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Jerry Oct 2012
Taboo! Taboo!
I love you more than I should.
On the alter of Sin, I forfeit my sole to you!

Why is my love for you Taboo?
Love, so strong in spirit.
Love, so true and fresh.
Join together our flesh, with love & spirit.

How can such love be forbidden?
Natural Love, Innocent Love.
Love, that can not be overridden!

Contentment and happiness, can't be obtained,
While longing for you. If only I could.
Love, never fully expressed, never fully contained.
I love you more than I should.

A normal day, It can not be.
Your essences is constantly with me.
Taboo love for you, from me.

More than normal love,
I am in love with you.
I love you more than I should!

Bitter Sweet, Taboo Love.
Must it, will it, always be Taboo!
Moments Before Mar 2013
Sometimes I wonder brother if you mean what you say
if the distrust you feel towards others is just a ploy.
Brother I'm there for you. But I can only give so much...
I can barely support myself. The expectation from you is
taxing. And the results are never satisfied.
There is a paranoia in our genes. Something too complex
to be examined hypothetically. All the realizations you've made
... Just the advice others have given you over the poor choices
you've overridden. You seem to be above it all. Untouchable victim.
Victimized. How? How is that? Not everyone is out to get you..
The way you internalize things. You approach with a sense of
arrogance and pity. But you yourself, have little to do with self care.
Your hair is tangled, clothes unkempt, teeth rotting with nicotine and
gin stains your breath. Though you maintain you've quit cold.
Weight lost you're a child again. Frail. And in your mind, you are still better.
I have anger. Resentment. No. I am upset. No, I am disappointed. No. I am....
Feeling frustrated and defeated. How can I help?
Should I even? I have reached out to you more times then imaginable.
I have reached a gesturing hand, and it was spit on. Bitten even. I still love you-- Even so.
But I am afraid for now. My safety. Yours.. maybe you should learn to trust yourself.
Kelsey Lauren May 2016
She had such a big heart.
If only things hadn't fallen apart.
She missed every opportunity to live.
Due to all the fear that held her captive.
She pushed all of the people that cared about her away.
Because she was scared that they would break her heart one day.
But, what she didn't know.
That it would one day be the killing blow.
For, every person she ran away from.
(And that soon came to be a great sum.)
A chunk of her heart would deteriorate.
And something came to fill that empty space.
Soon, what was once that big heart, became a glacier.
Some believe that it was all on her.
Others think it wasn't her doing.
That it was never really her choosing.
To be ruled by fear.
This debate that took place in her head was always unclear.
I guess it's just up to you to decide.
Whether or not fear would be able to override.
Stephen E Yocum Jun 2019
She came to the farm a shy stray,
hid in the woodshed for days.
Food and water left for her
keeping her alive. In time though
very nervous, little by little
keeping some distance, upon
the porch she climbed.

After a month she ascended
a chair next to mine, where
in the spring sunshine we two
set side by side. Not touching
or speaking just biding our time.

One day she reached out a paw
placing it on my knee, politely
asking permission to step onto
my lap.  Her fear overridden
by the need for companionship.

She prefers to remain mostly
outside, but everyday she comes
to my door and with outreached
front paws she frantically scratches
up and down on the glass.
I feed her then feeling safe she sleeps
awhile on the back of the couch,
eventually seeking gentle
permission to sit upon my lap,
on a soft blanket kept just for her.

She purrs with contentment while,
taking cat naps now and then, as I
stroke and caress her head and chin,
occasionally opening her sparkling grey
eyes to study my face, as if to be reassured
it's me touching her and that I'm still there.

In her eyes if that is not devoted love  
and gratitude I see looking back at me,
I don't know what else it could possibly be.
Even my dog is under her spell, If I do not let
her right in when she comes to the glass door
he will pace and annoy me until I let "his" cat
friend in. Our animal companions own us
we do not own them. She also leaves a fresh
dispatched rodent of some kind or other on
my welcome mat, paining her dues I guess.


Whenever the dog and I go for a walk in the
orchard or even out to the road to get the mail
she always appears to accompany us. When in
the house, she follows me from room to room
as if to make sure I don't disappear. Lucky are
we all to have found one another.
LDuler Mar 2013
It's 3 o'clock
And so begins
My perilous descent into the underworld
I'm slipping into
The abyss and
Nothing
Can stop me
And nothing
Is trying to stop me

The witching hour stallions
Race through me, charging like a battalion
And trampling my heart
Tearing my every heed apart

The fury of a fiendish demon possesses me
My soul takes its flight from my body
My thoughts are shaky, my dreams are gaudy
I am convulsed and feverish with frigid melancholy
I know myself no longer.

Something malevolent is hanging above the bed
My heart is hollowed lead
A cargo ship for unwelcome stowaway thoughts
My brain is black and reeling
And tangled with a thousand knots
As my hands ***** the obscurity and reach for the ceiling

Day is so far away, I can't feel sunrise advance
I'm trapped in this horrid trance
My soul is reeling, wretched and lost
Forced to think the most unspeakable things
The panic and despair that each new night brings

I've had so many nightmares, but who's counting?
It's back again, I'm drowning
In a turbulent, sinister sea of terror
Fear is the message, I am the bearer
Like great black birds, the demons haunt my room
I'm choking on all these acrid, bitter fumes

My lids flutter like feathers of a pheasant
I can feel the pain so sharp and omnipresent
Like slaps given by a hand of black steel
**** it, Satan works with incredible zeal
Stinging, burning like a devilish eel I long to repulse
I can feel my wrists throb and my stomach pulse
With the beating of this hideous heart
I can feel my spirit depart
My nerves thrill like throbbing violins
Laden with angst, jealousy and sins

Deep into that darkness I am peering
Wondering things no mortal ever dared to wonder before
I wish I was disappearing
I am breathing an atmosphere of sorrow
And I know the remnants won't subside tomorrow

There is a murderous monster deep within me
That nothing can soothe
There is a hungry well
That nothing can fill

I open my battered notebook
I break my pen
And crumple the pages of inadequate words

I choke and listen to this light-forsaken chamber
And see a tocsin of silence, like a wicked stranger
Loneliness strikes me like a blow
Oh night agony, panic attacks, endless woe!
This pain so deep and unbearable,
These visions so raw and terrible

In these linen sheets I feel
Apprehension, slick, electric like an eel
The mortal coldness of the soul
As life takes its morbid toll
It takes in not only the body
But weaves between heart and soul a fabric so shoddy,
The somber cloth of misery

I don't want to grow old
To feel my memories fade and get cold
To feel my thoughts overridden with mold
To carry life on, which like a heavy chain
Drags behind with many links of pain
I want to end it all here, now
I can't and I won't
But I wonder how I'll survive from dusk to dawn

Day has opened its golden lids
To the light that night forbids
I've had my sip from the death cup
I wake up
With remnants of hell's dark lands
Sunken eyes and twisted hands
The witching hours are swept away like ashes
But it'll all come back in flashes
Tomorrow night, and every night
Horrors will always come back to haunt me
Between the shadow and the sheets
The endless phantasms, these endless defeats
There is no relief.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
unlike with the Hippocratic oath -
or what medicine gets up to -
a noun is a noun -
  a verb is a verb -
              and that's it!

              but jurisprudence?
the study of law?
       red can "imply" crimson -
yellow can "imply" canary -
the overridden "nuance" -

when it comes to the "study" of law -
the goal posts keep moving,
like a mirage,
and only like a mirage...

  oculus per oculus:
  eye for an eye doesn't apply...
               why?
         a life is worth more
when exacting the Libra standard -
the rest is sadism...
     or exfoliates in sadism -

  it's one thing to spew ill of the dead,
but another thing to not justify
the original violence -
             i'm not a sadist...
God wasn't either...
  either man and the electric chair,
or God... the arctic tundra
of Siberia...
      roam... be free...

           what's wrong with
exchanging capital punishment with
the Biblical stance of leaving someone
   in some lack of civilization
hellhole of Siberia?

                  just like my grandfather said,
the one who cried his schoolboy eyes'
out when Stalin died,
and tried to trim it to an aunt,
but on rehearing the incident
in his dementia -
actually attributed the event to himself...

a Georgian, subverting the Russians...
**** me...
an Austrian subverting
the Germans?!
    
at least medicine makes progress,
and never regresses
   into a "nostalgia"...
albeit there are some corrupt
individuals...
   but the study of law?
whenever is makes progress -
is regresses...
    bundling in the thesaurus
exploitation of language...
            
   the study of jurisprudence is
akin to the myth of Sisyphus...
the rock keeps rolling down that
hill of supposed improvement...
   jurisprudence is nostalgia...
   past laws are not improved,
they are modified...
  
    that's why amendments exist...
whenever clauses are past...
         i've learned enough of law
to listen to its lawlessness -
      
at least with medicine you can expect
progress -
    within the confines
of the confiture of law?
                    regress -
                        the stiffening of
having to resemble and receive
a "wisdom" from the past...

           it's like...
           there was never any originality
to begin with!

i have two arguments
for the "existence" of god...
namely the up-kept existence of such "laws":

1. welshmen are prohibited from entering
Chester before the sun rises -
and have to leave again before
the sun goes down

2. it is legally sound to shoot a welshman
on a sunday inside the city walls -
as long as it’s after midnight and with a crossbow;

and there are people who find
folklore superstitions
            funny... awkward...
               debasing, silly...

how about the stated laws?
   to be honest,
the folklore superstitions?
   daemons and what not?
seem quiet reasonable...
   given that what people believe
is less unreasonable,
compared to what people pass as
law, and subsequently pass off as, "law";

i know the heart is irrational...
but a mind that makes such
*******?
  sorry... i'd prefer the lunatic heart
over a brain that passes such judgements.
Tom McCone Feb 2014
personification and retreat
I am here like I am here
like I am or have been here
overridden and steadfast
folded like wideswept domains
I broke walls I count splinters I pack light and swing heels I am broken most of the time and I kind of like it
it’s easy to construct
socket set memories
a forest of meaning sprouting up defining swan songs
and their resonant structures
crawl down the valley all sweet and serene
29/11/12
Disturbed sleep leads me to a
Neurotic daytime, to
Chaotic thoughts
of
****** nightmares, me and a being
Exotic sights, reality disturbed
Hypnotic states
of
Scintillating salacious
Wanton ness, night after night
a heavy weight upon my chest
of
rough hands and
Growls of need
Ruttish, sluttish behaviour
descending into
Lustful need of fulfilment.

This hypnotic state is not as
Wonderful as it sounds
The fear is overridden by
the  orgiastic events,
but the knowing of its return
night after night
descends into  madness and fear.
How do you escape the unseen ?
How do you stop wanting the feelings it provokes?
How do you stop you? and your stormy need?
Your base desires are feeding this demon
This demon is feeding you.
To break free, the route is simple
Don't be there when he comes.
Go to the river, wash the sin clean,
Sleep in the river's depth.
© JLB
Shadows of shame, exist in darkness,
but are not concealed from my God.
Ungodly behaviors can never be hidden,
from Him, Who is omnipotent, omniscient
and omnipresent; Truth can’t be overridden.

Shadows of shame, are easily dispersed
by Jehovah’s piercing Light of Truth;
when looking to Him for assistance,
one’s face will become radiant with joy
from acting with loyalty and persistence.

Shadows of shame, contradict God’s desire
for us to operate with spiritual transparency.
Begin a new work in us today and everyday;
Consume the darkness of sin within us now,
since You O Lord, are the Light, Truth and Way!
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
Psa 34; John 14:6

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
her Nov 2015
I was my fathers prized possession. The finest piece of pottery He had ever crafted.
He worked on me until His hands were pruned.. Until the smell of clay seemingly became His scent. He molded and molded until I was perfect. In His eyes.
He placed me on the top shelf and marveled at me every day and every night.
But His neighbor was overcome with jealousy... At how I glistened at the top of the mantle. At how I gleamed in the sun in all the right places.
You see, on the top of his shelf, lay nothing but dust.
So surely, I had to be destroyed.
In the thick of the night, he stole me off of the mantle and marveled at my greatness.
He brought me back to his place and stuck me in the darkest of rooms.
So that light would never be able to shine on me again.
He spun me on his fingers, no delicacy in his touch.
He tossed me up and down, mocking my beauty.
Day after day I was plagued with the imminent thought of destruction.
Overridden with depression.
I cried out to my potter, and when the thief heard, he ran into the dark room and bellowed "no one will help you", picked me up, and threw me against the ground.
Pieces of me shattered in every direction, strewn against the floor of the enemies house.
My insides, corrupted with sin from all the time collected in this place were brought forth.
All I could hear was the wicked laugh taunting me, exclaiming  "who could love you now"?
Then suddenly a light shone in my face, something I hadn't seen in years.
Every broken piece of me looked up and saw my potters face, with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He began to pick me up in an attempt to put me back together...
Abba!! I cried! Your fingers! They will bleed!
My daughter, he replied, I have one  hole in each of my hands!! My love for you has endured much more than a few scratches upon my fingertips!
He continued to piece me back together, not missing a beat, not missing a piece.
He shielded me from the looking eyes of judgement, bearing the stripes on His back for leverage.
Abba!! I cried out again, can't you see all of the sin that filled me?! I am no longer perfect! How can you love me?
I understand your sin, my daughter!  in it, my grace is perfected! You are my creation, you are my reason! Upon making you whole again, I will not put back your transgressions!
He finalized the touches, not missing one piece.
He wiped my face, not missing one tear.
He renewed my heart, not missing one beat.
He carried me back home and presented me in His name to his Father.
Took His seat upon His throne and placed me on the mantle, right by His side, letting his glory shine on me.
He smiled and said "welcome home, my daughter, welcome home."
Coming into Christianity, this is how I felt. It hasn't been easy. This is my story, in its simplest form. My battle and my victory.
Tim Gronek Sep 2013
OCD
OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

Seconds, minutes, hours and days go by
I have to count every minute and don’t know why
Cleaning, dusting, washing and planning
All must be done or moving on is just not happening

Routines and rituals are a daily task
Why can’t I escape it I have to ask
Things have to de done in a certain way
Or, I am truly afraid things won’t be okay

Checking and rechecking consume my day
It’s difficult to keep my daily rituals at bay
Things I own always have their proper place
Or, I cannot relax in my very own space

Doing things out of order will just not do
Moving things slightly makes me crazy, too
No matter how hard I try to refrain
Actions are overridden by my own brain

I am told this is one of my mechanisms to cope
If I’m not careful, I will be hung by my own rope
I can only take this one day at a time
But, if I continue to work on it, I should be just fine.
Äŧül Oct 2016
I fought against myself to love her,
To love her, I had fought my family,
Maybe she did too, but not as seriously.
I had overridden myself to love her,
To love her, I had ignored the world,
Maybe she did too, but not as seriously.
Perhaps, she too was just another illusion after all.

But NO!

I truly loved her,
Only I loved her truly,
The way I loved is not just an illusion.
She did love me,
But not at all as truly,
The way she loved was a fake illusion.
Perhaps, *her love too was just another illusion after all.
HP Poem #1167
©Atul Kaushal
Diya Jun 2018
Oh! the Words shall never be spoken!
Rather, wrapped in the chamber of my heart,hidden!
Nor they will ever be in letters,written!
I wanna shout it loud to the world, but my life has got it overridden!
Some things are left confined to your heart only and even if you want to speak it loud ,the opportunity becomes numb!!! Weird life!!! :'(
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
return voyage,
window seat,
trapped but nonetheless neat,
the views anticipated,
the route, north/south,
Eastern Seaboard, on the right,
don't need no GPS,
just a flotation-in-case device
under my **** cheeks

the local barge pilot
sent back to port,
now, the pilot~poetry commander  
in charge,
now piloting
this body, this ship,
over interstate global waters

my censorship overridden,
watching words flower,
in a daze of self-formation,
my input,
torn-out by force,
brain clamped,
seceded unwillingly from the
united state of the brain~body
of my republic

off to the far right
thru white haze,
the coastline, pointing,
an arrow head directing,
homeward bound

see further the water's edge,
wide but still bounded
by a somewhere-out-there horizon,
a glazed vanilla cloud bank
demarcating the end of the world,
for surely,
this cloud line thickened
over shadowed by
rainbow shades of only blue,
for this is where the cartoon sign is
perma-posted,
the one that appears always saying
The End!

beneath a complexity too much to explain,
lies a jigsaw puzzle incapable of ever being
disassembled and reassembled,
so fine are the parts and pieces,
of this land

roads like capillaries,
over and through fall earthy browns,
connecting mini homes,
an occasional clustering,
all set down scattershot,
randomness of guard-posts
over endless cultivations,
some linear, most not,
but all irregular,
as if the toy designer,
drew a landscape with
intent to cause or replicate
human madness at its tiniest,
its finest

periodically, the sea
invades the land, net casting,
subdividing naturally
the subdivisions human,
into islands and lines
of rivers so bent and curlicued,
they too,
cannot be conked,
their single hair straightened

where I am I so do not know,
guesses are hazardous,
so I make one,
Virginia perhaps?

Of course, I am incorrect.

from my perch in seat 12F,
I see a noon-day moon, halved,
observing me and vice versa,
sneaky uncensored notions
periodically sneak in,
causing poetic commotions

does the moon write like me
of what it sees,
or it is an inured sophisticate,
the daily astounding of earth's
mysteries innate, just commonplace,
a regular, serialized TV show?

below clouds cumulus, cumulative,
the kinds superhero's rest upon,
a white blanketed shelf of
fluff obscures the land,
the irony for those flying above this
delish
most relished,
blue skies above me,
a white wonder of
fuzzy cotton ball
underneath me,
which to those hapless earth creatures
is just
but,
another cloudy day

all is lost.

the captain speaks,
descent imminent,
control soon to be
returned to the
fool in seat 12F
the guy that did not write this poem,
but that other fool,
some dumb doppelgänger thinking,
a vista was his and
needed sharing

soon he will be concreted,
his flesh moved like a chess pawn
gliding in and on mass machines,
to move his essence to a specified
confinement cell,
from which
this essay will be reviewed,
wonderment,  who,
who riposted this travelogue
while his hands were tied and bound

for only an innocent can be so
wildly moved, wilderness bewildered,
natural emotions run ramped
from ends to endless,
only hopefuls see horizons,
and what lies above
cloudy grey ceilings,
while below,
in land of
asphalt green and work,
where bills due, obligations a must,
responsibilities that crush,
and so

his innocence is shelved,
wonder is a child's task,
not his,
his are chosen by
clock and calendar,
and flying is an excuse,
to get away,
not a place to get to...

and he wonders who wrote this eloquey,
while he observes rows of rows of
single family homes,
tall buildings and a Brooklyn Bridge,
a Central Park and even his home,
hard upon the East River,
while landing,
finally,
he espys

this place,
this isle,
Manhattan

it  is his brick and mortar,
the stuff of what and where
he lives,
like everyone else,


*on just another cloudy day
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/961704/a-prayerpoem-of-air-turbulence-and-thanksgiving/
A Prayer~Poem: Of Air, Turbulence and Thanksgiving
another Thanksgiving,
another voyage in the rareified
l'air au-dessus,
the air above,
next to, amidst
the satisfying but untouchable still,
the gray-white of the clouds of which we so oft
exclaim, and always fail,
to do justice by

this time the
turbulence
within
compulsion beating
compels this thanksgiving addition
to the compilation of airplane poems

the pointer finger tapping
out this journey's record,
a priori, gold leafed,
added, inscribed,
on the priory wall
of other journeys,
even before
it was conceptually written

the pointer finger tapping
upon your own chest,
calming the beating turbulence
ever present, a giving present
to me,
red wrapped

no whining!

I promise myself,
to promise you,
cause if this be,
the best poem
I ever write
(why not, could it not be this one?)

a small prayer shawl supplication,
shall not be marred,
with plaints and requests,
visions and incisions,
the beseeching distaste of
be and re quests,
this one simple,
even, and as always,
a tad odd like me

I am just an ordinary Joe,
flying over the middle,
the country, the real one,
no megabytes
amidst the real,
a few hundred other supplicants,
gaily glad on a mostly
head-phoned, protected silent passage,
over water, land, rivers, and family clans,
all engaged and presaged by
calendal X marked to make ,
a Mecca trip,
a Jerusalem western walled, holy mount,
which ironically is for me is
direction relative,
that bastion of flesh and sinners,
the city of tan men
and salt pillared women,
the City of Miami

whoa, real turbulence
makes the typos egregious, plentiful,
and the body sways,
left to rightly,
the poem is compulsed
urgent flown to completion
(amazing the shaking and the stirring,
to the point of locating the airbag)
perhaps, he thinks, someone in this
airy residence doe not want this prayer
finished

enough.

"The Prayer~Poem of Seat 25D"

Dear Deity of Whatever Name:

We humans peculiar to some places,
set aside a day, this week
for being superlative,
for looking inward and do
quiet summary addition,
employing organs,
as many as necessary,
noses and toeses external,
organs invisible internal,
a counting to make,
to number what we are,
isolating the better reasons,
why our existence justified

we do it in
foolish human ways,
as is our nature,
human and fools interchangeably
one and the same

So this one man counts
his words, ever careful,
ever plentiful,
and utters grace,
the Bene and the Blessing,
quiet inside,
his fellow airplane passengers
holy unawares,
that he is praying for them
simply saying this

May each one pause,
even for a second,
and collect the moment,
understanding,
that thankful is a
but half a notion,
incomplete unless
it is given
away to another,
by making it
selfless



in the air over the Georgia/Florida border
Seat 25c
Nameless Nov 2013
I woke up
alone
feelings of
cold
and
isolation
surrounded me in a haze

My eyes were open
yet the world was still dark.

It was so dark.

Dark enough to make me forget that
light had ever existed.

How had I gotten to this place?
I had no answer.
Maybe there was no answer.
Perhaps I was always
fated
to land in this location.

Alas,
my eyes land on a flickering in the distance.
A diminutive glow
contrasted by the vast night.

The curiosity of it
commands my legs to go towards it,
while something else,
something nameless,
warns me to stop.

But human nature can not be overridden.

Now,
in perspective,
I see a scene playing out
familiar to the
back-most parts of my brain.

A memory.

Myself as a little girl.
I watch myself draw.
What am I drawing?

I am drawing a butterfly,
every color of the rainbow
can be seen in it’s wings.

They resemble the smile on her face.
Wonder and innocence and ambition.
Life in it’s purest form.

And watching her, my heart warms.
She has everything to live for.
Her eyes filled with brightness
give me hope.

And with no warning at all,
the little girl is gone.
In her place is a girl,
still me,
slightly older now.
Perhaps around 11 years old.

I am still drawing the butterfly.
And it’s still vibrant with color.
And I still have hope.

Even when the shadows
tap on my shoulders,
telling me,
“No. It’s wrong.”
I still have hope.
Only questioning myself
for a fleeting moment.

And while I should be proud,
watching myself turn away
from those monsters,
I feel only a feeling of
blackness
enter the pit of my stomach.

Because I know how this story ends.

And like I foreshadow in my head,
the scene morphs again.
And this time,
the eyes,
the brown ones,
that used to reflect light off of their innocence,
are dead.
And the butterfly is now only two colors.
One is black,
outlining it’s hollow carcass.
The other is red.
The shade of red that didn’t come out of a paint bottle.

And before I can allow
any emotion to enter me,
the scene is gone again,
and replaced.

But this time there is no girl,
only a stone with her name and
a few dates carved into it.
The butterfly is still there though.
It lays in a box 6 feet under.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,
hopping-mad

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,
sequentially

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,
friend

<>

8-6-19
somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest
Still Crazy Mar 2015
watching the pain dry

you did not mistake -
no word play, not the product
of typo or errant
clenched eyes

labored writ,
the liver is failing,
the interval organs
a joint co-production
contribution,
the words demonized,
but truth cannot be
plausibly denied

all cast members
are rehearsing
preparing the last act,
interrupting with
exceptional,
expectorating refusals,
objections,


too*

this n'that

all their "too's"
are double O'd,
double ****** negatives
an overflow
bloodletting,
excessive overwriting
the playwright words,
maudlin can't be spoke in the present
of his
presence

revolutionary overridden by the
actors,
the words too hard,
to speak sob as long as I am
almost stilled but still
in the room

-
wrenching a bemused grin
guiding them & pain to a higher purpose,
admonish them with pleasured pleases

needs saying
as it writ and
carrying  the denouement
to a rightful conclusion
as
Kate Murphy Nov 2010
As of today
My life is split in two.
There are the calm, uneventful days
Of lazy, relaxed words.
Then there are the days
Where the seven deadly sins, plus a sprinkling of tears
Drown me.
I struggle to keep my head above the surface
To stay alive.
Sometimes I  am successful
Others, the evils hold me down until
My heart stops and my lungs are filled with past regrets.
I scream silently.
The world goes dark
All my small truths are overridden by my horrid actions and feelings.
My life is being ****** out by the long since faded lies
The corset strings of existence are ever so tight now.
I am only human.
But that is not enough.
I now live in my own little sea of desperation.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2014
perhaps we do not wish to admit,
that the majority of the words we speak,
the conversations overheard, even without intent,
leave us not awash, not suffocating, but
mesmerized in an awful way

squelching tirades of banality,
humdrum housework life's tirades of
meeting basic needs, functionaries of life,
bureaucrats of our domestic affairs,
accountants calculating marginal cures,
overridden by the occasional impulse,
which delights until it too
is humdrum-ed out of existence

a passing blazing ambulance
begs to contradict,
reminders that there are
crevasses on the city streets,
that in minuscule moments,
life becomes twisted making our lethargy,
a course 101 introduction to tragedy

but this is not the norm,
this imbalanced equation,
1X = 99 whys,

to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry
G Fairbairn May 2010
Eyes of dreamer
soul's redeemer
gaze wonders  
ploughs wanders
sadness hidden
pain overridden
heart weaves  
today's wish
life, a moment...
well of ponder
draws veil
marvel or maunder
mystery rides
smooth or wild
emotions pine
Connection
yonder...
Dreams dance ,
eyes sparkle
diamond aura
shimmer inside
soul yearns
Beautiful guise
tracing deep
walking beside
Love in Light!
Sabrina D Sep 2012
And under the stars, the first time we touched, I gave myself to you.

Unknown to what was present, we acted on the binding impulse of energy written from hopeful thoughts and clouded states of mind.

You were the drug and I, your victim; every word evoked seeping like a poison through my skin. You, the smoke to my lungs, addictive and screaming the very meaning of pleasure.

You were the minx, the temptress, my master and obsession. The feelings of guilt overridden by lust and passion, I was unable to hold a single breath.

But my love, my nymphette, how brightly you shone. What are morals when the heart leaps forth?

Reflecting the incandescent light of the moon, I watch the violet veins arise from your skin. You are a woman on this night.

Darling, I can feel your body grow cold. You draw closer with every movement, our pores blooming to retain the warmth.

Our love is imminent, flourishing with every subtle touch and every rhythmic ******.  

We lie gazing at the dark skies once more, you awake but barely conscious, I compelled to hold you.

But my love, I took your soul that night.
Jeremy Lately May 2015
Alcatragedy, aesthetics, and a
Bubbly feeling beneath our feet. Let's
Cruise between channels; there's no need to meet. Re-
Doxx on Galaxy's
Extremeties typeset whatever is
Faked, overridden, and
Glistening in chic.
Hybristophilionic puressure
Infracts upon the fourth wall we seek,
Jicking, ticking, trickling in.
(Kickstarted convection)
Life is beyond a stream...
Minuet attraction
Null, neo, and novelty
0.0
Pulse or minus me.
Quantitative lacerations, fantasy and a fascination
Recreations masking
Softsations
Taint my rose and wildest dreams!
Unphasing
Vermillion reasons to like it.
Wordless, grinding sonar screams; Isle,  
Xana, et tu. Rumble a shy oasis in
Yeses, twos, and please
Zzz
I have several drafts of this. I intend to make changes in the future since the feel is inconsistent.
I think there’s a magnet inside of me
pulling me to you.
I do not decide where my body goes.
My feet just begin to walk
my arms just begin to swing
and they do not stop until I am with you.
I feel the magnet
pressing against my belly button.
It whispers secrets into my veins.
They rush through my body
tickling my skin
until my heart aches for you.

I think there’s a rope
connecting our souls.
I am being tugged forward
****** forward
so hard I almost fall flat on my face.
I feel the tension of the rope
tight in my chest.
It squeezes the air right from my lungs
leaving me lightheaded
and dizzy
and thinking only of you.

I can’t decide if I want this,
if I want you.
But I don’t think I have a choice.
We tend to think the mind is in control.
Headquarters. Home base.
But it is your soul.
Your core.
Your deepest emotions.
When the brain says no,
the heart is the one who hits override.
I lay in my bed...
My mind wanders about...
Then I begin to imagine it all...
Him laying on me kissing me...
Slowly kissing down my body...
As he reaches my ******* I don't know what to do...
I smile and say his name for the pure joy has overridden my brain....
He continues down my body kissing every speck...
And when he and I are making sweet love....
We say only each others names...
Panting with such passion...
Our glorious moments they have to end...
and when they do...
I find my self lying in my bed alone and I realize it was just a amazing dream....
Isabelle Rose B Oct 2013
Why is there a call to identity?
It is so overridden with our desire to belong.

I wander if it is a desire to belong,
or a want of acceptance?
Is it even for want of acceptance,
Or the need and longing for love?

How does one gain singular identity,
through love?

Maybe it is love that completes us,
Fills the holes in our souls.

If love is what gives us our real identity,
Then in perfect love we are made whole.
Is 'belonging' even real?

Just starting this in English at school. Initial thoughts...
Tom Higgins May 2014
If you give a man a fish,
He will feed his family for a day,
But if you teach him how to fish
He will feed his family until the day
The fish have all been spirited away
By the massive fleets he can see
On the horizon of his country's sea,
And now his family's nutritional need
That up to now he could feed
Has been overridden by corporate greed.
Then the nations whose fishing fleets
Take away the fish he eats
All become very irate
When he's forced to be a pirate.

Tom Higgins 23/05/2014
Jerry Mar 2014
Taboo! Taboo!
I love you more than I should.
On the alter of Sin, I forfeit my Soul to you!

Why is my love for you Taboo?
Love, so strong in spirit.
Love, so true for you.
Join together our  flesh and spirit.

How can such love be forbidden?
Natural Love, Innocent Love.
Love, that can not be overridden!

Contentment and happiness, can't be obtained,
While longing for you. If only I could.
Love, never fully expressed, never fully contained.
I love you more than I should.

A normal day, It can not be.
Your essences is constantly with me.
Taboo love for you, from me.

More than normal love,
I am in love with you.
I love you more than I should!

Bitter Sweet, Taboo Love.
Will it always be Taboo?
Minor Edits of Taboo Love (2)
CJ Cole Apr 2014
9
Her world is crashing
Down, down
All around her
She cries out
Time to release
All the pain
All the fear
Nowhere to go
No one to care
Tired of fighting
She ceases struggle
The battle's lost
Lights dim
Thoughts fade
A faint smile rests upon her lips
A rare pleasure...
Overridden by hope lost
And countless tears
Now she may rest
Yes, now you may rest Girl
Peace at last
Your wish come true
Cry no more, don't speak
Sleep, sleep...
Devon Jan 2014
A man walks through wood and brush,
range, and valley.
Delirious and disoriented

He stopped upon a gentle stream
and as the man bent down to drink,
The stream began to speak.
It told him things,
with a voice that moved so soft and swift.
It told him not to walk
any further than his legs could carry him.

The will of the soul you see,
has a funny way of tricking what you think.
Making you believe
that the mind can transcend
the capacities of bone and muscle.

Oh yes, the brain is strong,
but if your body fell fatigued
then surely not the mind
could carry you along.
So spoke the stream.

A voice now deeper
rough like gravel under foot,
said, look, the ground where leaves were shook.
Beware of what they hide,
Beware the hidden roots.
They snag and grab and wish to trap.
Beware the hidden roots.

Trees seem and speak like friend,
but in the dark of night
they wear different faces.
They laugh, they taunt,
they whisper things above your ears.
I hear them say,
Let us keep him here.



The stream spoke this time, softer like the first.
There was caution in the voice,
wary,
of the man’s impending thirst.
It said to him, the thing he cannot forget.
It reminded him of breath.
Reminded him that each one is borrowed,
traded in like gambling chips
upon one’s cosmic completion.

The laws of dirt and sky do not appreciate
a struggle from their kin;
unable to accept his final breath.
You must be like the wave,
momentarily breaking free
and then when beckoned,
returning to its salty sea.

It was then that the voice grew dim,
overridden by the roar of rapids.
The man’s neck was craned towards a placid eddy;
the “friend” to whom he had spoke.
Yet when he raised his head,
his only friend was birch and oak.
Looking down again,
he saw nothing but a muddied puddle.

A chill ran from spine to toe,
The man knew what was next to come.
Looking through the weave of trees,
he saw the setting sun.
His throat, dry and rough,
tightened and began to close.
It was then that the man looked up,
and his fear went with his gaze,
snuffed out like candles’ flame.

The trees began to speak,
but they were not talking amongst themselves.
The trees were addressing him,
whispering…
Remember, the Teachings of the Stream
READ AFTER: Writer's Note...
A man is in disequilibrium as a combined result of dehydration and starvation. Happening upon a puddle he enters into a hallucination, in which the puddle becomes a stream; teaching him the lessons needed to ease into his looming death. This is not meant to be a morbid piece, although the motifs suggest otherwise. Death is not something to be feared, but rather accepted as a beautifully misunderstood part of life.
Genevieve Feb 2016
Still,
Still I find myself surprised at the neglegence of human decency.
How sticky with tar,
Oozing from their insides,
Dark, consuming, disgusting,
Revealing of the soul underneath.

It still gets me,
That people can get that. . . sick
On the inside.

You're sick,
Overridden with this illness,
This apathy and vindictive hatred.
It consumes you.
Soon, very soon,
There will be nothing left of you
But tar and ashes.

It's almost too much to hold in.
I scream out,
"Rest in pieces, you heinous *****!"

I'm telling you, still,
I find myself surprised at the neglegence of human decency.
Aurora Maciel Oct 2015
I had no idea how one email could give me the best week of my life, yet utterly break me further than I already was. The truth that I shared has taken away and given so much. My family has shamed me. All of you, my friends, have lifted me up. I had no idea what type of emotions would come with this sincerity.  

  I was overridden with anxiety, unable to breathe and violently shaking, as I sent the email. I was unable to sleep that night with mind shattering anxiety, and the giddy relief that came through my best friend's text.

  I was so terrified and anxiety ridden that I became physically sick and unable to attend school the next day. But all of your support and love lifted me from this for just a moment during lunch. I, for once in my life, had something that I could hold onto and be sure about; something that told me I did have a future.

  But, in a matter of days, I was shown that all good things come with a price. Somehow my mother was informed of this email I sent to all of you. My mother was as hateful as she proves herself to be daily; shaming me, rejecting my privilege to believe in God and calling me an abomination in the Lord’s eyes. She proceeded to kick me out of her home, saying that she didn’t need any more of Satan's work in her life.

  Then, as I was at my Dad’s house, she decided to take the right that was never her’s, and share the news to those I did not wish for it to be shared with. Now, my Dad, my friend, Katy, who hates homosexuals and many others know. My mother has ruined and tainted my only escape from my ruthless reality: the people that had no idea of my mental illnesses or sexuality.

   This brings me to where I am now. I have lost so much in the past week and gained very little. Even right now, all the security and sureness that I felt on that first day had been swept away by my family and my own beliefs and insecurities. I have lost every uninformed outlet in my life this week. I have questioned if homosexuality is truly against God’s will. I have racked my brain to try to find an answer on if this will make me unworthy, an abomination or a non-believer. I have lapsed from sureness to self hatred hundreds of times. I want to spend my'life for God, but I don’t know if I can because of this.

I am torn between fighting myself with deadly blows of self hatred, to believing God isn’t how my parents say he is. I don’t know whether to believe I can be this way, or if I have to somehow change myself. I just hope I can survive this.
This is the aftermath of me coming out... not everyone has a happy ending.
Gary W Weasel Jr Dec 2012
Rage flexed upon each other
Never once agreed together
Mind and heart seem to sever
Ever since life twas born.

War on scale far so grand
No spot of green o'er the land
More shelling than one may stand
Inside a war between mind and heart.

Tranquility here seldom given
Peace consistently overridden
To reconcile is forbidden
And blood splashes o'er battleground.

Do not make the mind mistaken
It is know for and has taken
Life from it and heart as Lincoln,
Engine of Life may destroy itself.

The heart is stubborn, and is strong
It shall fight and know no wrong
Until the ego brain is gone
Then it shall fuel the body blindly.

Now in love the balance is broken
There no free card nor no token.
Because the love for her is broken
In a splice one may not resect.

The heart in pain is ghastly screaming
And thus the mind is gently scheming
To rescue dreams of loveful dreaming
In a treaty for brand new love.
Written November 15, 2003 @ 11:23 PM CST
Alexandria Hope Dec 2015
He met me at the Pacific Ocean that night.

      I was trying to keep a candle lit against the wind, cupping my hand around it. As it sputtered and bent, I thought about December. About snow piling up on the driveway, banks folding over themselves in the fields. The river would be frozen over. The pipes would freeze, rickety houses huddled against the cold. I shivered, moving my hand closer to the wick, bowed over it like I kept the holy flame itself. I regretted not bringing a coat, knowing the spray and chill would numb me as ever. As it did when I’d take myself out into the black, walking into the ocean dark as an abyss. Waiting for its tide to swallow me and floating, sometimes in jeans, sometimes in a dress, seldom in bathing attire. Throwing aside the weight of the world, and I miss those endless moments spent wading out alone. The candle almost went out, and my heart remembered to forget a beat.

     I couldn’t hear him as he walked. The sand muffled his bare feet. Weathered, calloused feet, tired from stress and work. Not like his hands. Despite the heavy lifting, despite below freezing temperatures, despite nicks and scrapes and a rough life, his hands were always soft. Gentle as he’d pet the coat of his dog. Careful as he’d hold a bottle of wine, or hold me. As perfect as the silt constantly smoothed by the salty sea, which ebbed and swept in my ears.

     When he was close enough, he stood before me, blocking out the moon. I never looked up. Eyes dancing in the fire, daring myself to cry and **** it early. I felt the warmth off him like a hot spring pool at Yellowstone. The overwhelming sense of safety, of relief, overridden by fear.

     The light had to go out. I told him, that by all accounts, he was late. Ever late. 9, we’d said. I wished he would say sorry. I wished he’d take my hands and put his forehead to mine. Oh, but he wouldn’t say or do anything. Perhaps he was sad, in those last moments. While I thought about summer, careless laughter and harmless dares and then, then I did let the tears flow. Maybe if I’d looked at his face, maybe then I would have seen in his eyes. The reason. Always the reason.

     I was trying to turn into a shadow against the moonlight, pulling my knees to my chest. As he took the candle from me. As he blew it out, I thought, but I never looked. I could hear his footsteps, then, plodding away from me. Loud in my head, quiet acceptance in my heart. As I sniffled and coughed, I thought about spring. I took my thoughts away, somewhere new. Where flowers were starting to bud, where a newborn bird hopped around my feet. I thought about wine, and plane tickets, and Christmases that would never come. About lights, and time, and faulty wiring.

          It would never have survived.
Micheal Wolf Apr 2013
What has the mind to do to keep its balance
Its ever changing chemistry is in flux
Foods medication emotions to mention a few
The things that change its balance
What makes me and you
Can imbalance on one, be countered by another?
Or does that fuel a conflict if one changes mood
So ive been to the mountain and mohamud wasn't there
I've kicked around loves dusty streets when only I was there
I've look inside my soul to find I was not there
Daydreamed I'm invisible so no person sees my fear
Overridden ridden on, and been a crash test dummy
Where I've been and what I've done no longer seems of worth
I simply eat sleep breath and wander on a planet you call earth
If aliens exist look no further now for I walk among you every day as though I'm not even there
A view from the hill ! After a night on the tiles many yrs ago
I have a world
I keep to myself
Galaxies unfurled
Fit on a single shelf

A shelf in my mind
That way it stays hidden
Upon entering you shall find
My little world overridden

Overridden with hurt,
within and without
I am an expert
On fear and shame and doubt

This is why, you see
My little world, so far away
Is shared with only me
I think we all have little worlds, little parts of ourselves, that we long to keep hidden.
The Year Nov 2011
Map
I want all this creativity, culture, experience. I want all of it.
When do I find the time to sleep?
Cause when I do my dreams don’t come.
Why can I only dream when I am awake?
It scares me, what is wrong with me?
I fill my head with others images, desires, thoughts
Where am I
When I am not there?
Submersed, overridden, delayed
Too slow.
I know I have what I need to be great.
I know it is there.
But where am I?
Devon Jan 2014
A man walks through wood and brush,
range, and valley.
Delirious and disoriented

He stopped upon a gentle stream
and as the man bent down to drink,
The stream began to speak.
It told him things,
with a voice that moved so soft and swift.
It told him not to walk
any further than his legs could carry him.

The will of the soul you see,
has a funny way of tricking what you think.
Making you believe
that the mind can transcend
the capacities of bone and muscle.

Oh yes, the brain is strong,
but if your body fell fatigued
then surely not the mind
could carry you along.
So spoke the stream.

A voice now deeper
rough like gravel under foot,
said, look, the ground where leaves were shook.
Beware of what they hide,
Beware the hidden roots.
They snag and grab and wish to trap.
Beware the hidden roots.

Trees seem and speak like friend,
but in the dark of night
they wear different faces.
They laugh, they taunt,
they whisper things above your ears.
I hear them say,
Let us keep him here.



The stream spoke this time, softer like the first.
There was caution in the voice,
wary,
of the man’s impending thirst.
It said to him, the thing he cannot forget.
It reminded him of breath.
Reminded him that each one is borrowed,
traded in like gambling chips
upon one’s cosmic completion.

The laws of dirt and sky do not appreciate
a struggle from their kin;
unable to accept his final breath.
You must be like the wave,
momentarily breaking free
and then when beckoned,
returning to its salty sea.

It was then that the voice grew dim,
overridden by the roar of rapids.
The man’s neck was craned towards a placid eddy;
the “friend” to whom he had spoke.
Yet when he raised his head,
his only friend was birch and oak.
Looking down again,
he saw nothing but a muddied puddle.

A chill ran from spine to toe,
The man knew what was next to come.
Looking through the weave of trees,
he saw the setting sun.
His throat, dry and rough,
tightened and began to close.
It was then that the man looked up,
and his fear went with his gaze,
snuffed out like candles’ flame.

The trees began to speak,
but they were not talking amongst themselves.
The trees were addressing him,
whispering…
Remember, the Teachings of the Stream
READ AFTER: Writer's Note...
A man is in disequilibrium as a combined result of dehydration and starvation. Happening upon a puddle he enters into a hallucination, in which the puddle becomes a stream; teaching him the lessons needed to ease into his looming death. This is not meant to be a morbid piece, although the motifs suggest otherwise. Death is not something to be feared, but rather accepted as a beautifully misunderstood part of life.
DieingEmbers Sep 2012
Would you still love me if you really knew me?

would that I could show you in words my pain

overridden by my need of you two aches in one

Should I show myself to you unclothed of my facade

and let you see me the scared scarred little boy

fighting his daemons within the open arms of an angel.
My chest hurts
Like daggers in every rib.
But even more than that
My soul
is crying.
My soul,
It’s d
        y
          i
           n
             g.
I know no other fate than to bleed
Though I am surrounded by people who filter my life
With love.
With grace
With hope.

They stand ready to fight my battles
Armed by my side
Hand in hand
Just a call away.

But it’s hard to see them
It’s hard to care
When I’m on the battleground
In the war that is defeating me.

It’s hard to reach out
When I’ve reached out a million times.
And I should be getting better
But is it fair to throw my pain on them every night?

My soul was on fire
Not with life
Not with joy
But with a slow burn
Of pain and despair
That widdled my heart to ash.

A battleground my mind once was,
Chaos that shot agony through my head
A thousand miles an hour.

It’s almost quiet now
But I can almost see the blackness,
Hear the silence,
Feel the void.

And when you feel so empty
And the smallest flutters of feelings appear,
But they come to crush you,
Not to save you...
The darkness,
The silence,
The void,
They become real.
And the blood drips down my arm.

I do not understand why I am like this
When I am getting help
When there is hope
When this “will not last forever.”
I made the decision to stay alive
So the pain would not disperse
But now I suppose
My choice may be overridden
If the pain that is trapped inside
Decides to **** me.
My body is already decaying on its own
But now I am helping it.
Why am I helping it?

I believed that talking would help
That hugs would help
That being honest would help
That showing my hurt would help.

That maybe my friends could carry me
And lighten my load
Just enough so I had strength to keep walking.

I do not understand
How it feels like a disaster is tearing me apart
But I am getting stronger
Not in healing
But in keeping it all inside.

I’m not that honest anymore.
I pretend that I’m healing
So they will still have hope in me.
But in reality
I can’t speak
Even though I want to scream for help.
But I don’t know what I would ask for
I don’t think there is anything I could ask for.

So I remain wondering
Why do I want help,
If I try to stay hidden?
Why do I want to speak,
If I always hold my tongue?
Why do I hold my tears,
If I just want them to see me cry?
Why do I tell them I’m better,
When sometimes I still feel like dying?

I want to ask
To please keep me in mind
But that never healed me
And I know you are busy.

So I count down the days
The number until I see you next
But it doesn’t matter much anyway
Because I will be faking a smile
And when you ask me “how are you?”
I will reply
“Good!”
Because I know you have things to do
And I know my sorrow takes time.
I understand it is annoying
To always hear I’m in darkness
So I tell you I’m in light
But God help me!
I am dying inside!
Don’t you know that?
Can’t you know without me saying so?
No.
Because even if I did
You still would not understand.
You still would not know.

This is not a joke.
This is not a game.
This is not an exaggeration.
But when I hide it so well
And speak it so darkly
I understand how it may seem so.
But trust me darling
You have not seen the sleepless nights
Shuddered awake with terror
Shaking like drunk cold chills
(Wishing I was drunk so I could feel less)
Tears pouring like a C5 hurricane
And the pain?
Well, I can’t describe it any other way
Than my body dying.

But tell me now,
Is the blood that exits my skin
That drips down to hell
Scars as a sticky note
To remind me forever,
Is that blood
Real enough?

I am supposed to help myself.
To help myself heal.
To help myself grow.
To help myself find joy
And life
And purpose
And hope.
But don’t you see,
I am helping myself?

I am hurting myself
But as my body dies
In the dark of the night
And I let it leave a little quicker
I am helping myself.
It’s the only way I know how to,
Even if it may not last forever.

— The End —