"inaptitude" poems
symptoms of anhedonia.
a triumvirate, perceived
Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
noir
from **** knows where.
their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
reach into my prozac pillboxes
&crunch my anxiety (meds)
into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
their yellowing teeth.
I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks
For He Sits At midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch , ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For *they will not
leave me
untilthe
cloyingly sweet
perfume of Death
is scrubbed clean fromthe
pulse
point
of
my
wrists*
There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.
Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.
here is the untruth:
i am here,
Penelope at her loom,
waiting for a lost lover whom I know
will take ten years to come back to
my awaiting arms.
here is the untruth:
in three years time,
I’ll still be dead.
here is the truth:
nothing exists six feet under except:
hell
chalk dust
powdered calcium.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
I'm tired of you, because you make me feel like I can't do anything.
I'm tired of you because you make me inadequate for the working world
I'm tired of feeling broken
I'm tired of making plans with my life and being unable to because you come in the way
I beg of you to find someone else
A more desirable body for your impregnation of inaptitude
I'm tired of feelings hopeless
Sleeping all day
I'm tired of you embodying my soul
I'm tired of all of you and every least bit of you
I want to be happy and deserving of this human world.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Depression comes with tearing her hair loose.
The floor trembles in her presence. She likes my bed the best, curls herself up and weeps in silence.
She looks in a mirror and stands up straight, ***** in her stomach, pushes her shoulders up front and looks idly at what so much inactivity has done to her body.
She is always this way: nearly deteriorated for the heaviness of her heart. How she moves ghostly from place to place. How she can’t look at anyone in the eyes. How she compensates her lack of will with caffeine.
I hold her every night as she cries herself to sleep. I tell her, you can’t stay here forever. There’s things I've got to do.
There's days I come to find her gone. No explanation, no said words, just the smeared mascara of her absence on my pillow.
I lose myself trying to protect her.
It's a unilateral decision, it always has been.
But the longer she stays, the longer this undesirable impregnation of inaptitude stays in my body.
These days, I've conquered the times this disease embodied my soul.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC