I can't breathe anymore
I can't think straight anymore
I don't know what is going on with me but my mind is not my own
I'm panicking again
oh no, here comes the panicking again.
I still can't breathe and my thoughts are not my own.
my doctor put me on celexa...I hate it.
I can't think.
I can't breathe.
Please let me go.
my doctor thinks I'm fine.
she smiles too much.
but I really can't ******* breathe.

We get the blame, we get the trouble now
They got a pill it's just fine to forget it all
take all the pain away
A-ha, would I be myself if I did?

by Kim Addonizio

I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula

that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the ******* known as the Pocket Rocket

and the ***** that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken *****,

in order to ruin
what love I was given,

and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,

Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.

I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty

of this degraded body,
or maybe

it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me

groping back to my desk to ****
on perfection, to lay my kiss

of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.

My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness

of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-

black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—

Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best

gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose

world this is I think I know.

I prayed last night
For the first time
In a long time
And I didn't know what name
To call God by
Something that rolled off the tongue
And tripped the switch inside
Beer
Felt right
Fear of the unkown
Maybe God's name is Celexa
Buspirone
Prozac
Any number of things that come in pill form
Night time thunderstorms
Waking up with the sun
Driving to church
Or Krishna
Vishnu
Shiva
Allah
Yahweh
My last gold dollar's
Got something sacred with it's spending
Or maybe Miranda Lambert
Or mom
Or the back of a car
Just before curfew
Saturday night
For the first time
A 40 mile hike
Your trusty red bike
Maybe the feel of strings
Under your fingers
Or a frozen snickers
Maybe the way your wife
Of 30 years
Stays appealing
Or maybe God's just a feeling
A million words
Humanity needs
For the state of being
Alive
Amen.

we tripped up the stairs
when we were kids
not knowing it was a metaphor
for what was to come
together, we huddled over laughing
when we reached the top
since the stumbles
left bruises on our knees
but never on our souls
unlike the steps we climb now
that take us to floors
we never meant to go to
and though I have seen you fall
so many times, my brother
each time you rise
with a grace that triumphs
your exhausted eyelids and
burned brain, remnants of
the tabooed chemicals
we made pinky-promises
never to do
none of it touched
the sincerity behind
your crooked smile
the boy that walked me home from school
when our mom was too busy
is still in those baby brown eyes
that wave at me
even over the telephone
to be honest, my brother
you give me more hope
than any self-help book
through the struggle, sorrow, and Celexa
never surrendering
to the stairs of life
and just like children
you hold out your hand
to help me up
though my knees are too sore
my heart too battered
one day I will join you
on the second floor

you ask me

“do you like making music?”

kiss me on the cheek

I look at

my hands resting on your keyboard, almost still

turn around and

reply with a big smile

“yeah, yeah I do”

I would like to say in an unimpressed tone

that I have heard this all before

that this is not new

but it is.

with you I am different,

happy.

for a little while,

I forget what I am

what i feel

forget about flinging my body down the stairwell

forget about the feeling of my fingertips pulling at my skin

hoping I can tear it apart

I forget for a little while

just long enough to make me believe the world is fine

that everything will be okay

that I am okay

that I am not just a celexa girl

who writes sad poetry

that death would not be blissful to me

because I have you

and only you

sometimes it feels like you are the only one who cares when everything is closing in

you tell me I am always nice and soft

when I have felt like I was the opposite of that

for so so long

being with you is almost unbelievable

like you know all the right things to say to make my heart feel as if it has made the right decision by still continuing to beat

and I know that all of this cliché.

everything I write about you is a cliché mess

a mix of happiness and beautiful things I am too afraid to say to your face

the things I only write in poems

tell you when I think you are asleep

while I lay down

almost still

calm,

breathe softly

read you this poem

and then

say goodnight and goodbye.

thank you,

for letting me

let you in.

even if you

were not awake

to know

I tried to hate you
but then I remembered
Wes Anderson
and first kisses
the sort of things that cover
bad songs and poorly worded excuses
and the secret site
I poured my thoughts to
the times it was worse than just "things are bad right now"
and pills
Celexa didn't do anything.
Zoloft made me suicidal.
Effexor was just right but needed to be upped after a while.
seems like nothing ever works right
or is it just me?
soon i can to realize
it’s not
i’m not the only one you did this to
i wanted to believe
it was just towards me
because i was me
no
i hope you and your girlfriend get high enough
to leave the planet
your first name starts with h
and ends with e - l - l
Perfume makes my head ache
the makeup caked on my eyes
cause them to itch.
your girlfriend is using dope and
you're with her
you both act like you're Conor O.
Using your friends
for the drugs
ratting them out
she looks at me
but can’t hold a stare
funny isn’t it
maybe she knows what you’re doing is wrong.
Ironically we are all supposed to help people grow
but you pull the roots from the ground
And empty the water into your eyes
So you can cry
It's not a beautiful thing to do
we're stuck with you
not growing
the sky is still out of reach
All my friends are in love
With their abusive ex girlfriend
I should just add myself to the list
my stepfather says that I'm falling apart
As an insult
as others say
Stop that attitude
Stop being so negative
*****.
i hope my anger towards the world will maybe make sense
but next time you see me
don’t look at me
i hear a girl screaming outside my window
but i don’t shut it
i head outside to see if she’s okay,
she’s on the ground crying
asking
“wasn’t love supposed to be enough?”
she reminds me of the past
and i shake
I’m crying on the phone in the library and a girl
sits by me and asks
“are you okay?”
i don’t know if i should be honest
so i just say
“no, but i’m better than i was a few months ago”
losing you wasn’t a loss
and i try to hate you
and i might
but the secret site is closed down
and i don’t go to it anymore anyways
i kiss others to get the taste of you out
wes anderson is great but we only watched one movie of his together anyways and
i was too busy looking at you to even appreciate it

I hope someone falls in love with you;
I hope,
They love you in the morning,
Grumpy and tired,
Make up still under your eyes,
Cause you've fallen asleep reading again,
They love you in the afternoon,
Pjs and messy updues,
Miss matched socks,
You never cared anyway,
They love you at night,
When you cave in on yourself,
That cup of coffee & a couple pills of Celexa,
Didn't quite work,
They LOVE you in the middle of the night,
When you toss and turn,
Like your sorrow is bigger than the ocean,
I hope & and I pray, that they love you.
I wanna know that love.

I got the phone call three years ago and i can still see my phone tremble
I remember walking to the bathroom thinking it was just to talk about a party or something simple
At work I tried to be quiet like "hey ill call ya back."
She replied... "Kevin killed himself" and the room faded to black.
Completely in denial I said this cant be true
Thinking that i had just talked to you
Losing a brother was never something I expected
And since that day my life has just been hectic
Just another crazy night that could of been stopped
All you had to do was listen to the cops
Man we could of pleaded insanity or anything
****** believable dude and youd still be next to me
Yeah it would of been a ****** road taken
But a great choice compared to the ones you had been making
People talk about being a zombie
But I never thought that it would ever be me
Celexa, Effexor, Klonopin,
Zoloft, Xanax and Welbutrin
Prescribed to all these I tried to live
Walking day to day with no effort to give
Just a ghost in a shell
Just going through life but i couldnt tell
I searched for anything that could make me numb
Taking too many pills, drinking, and driving.. I got so dumb
See the thing that may not be clear
Is that after you were gone i had to see her
She sat in the chair playing a brick game on her tablet
Not more then 10 feet from you in that casket
That ****** killed me son
Thinking i knew you before her life had begun
Shes getting so big man and her face is a blast from the past
She looks just like you man they grow up so fast
My little girl is doing the same
Would of been crazy to see them hangout and play games
I cant stop thinking about how their gonna keep getting bigger
How life would of been great if it wasnt for that trigger..

I’m a husk of anxiety and stress, my bones made of Celexa, my mind of insecurity

My eyes are made of black dyes, my teeth of financial dread
I rise each day with a curve in my spine, and weight upon my feet

But I am here, still going

I may be exhausted, but I’m still going

My will made of coal, always burning, never surrendering

I breathe sarin, and exhale carbon monoxide

But I’m still going

I’m the anti-anti, downing 40
Celexa like candy, and brandy is
mouth wash and burning. Side effects may
include: tachy, coma, loss of life.

Dr. U of Penn ***** his wife while I
overdose by his bushes. I promise
not to *****—and I won’t key your blue
Beemer, or let slip the details either

of your standard missionary pose. I’ll
just glimpse your face through the curtain gap,
your wrinkles in the throes of ******,
and have a seizure on your sidewalk, Doc.