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Tide Islands Jan 2015
. .
. . . .
I used to
do it everyday.
I pushed it beneath my skin;
I pulled it out like the splinters lodged in my foot
that I got from falling down the wooden staircase.
I thought I was inhaling paradise,
when I was just swallowing
my own destruction.
. . . . . . .
But it made
me feel alive for the
first time in my life. So alive that,
at the time, I couldn't recognize the snare that had
hooked me at the bottom of those decaying stairs.
I refused to see the lie, dragging me
further into the depths
of hollow eyes.
. . . .
. .
One of the lowest points in my life.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
You can’t chase me
on my own mountain;
I know every rock and *****.
If you try and follow me
to the peak,
the cold winds
will make you fall.
If you try to climb
the other side,
the sharp rocks
will crumble apart.
I’m up here
because it’s safe,
and you can’t navigate
the steep terrain.
But you won’t give up
which worries me,
because if you find
the right path,
I’ll have to find
a new mountain.
Old one. Because I didn't have time to write today.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
Here, I cannot stay.
These buildings. These people;
I'm drowning in their faces.
My lungs ache; they are
filled with the commonplace,
and they must be emptied.
I will never go back.

© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Mar 2015
Drinking won’t
save you.
And the drugs
never work.
Not even
or *** with
some dead-
eyed ****.
Though you
try and try,
sadly, you
never learn:
The next day,
it still hurts like
cigarette burns.
Wrote this back in 2010, and I hate to say, but it's still relevant.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
I’ve always been close with the snow,
since your funeral that one January.
I hadn’t really thought about why,
until I went to visit that place where
we scattered your ashes into the winds
of that blizzard in the dead of winter.
Your mother had said that the snowstorm
was the best time to let you go,
since you had always wanted to fly away.
I didn’t realize at the time I released
a fistful of your remains,
just how familiar the icy flakes felt against me.
The thing about the snow,
is that if you stand in it long enough,
you become so numb that it hurts.
You can’t feel your senses, only the winter’s cold.
And that’s as close as I’ve ever come to
explaining what it’s like being without you.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Mar 2015
I awaken
to sunlight
filtering through
the blinds
and pouring into
the empty
coffee cup
on the nightstand.
I am warm,
but not from
a lover.
The empty space
in my bed
and in my chest
serves as
a reminder
that the warmth
is from the
I sometimes wonder,
on mornings
like this,
if there is an
where you are
the one awake,
watching sunlight
filtering through
the blinds
and filling the
empty coffee cup
on the nightstand,
but not the
empty space
in your bed
or in your chest.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Jan 2015
My sorrow has nourished these lands,
where I've sown
the tears of your remains.
It will continue until
the last gasp of air escapes my lungs
in a tomorrow far away.
The dense fog of despair will clear after the winds
carry me to you.
Then, sunlight shall pour through the clouds
and fill the fields
with a splendor that won't be observed
by people who are too busy
living with their minds closed off
and eyelids crusted shut.
In death, they shall join us as limbo roses, wild daisies,
Queen Anne's Lace, living on
in forgotten memories, vibrations, and colors only seen
through the cones of bee eyes.
One day, the glaciers will melt, and humans
will become mere fables
whispered about in the ballads of tidal waves
that eat away at the dust
from the haunted world of yesterday.
Not long from then,
the sun will engulf us, and we shall join the constellations
of a far off planet.
Galaxies will collide, and we'll become lost
between the cross stitches
of unnamed dimensions when time no longer ticks.
Eternity won't remember
our names, but it will have breathed them
for just a moment.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Jan 2015
It’s that month again where everything’s frozen.
The earth, the air—it’s like time is broken.
I tell myself I just have to make it through one more January.
Then maybe I’ll be okay in the arms of February.
March will soon pass, carrying with it the Spring.
Perhaps the tears of April shall return my wings.
May will twist its roots through the damp earth.
Then June shall arrive and Summer will give birth
to the heat of July and a sky, cloudless blue.
I’ll be thinking of August, the month I first kissed you,
and remembering those years we spent together.
So long, yet so short, but somehow felt like forever.
Again it will be September, the month of your accident.
It was that same Fall, we found out I was pregnant.
Through October, I’ll build nothing but dread.
By the time November comes, I’ll be halfway dead.
December is preparation not for a beginning, but an end.
The cold Winters of January will return once again.
That was the month I lost you and our baby.
Time hasn’t healed me; every day feels like January.
But I promised myself I would make it through.
I must conquer each January. I must continue;
I am much unwell every January. I may not post for a while.
For sure, something will be posted on the 19th.

(It's weird writing the year...***)
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
I’m too afraid
to die.
And far too sad
to live.
And the place
in between
life and death
is such
a lonely place
to exist.
But I am trying my best to live.
Tide Islands Dec 2014
The empty space in my bed
constantly reminds me that I’m alone.
The walls around this house
no longer feel quite like a home.
I’m blocking out the memories
of you within my head.
I’m staring at the ceiling instead
of books I should have read.
There’s a hole inside my heart and
self-destruction in my brain.
These voices in my mind are
slowly driving me insane.
I can’t remember when
I smiled the last time.
I’m drowning all my sorrows
in *****, gin, and wine.
I’m calling out for help, but
not a soul can hear my voice.
I’m tired of people telling me
that happiness is a choice.
I’m waiting for something to happen
just so they know how I feel.
I’m so **** isolated that
this loneliness seems unreal.
This piece was meant to show the hideous face of a severe mental disorder. If I have to correct one more person, asking them to remove a comment about this saying this is "tragically beautiful," I'm going to rip my ******* hair out. I wrote this during a very dark time, I worked through it, and I thought it would be a good piece to illustrate the hell I put up with. Stop romanticizing mental disorders!
If you think this is beautiful, you've missed the purpose of this piece,
and personally, I have a problem with you.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
Maybe it's a good thing I have a broken heart.
I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd doesn't demand very much;
they just want to be loved.
And giving them a piece of me
is all I'm capable of.
Maybe I'd be happier if my heart was whole.
But I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd requires a lot of love
and needs me to be there.
And if my heart wasn't in pieces,
it'd be much harder to share.
A kitten followed me home today and inspired me to write this.

© J.E. DuPont 2014
Tide Islands Dec 2014
The glow from your cigarette
emits just enough light
to cast a shadow and illuminate your eyes.
I'm legally blind, but not blind enough
to miss the tears you attempt to hide
as you inhale.
You don't think I can see,
so you smile and attempt to control
the tremor in your voice.
I pretend not to notice,

But I know that your
father made you
cry again.

You realize that I noticed,
and yet, you don't say a thing.
We both pretend I didn't see,
even though we're both bad at pretending.
The silence envelops us,
and we refuse to say anything.
We've always used unspoken excuses
as a barrier between us,
because we aren't brave enough,
because your problems are your problems,
and mine are mine.

But I know that your
father made you
cry again.

There isn't a good enough reason why.
We don't have to have one,
and we don't look for one either.
That's just the way it's always been,
and I don't expect it to change.
Even though it probably should,
we'll continue to pretend.
So I ask for a cigarette, and it
casts a shadow and illuminates my eyes,
that aren't really that blind,

Because I know that your
father made you
cry again.

And that won't change, no matter what we pretend.
This one was written sometime in 2006.
(c) J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Jan 2015
The night fades like cigarette smoke into the fog,
as dawn is brought upon the horizon by loon calls.
Used needles and condoms sit between the rocks.
The waves push plastic bags and empty bottles.
Ghosts of lost dreams are haunting the shoreline.
You're looking at me, while I'm looking for salvation.
Although you're with me, I'm still dying inside.
I blink, hoping for rain instead of the sunlight.
If this is living, I'm not sure I want to be alive.
But you touch my hand and I look at your face,
and somehow your smile brings me far from here.
The colors in your eyes take me somewhere nice.
I wish I could drown there instead of rotting here.
You blink; I wonder if your hell is anything like mine.
Are you wishing you could drown in my eyes,
seeking salvation, hoping for rain instead of sunlight?
I'll never ask, because I know you won't tell.
We don't speak of these things. We only feel them,
and we feel them alone, because that is how we are.
The waters crash against the rocks; you sigh,
and, now, I'm certain, you're as empty as I am.
That sigh says more than your words ever have.
Your mind is more polluted than the murky waters,
twice as grimy as the spaces between the rocks.
The ghosts of your lost dreams are waltzing with mine.
I'll stay here alone, wandering the haunted shoreline
if it means you'll drown somewhere nice in my eyes
instead of rotting in this awful place with me.
I decided I'm going to post old poetry on the days I can get out of bed. Today was better than yesterday, but tomorrow could be five times as bad as today. I won't know. I'm trying.

© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
He is alone
in his house upon the cliffs,
his eyes far away.
He writes with his heart open.
He weeps with tears
as salty as the foam
crashing upon the cliffs.
The corners of his lips
don't turn up
like the corners of the pages.
His tears fall on the ink,
drowning his words.
For Ethan
Tide Islands Jan 2015
We are islands, you and I,
two lonely islands at low tide.

we are separate, yet, in this sea together
through rain, or shine, or any weather

I see you across the ocean blue,
and I want to give my love to you.

i know your shores i'll never reach
but the waves carry my love towards your beach

You smile in the way that islands do,
and the winds bring your love back to me, too.

we've learned to be happy sitting here
but the tides are changing fast, i fear

I can't love you forever, only a moment in time,
because soon we will drown, come high tide.

forever is a long time anyway
and i'm glad to have known you, if only for a day

Please, don't be afraid when we sink;
there's less meaning in eternity than in a blink.

know that i love you as we drown
i promise it's alright that we won't be around

It's okay, because, one day, everyone's gone.
The ocean waves will continue on...

i send my love to you once more
and the water rises above our shores

We were islands, you and me,
two lonely islands drowned in the sea.*

© c.v. & J.E. DuPont
In case you were ever wondering why my name is Tide Islands on here,
this is it.
This is one of the only collaboration poems I have ever done in my life.
It's special to me because it was written by my fiance and I when we  were teenagers.
(I am italics, he's regular font.)
Today is the anniversary of his death:
January 19th.
I apologize for his grammar (it was kind of his style), and the fact that this poem isn't really all that good since we wrote it when we were young, but I can't really change it now that he's gone.
I wish I had a date on this one, but unfortunately, I don't.
I never wrote the date when I was younger, which I really regret not doing.
But yeah.
Tide Islands Dec 2014
I have evolved

to survive in the blackest depths
where there is no light, no sound.
To survive at the tallest heights
where the air is too thin to breathe.
Yet, I am being crushed by the immense pressure
of the unexplored trenches of my mind.
I am being suffocated by the lack of oxygen
at the sickening peaks of my vacant euphoria.

I have evolved

not to thrive, not to live, but to survive, to exist.
I can't remember the last time I felt human
at the apex or the bottom of my trivial existence.
I don't believe that I ever was, because
humans have evolved to live
on stable grounds below the cliffs.
They have evolved to build the ships
that sail above me while I drift.

I have evolved

                                                   ­                                                     only to exist.
I don't necessarily believe this, but sometimes this is what it feels like.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
To say I thought about you
was an understatement.
My lungs ached with the
sound of your name
pouring out with my breath.
It sounded so lovely paired
with an ampersand and mine.
My heart fell into rhythm
with each syllable that tumbled
from between your lips.
It pounded so longingly
within the walls of my chest.
My nose savored the scent
of you that wafted into
my nostrils when we passed.
You smelled like pine needles,
cigarettes, and the cold.
My eyes locked onto you
and your vibrant red hair as
you walked alone in a crowd.
You always stood out no matter
how many people were there.
My hands would write each
whispered word I had of you
dwelling deep within my mind.
I never had so many words
until the day I met you.
I still think about you, and
that is still an understatement.
I'm posting old stuff, because new stuff that I write is in need of heavy editing. If I posted new stuff, you'd all think I was drunk. (Which I am, slightly...) I'll shut up now.
© J.E. DuPont
Tide Islands Dec 2014
When I awoke
from nightmares
at three or four A.M.,
I’d reach out
my hand
and trace your jawline.
Soft enough
so that
I wouldn’t wake you.

when I awaken
from the night terrors,
there is nothing,
no one
there to trace.
Except my shadow
on the wall,
the lines
in the mattress
beneath the sheets,
the cold pillow in the
empty spot where you
used to sleep.

And then
I start to wish
that I could
go back
to the nightmare,
at least
you’re in them
Tide Islands Dec 2014
Such a tragedy
to be robbed of one's youth
like a plant that has been uprooted
before it blooms.

But there must come a day,
be it soon or late, when our bodies shall
kiss the earth as she welcomes us home
with open arms.

We will all
bloom again, but in a different way,
and our petals shall decorate the graves
of those who return.

It is alright to cry,
because our tears shall water
the fields of the ones we have loved,
for when we die,

we are flowers.
I did not know Andy. We never spoke, since I recently joined, but I know all too well the pain of having lost someone too soon.
All I can hope is that everyone who has ever loved him stays safe in this time of grief, and can soon find the comfort and healing they need. I can see he was loved very much. You are all in my thoughts.
This poem is for him and for the rest of you.
I'm sorry it is not very good, since you all deserve so much more, but I can not offer anything except my words. I feel as though anything I say will be the wrong thing to say, but I mean well.

It is my belief that when we die, our remains will eventually become flowers. When I think about this, it personally helps me cope with death. Perhaps it will help someone else through their grief.

With love,
J.E. DuPont

"From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity."
-Edvard Munch
Tide Islands Dec 2014
After I quit the medication,
I couldn’t stop smelling
And I’d feel electric shocks
coursing through my
The doctor said it was withdrawal,
but I think you’re still
Somewhere inside of me. And the
rain in my head that’s been
To put you out for so long
has turned into a
Tide Islands Dec 2014
Whenever someone
offers me a ride,
I always refuse, and
they are confused as to why.
They don’t hear the
screaming inside my head
or see blood-soaked
sheets on a hospital bed.
They never saw your
black and blue skin
or know that it’s killing me
somewhere deep within.
They don’t understand why
a wreck’s called a wreck.
After it happens,
you can never forget…
Sure, chances are
it won’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking it will,
so I won’t get in.
Besides, I don’t mind walking
home in the snow or rain,
No one can see that I’m crying;
it disguises all of this pain.

— The End —