These are voodoo days
When monsters have their way
With the good people alive
So the evil people can thrive.
This is a time when madness
Roams the land to pillage
And rename the boundaries
Of our fine global village.

Children once went to school
And we made sure they learned
What had happened to us all
When dissenting books were burned.
Then too many scary people
Got by with lying to us a lot.
They didn’t have us in mind,
And didn’t care what we thought.

So, their Halloween costumes seem
To only be visible to the eye
When you listen to their chants
Instead of just passing by.
If you listen closely to the words
And not just campaign speech,
You quickly see dictatorship
Is not far out of their reach.

When your friendly candidate
Starts sounding like a Mussolini
Standing up and calling them out
Does not make you a ******.
No, it makes you more of true
Patriot caring for your country
Than guys in expensive suits
Who only care about their money.

"We can't afford to be wrong on this issue."  
~ Francis Chan

With holy anguish hearts are crying
through feeble language urgently trying
to summon the sleeping now to wake
for souls' eternities are at stake

Don’t expect me to say “I’m okay,”
because I started to go to therapy.

Don’t expect me to smile
because I stopped hurting myself.

Don’t expect me to heal
when I can’t go a day without the thought.

Don’t expect anything from me,
you’ll be greatly disappointed.

And don’t expect me to say thank you
when you stay,
I’m too selfish to say anything.

Or maybe I can’t talk, move my lips to form words,
haven’t you noticed?

And now that I’m here,
I can’t even cry without fear cradled next to the tears.
No, no crying for me. Not again.

Don’t expect me to leave my dorm,
When out there, I can’t hear their voices,
because somehow those who don’t know anything about me
make me the most comfortable.

Don’t expect me to say the truth “I’m empty and lost and emotionless and apathetic and so full of nothing, I don’t know how to break,”
because I go out from my dorm
or go to class or any of the clubs.

And expect me to say “I’m fine.”

A mere mortal in the world of men going my own way
Witnessed the red bird fly high in the bright skyline
The experience was tantalizing at the same time full of agony
A scar in the soul and an unforgettable memory  

To see that red bird pass by
Is an honor as well as a curse
Now many people ask me why
For that red bird was the devious of lures

To us, mortals that is
For we will be mesmerized by its splendour
And, for a moment, forget we are just mortals
Then the curse of devotion enraptures our soul

To keep chasing but never reach
To keep seeking but never find
And find in the end all this is for naught
Shouldn’t have chased, shouldn’t have sought

A fish to the bait was I
The start was a foolish heart and a smiling face
And my end was a wrecked heart and tears long dry
Regretful, still I am, remembering those days

Now I forewarn ye mortal men
The mind is inherently weak to worldly temptations
So strengthen your will and your conviction
To elude and prevent that heart wrenching pain

But not all people are like me, so weak
Some have lived with their hearts intact
We’ll see our red birds even if we don’t proactively seek
When time comes, it’s just a matter of choice, what to do and how to act

I don’t know if you will heed my warning
What credibility does a cowardly fool have?
But please believe, I bring good tidings
Sigh, who would believe, am but a loser whining

I seem to reward myself for bad behavior, and while others don’t understand it to be bad, it gnaws at me. Grows like a tumor, because even if an accident, or happenstance, I still seem to shrink, but not before my body rebels and solidifies into making me gorge on fiber until I lose the nerve and rush to other means. I’m not supposed to do it on purpose, not like Lori, and I hold myself back, convinced that my weight-loss is not an extension of my personality, but I cant help but admit I’m obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with an anti-me. My therapist doesn’t see the pattern, and maybe she is right, but I am too busy worrying about becoming obsessed that I have become obsessed with being obsessed. A hundred and seven pounds, and I have had to seriously fight to control myself not to create harm, and when my stomach doesn’t seem to want to let go of food after days, I can’t help but go to my medicine cabinet, find the laxative, and let my body suffer in such an embarassing way.

I watched Lori do it, and I swore I wouldn’t. But I am, even if for the sake of relief, of release. And I swear it’s not a habit, but that means nothing come every Monday when I have to be the beacon at the group weigh-ins, to mark some kind of false sense of hope for others. They call me an inspiration, and even if not intentional, I feel like I have been cheating.

My grandfather asks me every time I tell him about my weight-loss, “Are you sure you aren’t hurting yourself?” and I am reminded of the decades of humiliation he wrought upon me due to my obesity. What right does he have to ask of harm when he helped drive me to four hundred and more pounds? Maybe this is punishment for all the times his words cut deep enough to make me keep eating in anguish. Maybe I’ll just keep losing long after I hit my goal until there is nothing left– not even dust to be carried along with the wind.

Thoughts like that make me worry that it has evolved from lifestyle change to pure, unadulterated obsession. The kind I have seen time and time again.

My family has always been riddled with addicts.

She stood up, her hair pulled back into two braids,
A question lingering on her lips as she stared at me.
“Why don't you want to get better?” She asked, a face of intrusion
I looked at her, feeling for an answer that I knew existed somewhere
“I think,” I started to say, “That I want to, but I've grown so used to feeling wrong,
That I no longer understand how to feel right. There is a monster inside of my body,
he bears my name, he haunts my mind, and whispers to me. He has me wrapped around her finger, a delicious little nightmare.”
The girl stared at me with squinted eyes and a confused smile.
“I don't understand, you put yourself into your work, does he go to? Does your nightmare walk with you everyday?”
“He flows through my fingers into the ink on this page and every page; he leaves me behind sometimes, and when he does, I am less than nothing. Yes, you can see me then, but I am not me without her. My little nightmare's heart is my own. Learning to live without my pretty little nightmare is like being thrown into the ocean and not knowing how to swim.”
A look of dawning appeared in her eyes, spotted with curiosity,
In this place of white walls and white floors and white beds
This was the only color
“Wouldn't it help if you weren't left alone with her? You always lock yourself away in that awful room with no one to help you.”
I could reply with a sharp retort, a tactic of distance,
But she wasn't being mean and simply wanted to understand
Which is more than most have tried to do.
“I isolate myself because fighting her and speaking with you are exhausting to a guy like me.”
I gave her a weak smile, a shattered smile, but a smile with red lips and white teeth all the same.
“What kind of guy are you?”
My eyes faded and my mouth shut
A streak of memory burst through my heart, a twisted bolt poisoned
“A broken one.”
She gave me a toothy grin, a contagious grin
and skipped up to me with her little red shoes.
“Let me put you back together again. I promise I won't lose a piece.”
She grabbed my hands and pulled me out of my chair
Fear shocked my body as my sleeves were pulled away,
revealing the masterpiece I'd drawn on my skin with iron
But the little girl only took out a band aid and put it over a scar, saying
“I won't let you fall apart again. I'll help you learn to live again. I promise.”
She gave me her pinky finger and crossed it over mine. “Pinky promise.”
And then jumped up and down with excitement.
I looked over as a white gowned woman entered the room.
“Miss,” I called out. “Why is she here?” I pointed to the little girl
The nurse said with a sad truth, “She brought herself in, said her mother left her and she hurt and that this is where hurting people came, sweet child.”
I looked back at the child, grinning at me
And she stared back at me, a whisper caressing her mind
“Please don't leave me. Everyone leaves. Are you going to leave?”
I took her in my arms, and told her this—
“I won't go away. I'll stay with you and you'll stay with me. I promise.”