Each contain seven pictures
Each drawn and quartered
Third easel'd and painted
The fourth merely this world
and if you add together the dis
continents and containments
The Field
lies unplowed beyond each square of pavement
Black hardwood and rainments
Bishoprics and taints
Elementary you say, we'll ain't it quaint
Four Sevens is enough to turn my year ago
Enough is how much they say can fill up just one
Drawer
well add pluralities of empathy
and subtract my ego thats hurting for wealth
and you'd have some Thing like an object which could represent
Well
Health is just environments inside shelves of disorder
They rarely start me in winter fold fall back to summer
and Spring
A gracious step across lilypads
Strafe not for air covers ground patrols sweep
Submariners are the only kind I know not who they are these
Cheats I take for honest
Honest men I could count on my *******
Me and you
Two
Well
One is just a Drawer
On a cabinet
Which I no longer own
and it contains the air inside it
and whatever you put in it
Well I own that too.

As I bleed this apparent madness
My fingers float lightly on the surface
It's a lot like shards of broken glass
Being thrown at me in random directions and at random intervals
Dealing with this profound, physical and mental ailment
Considering faster and faster which method of action
Will finally be the chess move that determines my demise

Faster darling, what will it take?
The chase tells me to forgive,
To give in to these seemingly "peaceful" desires
That are really more like permanent containments

But I lock it all away,
Trying to avoid the relentless tugging that tells me I shouldn't have to live a life like this
And how is that not counterintuitive, I ask myself?
I am passionate, genuine, and capable,
Is this tugging only temporary?
Perhaps it is residing in an incubator full of vast magnificence

The healing, the healed, the puddles of a lifetime

Entities possessing faulty perspectives
Ultimately revealed through the escaping of some previously immersed ideal
You can twist the **** and discover a newborn adult
Residing in this oddly frightening dimension

Surfaces are frequently misunderstood
They reside within varying intents, across multiple different slates
In this effortless actuality
Emitting a breathtakingly amount of moments
That mesh together into
One wild thing

I tell myself that simpler days will come
That this never-ending cycle will get easier
That the best moments will find me and swallow me whole

Breathing, dying, taking steps towards one or the other
I keep forgetting that my anger shattered my sense of hope
And these friendly pieces of tattered poems I keep finding in between my fingers are nothing more than my lungs swallowing destruction

I bite my tongue again and again
And it never stops bleeding
The taste of metal ever-present
And still, no matter how much I feel like dying,
My lungs continue to fill with air and my heart continues to pump blood and oxygen throughout my entire body

When I drink, it worsens.
I just sit there and expect things to get bad,
To get worse than they already were
Destruction waits around every corner,
In every moment
And most times, I will let it in with open arms and swollen eyes
The tighter this thing wraps around me internally, the less careful I am with my heart
I will just sit and watch these emotions create sharp tunes that are guaranteed to become buried worth

I meant to write more letters
And I am sorry for letting my fear of the future get between us
But I am left wondering if that even means anything.

I apologize for letting the weight of my illness creep in to every facet of my life
And I am sorry that the older I get, the harder this gets and the more relevant my illness becomes

Sometimes I imagine my aura reeks of blood
Wondering how anyone could ever fully love someone like me
A red glow that appears to be calm and gentle
But is really thick and thunderous and difficult to love.

Am I a song that bursts open in the darkest of times,
Or am I a clock that seems to always be displaying the incorrect time?

I am told that things will "get better"
That it will all be "okay"
By those who have never really known what it feels like to hurt in this way
To possess this type of pain
Especially, when the deepest and darkest part of me glorifies loneliness
This thing, and the pain that goes along with it,
Is really only a product of its environment
And, well, doesn’t that make you want to question everything?

By: Evynne Doue

ferociously needy a time or two amongst
the tall solemn weeping willow trees like guards
awaiting like mums
to stifle any running
vines from climbing
the ancient brick spires
and soiling their breeches knees
with god awful grass stains
and the toes of their
polished cordovans  so decadently
like wanton orphans
here we are brought up
in castles with desires
not met by brick or mortar
or examples,
tell me pa ,
with your grappling of the maid Helen,
in the parlor, were
not of a mind as I, all I ask ,
Sir, is to run wild one day of the month,
not forever,
like you, and mum,
always stern
like a Catholic Nun
on guard to ensure
no one ever smiles
or has fun,
is that our ruling obligatory
commitment?
Fun is catch and hide and seek and roses growing a little
wild outside their containments,
once in the while?
Or shall I stifle my creativity
my wants, and just grab ***
the help
every chance I get?