#reclusive
This room was taught to hold its breath,
When I return through sideways doors.
It never asks for confessions or depth—
Just witnesses how silence feels as thorns.
The world outside is daytime hinged.
But my world was stitched in neon dusk.
A phantom fang lives deep within
And bites each time I build my trust.
I move in patterns, accidentally bound—
In rituals of coping that lasted too long.
The hours know where I'll be found—
Beside myself, unwillingly wrong.
The ***** laundry I clean but don't.
A second shadow nailed at my heel.
The lamp that needs a light disagrees.
Between being fake and being who I feel.
I keep it clean—or clean enough—
My eyes are dry; my voice is clear.
My morbid truth, dressed in common fluff.
Always finds a way to disappear.
The soul—if that’s still something I hold—
Is brined in need, like selfish sin.
This isn’t wanted or considered bold.
It's survival masquerading as skin.
I never meant to dig this much,
My lack of harmony buried in song.
But a body that's balanced upon a crutch
Is still a body—just not as strong.
I’ve made a friend with myself detached,
Though he eats a lot more than he feeds.
Whispers like he knows he's an accident.
This teaches me, what my own silence means
The habits aren't even the worst of me—
It’s what remains when they're gone.
The way my lungs choose not to breath.
Choosing not to breathe all on their own.
So, I exist in the lowercase,
Half-typed and never quite complete.
But even glitches need their place—
So here I am, on loop. On repeat…
May 27, 2025
May 27, 2025 at 12:44 PM UTC
My audience claps to my stormy choices,
the thunder's loud, with rumbling noises,
the cake that delights and I get to eat,
they all tune in and take their seats
Exhilarated with the chaos I cause,
I smash through their glass doors,
to a dead end of a solid timber one,
I grab an axe, like the shining son.
Black eyes haunt my blackest days,
refuse to take in error of my ways,
chaos interrupts thoughts of redemption,
stormy weather, my boat's long sunken,
Audience award trophy, they clap to me,
as I bitterly & painfully wish to be free,
there's a reason those stars are hard to reach,
other candidates paddle out from the beach.
They keep her on strings and out of my palms,
puppet master taunts so I can't remind calm.
good times are considered bad for ratings
they need me unstable with little persuading
They need me broke and out on the streets,
ratings will shoot up as I burn my sheets,
Naïve, hardly street wise, where do I go?
through the cracks where I lay so low,
They cheer and laugh as I flee with apples,
sleep outside of a spectacular chapel,
freezing with blankets, they pump their fists
tick of approval off their popular lists.
Audience Award trophy goes to me,
blood shot eyes, un-believing
close my eyes in my ***** old blanket,
ashes in wind, scattered to the sea.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC
Trying to fill the days and forcing them to go.
Finding there are too many in a never ending flow.
What to do with time that never seems to end.
Seemingly more hours than with which I can contend.
Playing games and dithering just to pass the time away.
Sleeping endless moments and still finding its today.
Why do all the days seem so very long?
What choice did I make to make time ebb so wrong?
I know it hasn't always passed or seemed to happen in this way.
But oh so long ago since they were all a twenty four hour day.
No rhythm or regularity in times pattern anymore.
Why so many hours and what are the days all for?
I used to measure days by the passing of the sun.
But many times I sleep and of daylight I see none.
You may think I have control of all rhythms in these things.
But why control the repetition tomorrow always brings?
If I sleep eight times and I eat just only three.
Is that not a measure of how long my week should be?
Must I sleep just seven and eat per some schedule too?
Will I then contend with time as I am meant to do?
Will days take new meaning and my hours hold more reward?
Or will the extra hours awake just make me much more bored?
If I sleep twelve times and I eat when I have need to.
Aren't the days still the same length both for me and you?
Do we really share the same cycle if I view it on my own?
Or does time really move much slower for those who are alone?
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
I drew myself back, no one batted an eye.
Reclusive and numb, keeping thoughts inside.
I swallow them down like the pills I wont take
Thoughts that poison, leaving tears in their wake.
I was found, I was lost, I was searching for a fix.
I gave myself away and watched the ticking clock tick.
My time has run out, now what is there left,
Other than to try and replace what I failed to protect.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
Im numb when I talk to people
Not a soul, with whom I connect
Constantly avoiding people I have met
Please, don't get me started on new conversations
Small talk is just diluted death sensations
Out loud, when I speak, I have no malicious intentions
but when brought to the surface I face negative altercations
Losing touch with my place in society
Reality is swallowed by my thoughts, which are rioting
Chaos is threading itself around my roots
My sense of normal I will soon lose
Too long, I have spent alone
Reclusive, I am prone
I always find myself back at not wanting to be alone
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
L is for the way I lose my breath
O is for the only one I am allowed to see
V is very very extra over protective
E is even more reclusive than I have ever been before
And love is all that I have given to you
Love is just a sadistic game to you
We are not in love, we fake it
You've taken my heart and done more than just break it
Cause this "love" was not made for me and you
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
A loose wool-knit sweater had holes in the pattern,
through which her skin was visible both above and below
the dark sports-bra wore stretched across her *******
I could see the thin straps draped over her collarbones,
and thought about the lines they leave in her skin.
Yoga pants squeezed her legs underneath of thigh-high socks,
and both were layered below tall leather boots with low heels.
An olive green fatigue jacket hung open around her and
was adorned with a colorful scarf that lay claim to her neck,
its tassels curled and bounced with each step she took
mirroring precisely the loose curls in her fair hair.
Finger-less gloves left her free to feel the texture of the
pages she turned one by one in a book pulled from the shelf.
She had sat down right in the aisle, planting herself in front of
the poetry section inside of a crowded Barnes and Nobles.
Sitting there with such an elegance, I lack the words for it,
completely unnoticed and free from the numerous
holiday shoppers that were carefully stepping over her,
books in their own arms, and heading for the cash registers.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
tell me, upon returning...
"Returning from where, I've been right here?"
...did you gasp for breath?
"I no longer fool myself into believing that breathing was ever an option,"
-thought my hand out loud
"I merely close my eyes and concede myself to the asphyxiation."
love
"...is my darkness of eternity."
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC