My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.

I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum

To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth

And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,

So desperately catcalling my attention.



I live in a creative vacuum,

From the hum of the fan

And the slamming of the doors,

To the static from the TV set

And the voices. Those voices.



I feel there is a poem in me

Or a song,

That will claim the hearts of others

And tug on the hems of their peripheries

Just as these homely distractions do to me.



Until then I must write and write harrowingly.

I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius

And throw back the paradigms put forth

By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.



I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age

But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,

Making me cower at this transient life

And again I find myself at a desk by the window

Feverish, so feverish.

Reading bad poetry,
writing bad poetry,
existing as a subpar slice of
unemotional prose.
I'm a singsong
last-ditch singalong;
ding-****-ditch me,
***** me out.
Slice me up and
lay me out to dry.
I cut onions:
I don't cry.
You ignore me:
I don't mind.
Remember me
as a sad story and not a person.
It'll be gratifying,
albeit dehumanizing,
patronizing,
but at least you'll be sympathizing
as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing.
Right now I'm realizing
that I wanna be the hungry waves
and not the sinking ship;
the sharp harpoon and not
unfortunate Moby ****.
I wanna be the brick
instead of the window pane;
I wanna be the ****** sword
and not the bleeding slain.
So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained
inside of my needlessly idle brain
can ******* once again,
because I'm gonna be the poet now,
not the reader, page, nor pen.

eat-ing dis-or-der
/ēdiNG diˈsôrdər/
noun
1. Waking up every single morning with the same thoughts you’ve had for the past 9 months. How flat will I look today? Are my ribs poking out any further? Does my spine look any more sickly than before?
2. Weighing yourself before you go to the bathroom. Then after you go to the bathroom. Proceeding on and on throughout the day, as followed.
3. Being so hungry, you’re simply not hungry anymore. More so, just exhausted. (Being exhausted is a good thing, because that’s when you can finally fall asleep. That way your mind doesn’t have to keep nagging you about the hunger pains you feel in your stomach.)
4. Wearing 2 sweatshirts & 2 pairs of socks under 3 blankets, yet still feeling the icy pain running through your veins. You try anything to stay warm. Coffee helps, but only for a few minutes. Steaming hot showers are nice for the time being, but stepping out into the cold air, feeling your already brittle hair turn into shards...it’s hell. (Ironic, right?)
5. Not being able to walk past a mirror without pulling up your shirt to check your stomach for the 20th time today. I’m not vain, trust me. Far, far from it. One of the last things I’m capable of feeling right now is love towards myself.
6. Longing for a way out. Laying on your bed in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, just wishing that there was a ******* off switch to all of this. Every ******* morning to every ******* night. You know what you’re doing is wrong, but at this point you don’t know who you’d be without it. That voice, I mean. That voice that never goes silent, even when you politely beg with tears brimming at the eyes. You try so hard to push it away, and to remember a time in your life when you were “normal”. When you could wake up and actually enjoy breakfast. It was your favorite meal of the day.

Now, you can’t even fathom a “favorite meal”. The empty plate, the clean spoon, the untouched napkin. Everything except the food- which is now harrowingly the perfect vision of your “favorite meal”.

Long sedative ride,
Harrowingly sweet.
It hurts me so,
To watch you grow;
To see you go

On for an adventure!
Some unknown venture
Into a future
Beyond iridescent curtains,
Where we are no longer certain.

Leaving these petals in the dust ー
My love, I have come to rust!
In a withering web, I've been cast;
I stand to fend off
A journey reaching its end.

As I eye your certainty:
A longing to be free.
I alone should bear this hefty fee
If my beloved would come to be!

And I will remain ー Not belonging, but still

Longing.

Wayward,
The convoy’s descent,
Through the breathless hills,
The frozen riverside,
Amongst the wicked witch woods.

Howls of frost approaches,
Impetuous, callous tempest,
Beacon of catastrophe,
Sparks a menacing flare,
The ferocious force of humanity.

Beseech me if you must!
Though as harrowingly as it seems,
No abysmal depth in snow,
May conceal the end in mind,
Of these grimy hands of mine.