’s fine now though. I’m totally not lying because I’m disappointed and very embarrassed that my daughter turned out to be a disgusting, lazy, attention seeker.”
“Oh how’s Tianna? She’s great she has her faults more than not but she’s honestly great to have around lie and I used to trust her so so much”
“I’ve thought about kicking you out, again. But, that would look bad on ME. Don’t you know how much I ******* hate you sometimes. Like, I look at you and have no love for you. ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME.
You’re behaviour reflects on ME. And those scars make ME feel sick.”
Oh cause don’t worry mummy you don’t need to worry about me anymore because you can’t worry about someone who doesn’t worry about themselves.
I’m just so done with acting like nothing is wrong.
Or actually being scared when someone says they have a problem, but not the scared scared. Like the scared of how you’re gonna punish yourself this time
Feeling the need to say sorry 100 times and assure them that you care deeply about them 200 times
I’m so sick of feeling like EVERYONE has a problem. When really it’s me who has a ‘problem’
Don’t take this the wrong way but that’s one thing about love. When you are so deeply in love with a person their hurt falls on you too. Their anger angers you. Then arguments. Both of you are ****** up and broken. But you love eachother so much that you just keep on relying on one another to climb up the wall then pull you up too
But that’s the thing both of you are too ******* weak to do that
So it’s a cycle of getting down, climbing up, failing at pulling up the other one, getting down, then switch
Self harm is self harm. Excessively or not it’s still stupid. Temporary pain even the smartest people know won’t help in the long run
But we all repeat and repeat. Oh but it looks so pretty and it’s beauty distracts me from the ugly truth.
But the pain is always gonna ******* linger and linger until one day you realise that sad isn’t the only way. Sad is one way. The wrong way but looks so identical to happiness it’s cousin from across town.
So many people make the mistake of mistaking happy as sad but they all one day find the path to happy.
After walking past so many signs saying no. No this is not the way
They finally realise that the only person who can help them is themselves
In the words of Neil Hilborn; “I don’t think being creative and mentally ill is just related, i believe it’s the same thing.”

I hate my mind.

You told me you loved me,
You lied to my face.
You stole my heart,
And put it in a case.

You locked it away,
So far away.
You own it, you stole it,
It can't run away.

You told me you loved me,,
You lied to my face.
You closed my mouth,
Just incase.

You told me not to tell anyone,
You made me promise.
You made me quiet,
I still broke that promise.

You told me you loved me,
You lied to my face.
You stole my mind,
and entrapped it away.

You bruised me,
You hurt me.
This isn't the way.
Why did you have to
Do it anyway?

You told me you loved me,
You lied to them.
You put on a smile,
And a façade.
They believed you,
And threw my words away.

You told me you loved me,
You still lied to the rest.
I knew you were lying,
This wasn't what was best.

You lied, you pried,
You said you wouldn't do it again.
I cried, and cried,
You still inflicted the pain.

You told me you loved me,
You lied to yourself.
You said you were sorry,
But that couldn't help.

Stop, oh stop,
You did it, nonstop.
You hit, you bit,
I just wasn't enough.

You told me you loved me,
You lied, oh you ******* lied!
You could never love,
With your demons inside.

Cello cords snap, slice, fresh
Wounds bloom next to old scabs
Rosy slits puncture through cotton gloves
With thread and time, they say
We’ll mend.
Intertwining blows face a silent war
Unwinded by a cannon salute.
Across the battlefield
Conductors pick up their batons
Holding ready
Waiting
For you to throw
The opening note
Waiting
For me to throw
The first Molotov
Shatters.
The trumpet hook screeches
A familiar overture blares
Confetti glass garnishes our drinks
Gasoline reek, whiskey aftertaste
A night of dancing dares.
We fall back
Into a bed of thorns
Composed by sleepless fights
We have not learned to knit or sew
Our petals dangle from the receptacle
Swaying to the chorus.

amidst the terrifying news
that oozes daily from our television
I wonder what our world is like

is there indeed nothing to report
but global warming  war  and refugees
greedy power mongers  and ****** politicians

why does the money I donate
seem not to make a difference
in suffering Africa
end global violence and exploitation
help refugees to find a home

I wish the news were more exhiliarating
and lift our souls
rather then send them
into useless desperation

Is war coming? Are we headed for another crazy cataclysm?
My sons, draft age. Only now can I appreciate the pain
so sharp it drains the color from one's eyes, your reason
for living gone in a spasm of violence to be forgotten
never by survivors. This fear could become real as no movie
is surreal enough to distract attention from the certainty
you did not do enough to deflect man's trajectory.

All could be well in the end but history portends
a periodic bloodletting followed by a quietus
without mercy. What's the best that can be said:
he died beside his friends and buddies. Steady
on to your own inquest and rest. A perfect rest
that improves upon the inadequacy of your efforts.
What solace can be found in the remains of marriage.

So you better fight back now even if that means
war comes sooner. At least you're fighting back, but how?
Take a minute to meditate on purpose. Science
cannot save you, neither can religion. Abstaining
from violence with love, letting prisoners go, detaining
no one at the border, inviting Chinese and Russian
scientists to our shores, defusing your own anger before it detonates,

none may be enough to save your sons.
A war president needs war, whatever. A trained
and deadly warfighter. You become what history wants
you to become. You survive if you're lucky, if not
so what, your old parents will be alive only briefly to mourn.
Then they too go to their good graves and the pain dies down.
In the meantime a new generation builds a new space station.

Since the vortex will be ******* up the poor,
let's not let the rich escape untouched. All go down
together, no one hoards gold or gets away with fiction.
If we have to fight let's make sure we fight as one,
the sons of the rich side by side with the poor's sons
and their daughters. You want slaughter? Then
let every city and back road know the new order.

I would rather watch Lalaland ten times over than have
to write this poem. I can leave home and live
in a tent or bunkhouse, eat dinner out of a tin cup
and drink water from a wooden bowl, give up
music and most of my memories to save my sons,
to save the world and avoid this war.
But that rarely happens. One is lost and found in what happens.