Drowning is the feeling
Where you can't catch a breath
Where your eyes fill with water
Where you can't resurface
Where your darkness surrounds
Drowning is the feeling
Of struggle
Drowning is
Where you make peace with death

You say life is but a dream.
Well then when will I wake up?
I'm tired of living in this lie.
This fantasy.

You've diluted these waters I swam in.
You've poisoned my sweet serenity.
How could you ever look me in the eyes and tell me the truth?
You have drowned me in my own existence.

I'm struggling to wake from this nightmare.
I can barely tell right from wrong all while I'm trying to right the wrong you've perpetrated against me.
I'm struggling to resurface.
You constantly hold my head under while I drown away.

And now I've become the deadpool.

So come and take a swim.

Dear tired soul,
I have been on that couch many times before
The empty sheets that sit at your feet
Before falling to the floor
The empty pages of memories you flip through every night
Before gracefully falling asleep as the last tear falls on the pillow cases
Stained with liner and half-met dreams

There are moments you stare out the window
The sky so bright you close your eyes and go back to that all too familiar place of darkness
The same hiding place you've led yourself in for years
Thinking no one could find you and your imperfections there
But praying that someone will

I have lured myself in the same corners you've cozied up to, tired soul
Made a home out of the shattered pieces
Of distant, repeating glimpses of the past left after the free fall
My heart has sunk deeper and deeper
But take peace in knowing that as it sinks, it does get stronger
And that one day it will learn how to resurface itself without you even trying

Dear Tired Soul,
Despite the world's constant feeding of negativity towards their conjured up idea of selfishness,
I want you to know that it's ok
It's ok to put yourself first
It's ok to let go
It's ok to take a break
You can not move forward if you do not take the time to pry yourself out of the chains that have dragged you down
Seek consult from those you want to emulate
These things do not make you selfish
They make you better

Do not force yourself to pretend
Your bones have quivered long enough
Your muscles are tired from holding up to their "perfect" standards
You were never meant to be perfect
You were meant to beautiful
You are beautiful, and will always remain to be

Dear Tired Soul,
You are loved
Beyond the stars and the skies above
Your maker has caught every drop of sin from your body
You need not to worry any longer
Seek rest in Him who gives you the strength to open your eyes each day
Take pride in these little accomplishments
Cover your ears from those who tell you otherwise,
For they do not know the excruciating ordeal you go through each day you get up from bed
The sudden battles that errupt within yourself
Whether it be 10 stories high looking over the city or on the ground when you look over your scarred wrists
Of whether you should give up, or give yourself another chance

Open your heart to what He tells you
And wait for the day when the suffering is over, and the crying shall seize
You are tired, my dear
But you are far from being defeated
I hear your pleads, as I have heard mine sounding the same
You will be alright, tired soul
We will be alright

When and where did I begin, do I begin, shall I begin?

With vague childhood memories of growing up, in not too wealthy circumstances during the years after World War II, in a small part of a big town house in a little district town surrounded by mountains?
With being afraid of the chicken and geese my grandmother kept in our backyard? Of the delirious fever fantasies I still remember during two attacks of scarlet fever exactly around Xmas-time in two consecu¬tive years when I was 4 and 5 years old? (Must have been a real treat for my parents, and my grandmother, who was living with us!) Or with the fears and nightmares I had about having to go and fetch a bucket of coal from the dimly lit basement, whose dark corners in my imagination were full of hidden dangers and hideous monsters?
Or with the routine of crossing main street to go into the smoky old little pub with an empty mug, worm my way through the forest of trousered legs, hold up my mug and a few coins to catch the innkeeper’s attention, watch the tap beer fill the mug until it made a nice foamy crown on top, and then carefully manage the high steps of the stairway back up to my father´s supper table without spilling any of the precious liquid?
Or with first memories of suffering injustice, of a child´s most ardent wishes coming true (rare) or remaining unfulfilled (the rule), of happily riding around on a bright red wooden fire engine, clutching my favorite cuddly animal (of off-brown cloth, stuffed with sawdust, lovingly made by my mother)? Or with spectacular (and usually ******) crashes with my first wooden scooter, then proudly and even more daring with a precious metal scooter with which one day I managed to crash through the glass door leading from the backyard to the hallway and, miraculously, only suffered some minor cuts?
With the fast years of grade school at whose end where not only my first pair of glasses (much hated) and the then obligatory entrance examination to high school? Or, on  a quite different scale, the end of the allied occupation of Austria and the birth of a new, neutral and independent state - registered by me mostly because of diverse ceremonies that interrupted the school routine and brought unusual treats like ice cream or chocolate bars from parents & uncles & aunts?
With the first two grades of highschool, when I got up at 5.15 a. m. every morning and sleepwalked/scurried to the railway station to catch the express train at 6.15 a. m. that took me to the next Gymnasium 50 km away? With the pleasures & dangers of these daily train rides, the first cigarette smoked there, on the lavatory (with much coughing and a sinking feeling in the stomach); the first strange sensations - sweet and hurting - when a certain girl walked by; the occasional fights with other boys about God-knows-what-seemed-so-serious at the time? Or the memories of the huge fist that grabbed my heart when I saw my best friend, who tried to show off while our train was entering the station, miss the iron steps and simply disappear under the carriage - and with incredible luck resurface seconds later, white as a sheet but unharmed?

Or maybe with the hours I spent, after several years of not so enthusiastic practice (which nevertheless provided me with the basic abilities) alone with the piano in my grandmother´s salon, playing sonatas and dances and ètudes with growing ease and ple¬sure? Or with the bitter, bitter tears of pain and disillusionment when, at the age of 15, I had to bury my dreams of becoming a pianist because my hands started hurting terribly after only a few minutes of playing and the doctors told me, after one year of trying all kinds of treatments, that I had developed chronic tendonitis? Maybe with the many hours I spent reading numerous books of all kinds or sitting at the piano as an adolescent, improvising then popular songs (like the Beatles), or just playing some fantasy tunes, trying to give shape to my feelings and moods? With the memories of when I ´courted´ my then girlfriend not with words but with passionate songs played on ivory keys - and of my hurt pride and feelings when she, apparently unimpressed, preferred a more world-wise class-mate of mine and left me almost wrecking the poor piano with violent dissonances in e-flat minor hammered on the bass keys?
Or maybe with the first sobering experiences at summer jobs in steel mills, on construction sites, in the roofing business? And with the first 'wild´ parties during these summers at the garden house of a friend, where only a few years before we had been playing Cowboys and Indians, fighting the neighborhood boys, and where now we were sipping wine and/or gin tonics etc., smoking expertly, dancing to loud and slow music, hugging our partners close, feeling very wise, terribly attracted and at the same time a bit afraid of what might come of it?
Or with the final two year of high school that went by like in trance, filled to the brim with a hyped-up mixture of studying, playing billiards, dance class, dating, promising glances, secret meetings on warm summer evenings and at the skating rink in frosty winter nights, summer jobs, parties, the shocks about the death of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, organizing the graduation ball, ceremoniously opening the polonaise, living through the ups and downs of the final examinations, getting terribly but wonderfully drunk on the afternoon after the oral finals and recovering sufficiently within two hours to gracefully play the role of the class speaker and deliver the public address at the farewell dinner ...
And then the final trip of the graduating class - two weeks together on the beach in what used to be a budding Yugoslav seaside resort (and now is a recovering Croatian seaside resort), with the sun and the sea during the days, dancing and wine in the evening, my first experience at a strip-tease show (rather pathetic, never saw another one) and, a few days later, a heated but somewhat inconclusive evening with a member of a group of Swedish girls that had arrived at our bungalow village...

... then coming home, parties continuing, but noticing how gradually the closeness of all the years of small class community begins to loosen, the growing awareness that a formative period of your life has come to an end, you will not go back to school again in fall ... and by mid-summer everybody has discovered that ... my highschool girl friend tells me about her plans for the future ... I tell her about mine ... and we quietly acknowledge (looking back, it is almost unbelievable how quietly this is done) that we do not appear in each other´s plans ... years of relationships grow pale and finally evaporate under the hot summer sun ... I work another four weeks in the steel mill, read, meet with friends for drinks in the evening, start thinking about how student life will be, what The City will be like ... eager to get away and yet a little hesitant of the unknown ... playing the piano often, taking my leave from people, from places full of sweet and painful memories ... sorting schoolbooks, putting things away ... already growing out of the room I have shared with my ´little brother´ ... out of my parents´ house, my grandmother´s world, my brother´s boyish affection ... growing out ... growing up?

                                                           ­                   © Walter W. Hölbling

You open your mouth
And sputter your poison
Dissolving into others' ears
Climbing it's way up
Up into their brains
Just like a tumor
I hear the rumors
That resurface too often
And explain the truth
Denial, they tell me,
Just proves it's true
What do they know?
My mind is mine
My thoughts are mine
And I like to
Keep them that way
But you reach in
And grab the truth
Then spin it with
Your snake tongue into
Your weaponous poisonous acid
Contaminating other peoples minds
You're supposed to be
A friend of mine
Until you join in
Why won't you stand
Stand up for me
Set it all straight
Because I can't deny
Or it's considered true

The alcohol ***** me up every time,
And I just can't seem to find,
My sanity in the calamity,
Of my ever loving mind,
Because when it's drowning in tequila,
I just want sleep with a fella,
I'll invite over random people from Tinder,
Thank the Lord I haven't been murdered,
Or worse, yes there's worse,
Because I'm suicidal, find me a hearse,
I've been this way,
Since the fourth grade,
When my innocence was broken,
And now I'm just too woken,
To the ways of the world and the **** people in it,
And I just can't seem to find my place among it,

Relapse on the horizon,
If I can't find a way to survive this,
Please someone save me from my drowning before I die,
Because I don't know how to swim in my own mind,

I've been in pieces lately,
Crying sometimes uncontrollably,
And that's just not me,
I'm usually relatively happy,
Cracking jokes, to cover my hurt,
So no one knows just how far down in the dirt,
I really am these days,
How much I just want to fade,
Into oblivion, and never resurface,
Because I put a mask on my face,
And tell everyone I'm okay,
It's like an automatic reaction to say,
To never tell anyone how I really feel,
Which is like garbage if you can deal,
With the truth, but most people can't handle it,
Most people don't want the real ****,

Relapse on the horizon,
If I can't find a way to survive this,
Please someone save me from my drowning before I die,
Because I don't know how to swim in my own mind.

I'm left melancholy for long gone memories that won't boomerang back and resurface solely because they once made me happy.
I'm left feeling empty minded because thinking hurts, and thinking reminds me I'm a bit empty hearted right now which also means I am empty handed.
I'm left knowing that a common denominator when adding up the problems in my life is me and you can't subtract sadness out of a girl who finds it under every rock, in every corner without necessarily searching too hard.
I'm left feeling like I didn't overcome my sadness again and it's pathetic that I can't; it's notably sad I can't help but sit down with my demons and let them play in the card game that is my life when I was dealt all kings and queens and I somehow walked away with jokers instead.
I sometimes wallow in my sadness. It is not romantic, it is not cute, it is not attractive, it is not enticing, it is not alluring, it is not anything but sad. It is sad I can't always overcome it; sometimes it's a wave crashing down into my eyes, leaving me submerged and wondering when I can resurface to breathe and be alive once again.

Floating out in infinite space
Far above the sadistic human race
Drifting in the cosmic flow
No knowing which way I'll go
But I'll be free
As the galaxies

Way past Neptune
Out in space I'll be immune
From sadness and corruption
Way out there, there will be no interruption
From my happy thoughts
From all I forgot

I'll keep on sailing through all the galaxies
I'll do as I please
I'll dive into the stars
Resurface by Mars
Backstroke through the cosmos
I will swim to the utmost

Will I come back
To feeling like I lack
I doubt it
Not without a fit
A fight
Till this world fits right
Till then
You find me on a heavenly wind
I might never come back again
Unless it's on a whim

You reside in fading freckles.
Just when anticipated
sun rays burn
you are steadfast
to make your return.

You inhabit collected sleep in my eyes.
Just when I've escaped
into my dreams
you are laced and weaves
through my skins seams.

You live in the epilogue of my favorite novel.
Just when the culmination
I approach
gradually but inevitably
you encroach.

You dwell in vapor and in most
just when water
stems to boil
from the depths of the ***
do you uncoil.

You exist in muddy saltwater
just when a new wave curls
your stinging undertow swirls.

wake up from your adventures, and take a dab.
don't take it far, thats not your job
the dab will take you as far as needed
and you're blankets will resurface.

put on your garments, and take a dab.
the day is new, and its age unknown
its crispy mood has woken your hairs.
You'll need to wear those socks.

Have a potato, and take a dab.
theres plenty more, so don't rush
the savory maple cloud, of pancake.
the coffee is void of the cow milk.

greet your neighbor, and take a dab.
His dog will have a bath, the cat
the rabbit, the finch, the turtle, the mouse,
they will all be thinking about oats.

Hop off your bike, and take a dab.
the ocean left you clean, the sun
a blueish green shade of wandering.
you're a person, in their shoes.

put on some tunes, and take a dab.
the day was tall, hungry and sharp.
the yellow sky fogged with milk
is calling you from your bed.

open the drapes, and take a dab.
the dancing wind will have its supper
and your nose will get to drink.
the green air finds your shirt.

Its been a long life of living
so take a dab
and wake up in a new one
to take more dabs.

She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor,
A brush in one hand and a blade in the other.

She ran the brush through the dull brown,
Dishwater hair that framed her thin face.
Her eyes were sunken in from a recent loss of appetite
(Recent as in the past twenty-four months)
And her cheek bones protruded from her skin
Like the fist of an unborn fetus reaching out.

She fingered the blade in her other hand,
Memorizing each corner and edge,
Pressing it against the pad of her fingertips
And feeling the skin give.

She put down the brush (but not the blade)
And stretched out her legs on the hardwood
Studying her translucent skin and
The waterways of veins that ran beneath
And the concave curves of her knobby knees.

She traced the faint lines
On her paper thin thighs
Made from dull blades
From previous days.

Her failed attempts numbered
More lines than cracks in the
Floorboards, but not this time.
Not anymore.

She lifted the razor to her wrist
And whispered a silent prayer
Between shaking lips and
Closed her eyes and
Pulled back her hand.

She waited.
And waited.
She opened her eyes.
She cautiously looked down
To see a **** running
Vertically down her arm.
But nothing was pouring out
As it should have been.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

The blade hit the floor as she bolted out of her room,
And down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

Her mother was sitting at the table
With a cold cup of coffee sitting sadly beside her,
But it wasn't her mother,
But the shell of the mother she once knew.
Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands were bony
And her nose was red and her fingers were swollen.
And sitting in a high-chair beside her,
Was a child with wide-eyes and
Shrilling laughter.

The child seemed to sense her presence
For it looked into her eyes,
And it gave her goosebumps.

She ran to her mother and
Waved her hands in front of her
But her mother didn't seem to register
Her daughter before her.

"Mom! Mom? Can you hear me?"
But she didn't make a sound.

She noticed a picture on the refrigerator
So she slowly approached it.
It was a 5 x 7 of her sophomore year,
Six months before her disease appeared.
Her face was full and her hair was long,
Her eyes were bright and her smile was strong.
She could hardly recognize herself, anymore.

She noticed another picture beneath,
A newspaper clipping dated September thirteenth
The first day she ever played
"Trace the Vein"
With her blade.

And right beside the headline titled
"Young Teen Commits Suicide"
Was the picture of her full face
From sophomore year.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

She felt a throbbing in the back of her head
Like a hand nudging her brain,
Or a distant, forgotten memory,
Trying to resurface again.
But she shoved it back in.

She ran back to her mother,
Again waving her hands.
"Mom! Can you hear me? I'm sorry,
I never meant for this to happen."
But her mother was quiet
And the baby just stared.

She turned back to the staircase
But her knees started to shake
And she fell to the ground,
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Like streaks of fire,
They started to burn.

And she screamed
And she screamed
But she didn't make a sound.

She lifted her hand,
To wipe the tears from her eyes,
But her hand was breaking,
And cracking and dying.

She watched her fingers
And then her skin
And then her veins
And then her bones
Break like brittle and
Fall to the ground in a
Mound of dirt and ash.

Her hair drifted down
Like dead leaves in the fall
And her rib cage cracked like
A crumbling wall
And her body caved in
And she wilted away
Because she was already dead
And buried in her earthen grave.

I step towards the pool.
You look at me like each step is the end of my life.
I swing my leg on the side.
You flinch.

I laugh at your expression.
You didn't find it quite so funny.
I guess it's really not that funny to you,
how your mouth puckers into a straight line when you hear me laugh,
like the picket fence outside the house you were born in,
only the stark white boards of that fence don't curve downwards at the ends.

There's a fine line of difference between us,
the difference being "don't", "won't", "can't"
and other four letter words, such as "fear", "play", and "lame".

I stifle my laughter and try again to coax you to the edge, the edge of the earth.
You frown, and back away, mumbling like that one Muppet.
Beaker, right?
"Come down!" Beaker cries. "You're being crazy!"
Meepmeep.
The thought of this causes me to laugh again.
You. A Muppet.
You would die if you knew.

I take another step, another, another, further away from you,
up the metal rungs to the top of the world.
The ground slaps beneath me, resilient and springy like summer grass.
I remember your face, panicked, frantic.

I dove.
You claimed you couldn't.

From the bottom of the pool, the world is crisp and clear,
like a vat of liquid nitrogen biting at my skin.
When I resurface it becomes blatantly evident.

I dry off and walk away through the counter.
Don't try to follow me.
I tried.
You didn't.
Maybe I AM crazy.

The bottom line is
even though I'm afraid of heights,
I still climbed that ladder.

Things get lost
words get lost

Until someone says something
and we suddenly remember where it went

it resurfaces then is lost again

From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
sailor
explorer
scientist
poet
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
grievances--
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
imagination--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
unbelievable--
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

now,
they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

{Atlantic}

There is a brisk  discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface  buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.

Madness is upon us**

and this..
This will be the end as we know it.

The stratosphere has kept the heavens to quiver
Thunders roared
Lightnings have struck
Rain blissfully starts to shower
The men and their atrocities must drown

Days upon days
We are left to surrender
Lost in a bermuda of the past
Never to resurface in the light

Give in
Never give up
Fight
Accept
Surrender

It's time for us to truly live a life.

any ground 18 stood on crumbled as all once-great nations do.
the flame of hope that had kept the lights on
turned and burned down the wooden roofs,
while the archers left arrowheads in flesh.
lakes of insurmountable grief covered the ruins of who she once was.
in moments of cruelty, she could feel the bottom of the waters,
could feel the glory of the old self.
the wickedness was that she did not possess the strength to lift it up again, could not resurface glimmering gems.
left without sight and taste, doomed to the brush of fingertips.

her patience was starting to wear thin, impatience growing as one of the pervs from the table across his eyes preying on her. she gave him the finger and her hardest glare.

where the hell are you  she typed out, texting him

be there in ten i kinda just got out of bed...sorry

she just sighed looking out the glass panes that gave a view of the busy street, letting her thoughts wander. sam was waiting for her bestfriend, noah to show up. she was going to help him find a flower shop that caters black roses. he was going to give it to jean, the girl of his dreams as he liked to call her (sam just knew how much of a cliche he was underneath; they barely had a conversation in which he didn't insert her-sam stuck up with it and listened to him, always assuring him that he's going to get her who wouldnt)

"sorry im late" he says, panting as he arrives, varsity jacket slung in his arms

"you owe me" sam says cooly, ignoring the drum pounding in her chest. he looked like he always did; and gave off the same effect to all the girls in town (he had quite a following though he didn't mind)

playfully he rolls his eyes at sam and the two walk their way into his beat up camaro (which was very good at overheating and taking too long to start)

"bet this thing would come up with its tricks again" sam started with their usual banter

"oh hell no it's got my back"

"your flat back"

"my bootiful ***"

sam scoffed "wanna bet?"

"game on" noah smugly retorts with the smug smirk on his face that showed off his angelic structures

"on three two....." sam had her fingers crossed please don't work please don't

noah tried gunning the engine a few more times, turning the key into the hole over and over again but the engine kept dying. he tried for one more time;it was a miracle that it did. he faced sam who's face turned down into a frown. "ha you owe me now"

"i owe you none" she says slumped in her seat though deep inside she was enjoying this. their friendship had alot of these immature playfulness which she usually started.

"just buy me an extra waffle cone and we're even"

"*******"

noah laughed and sam heard the lilt in his laugh that she grew fondly of. they drove off the road with only the radio to filter the silence for a while. sam started tracing patterns on the car window.

she felt something for noah and it wasn't something she expected, neither was it something she was looking for. the first time they ever interacted was in a class they both had. his eyes had that mischievous spark that day and  he wore a devilish grin-sam thought he was the perfect guy to turn into one of her casualties or better yet get his heart broken. but all they did after class that day was hangout and drive around town. sam was quite shocked with the numerous things they have in common. since then, they've meant alot to each other. although it was different for sam. sometime in their friendship she started feeling something for him, someting more than friends do .she hated it; the thought of it made her want to rev her guts out;

she was never the type to like guys or girls and fantasize about them being together or even feeling the same way. she was the type of girl who played with guys for a night (a week was her longest) whenever she felt like it. she toyed with their hearts and felt satisfied when she saw them with tears in their eyes. she felt no remorse for leaving them in the gutter. she was never vulnerable  she was a heartbreaker. she was that type of girl. but with noah it was all different, it was all new. it was like being on the other side of the spectrum

it frustrated her, all of it. most of all the fact that she couldn't do anything about it. she couldn't just steal him away from jean especially now that he stood a chance. plus, he was serious about her, sam could tell-even if she tried making moves on him, he'd leave because that wasn't how he knew her-they went so well together: her being on the cheerleading squad with her perfect friends and her perfect grades, perfect life ahead and him being the quarterback of the football team and the perfect college waiting for him, heir to his father's company someday-they were the power couple. they deserve each other sam thought bitterly. she could be one of the "perfect" girls in her school if she tried. but she didn't, didn't find the need to because why bother? she'd rather be on the outside and deal with her own company and just resurface whenever she felt like it. he had dreams;she didn't. she was just a heartbreaker, a mess.

yet she didn't want to lose noah; couldn't lose noah-it wasn't a risk she was willing to take. around him she let down the high walls she usually was encaged in and instead had vine trellises wrapping around her almost as if caressing her. it wasn't like in the movies but it was a **** cliche which she felt in gradual waves.she could hear wind chimes in the edges of her nicotine corrupted lungs whenever she was with him and none of the nails splintering against board in the emptiness of her house she felt in the dark while her sister slept soundly in the next room, none of the stale unfamiliarity of her mother working herself thin in her round the clock shifts, staggering home the next morning smelling like alcohol. she felt something other than the hollow in her stomach when she's out partying with strangers, the bass sounding too much like her heart breaking and her existence decomposing. she felt none of the filth she did when she slept with guys and let them make love with their exes through her body. she felt none of all the ugliness, heard none of the monsters' calls. noah made her feel pure. made her feel bliss. there was no irony, no catches, no waiting for the other shoe to drop in what they shared.

some days she's accepted that they'd always remain platonic, that it was better for them to stay this way. but today wasn't one of those days, for it was one where she wanted nothing but to plant her lips against his and make him tell her that he feels the same, for him to wrap her arms around her and bury her face in the crook of his neck, drown in all their memories, become the memories become an us. it wasn't love but he made her feel loved.

her daydreams were cut short when noah parked the car infront of the flower shop near the outskirts of town. she smoothed her hair as noah opened the car door for her. she felt her palms sweat, immediately telling her brain that he was really just sweet and it's jean that he likes stop spewing up hurricanes and thunders for every sweet thing he does.

"so first stop"

"i still don't get why you can't just buy her a bouquet of plain roses and spray paint it black. i'll help out yknow" she replies in her usual mocking way as they enter the shop, the floral fragrance enveloping them.

"because you gotta put all your effort and your heart to get her"

"yeah right, hey you gotta put effort in spray painting too yknow like shaking the can and making sure the roses are all covered. we can cover your heart in black paint as well if we still got any left" she replies sarcastically as they start perusing for black roses.

he rolls his eyes at his best friend, throwing one of the discarded dandelions at her direction. she picks one up and throws it at him quickly. it was only a matter of minutes til they were both on the floor laughing, sneezing in intervals, dandelions scattered around them. the florist scolded them when he saw the mess they caused and made them pay for a daisy and a petunia boquet that was haphazardly upturned in their rowdiness-no black rose in sight.

sam laughed as noah took out his wallet and paid the florist who's face was now red. she heard him mutter a sheepish apology and for a moment, she allowed or tried to let herself get lost in the fact that she and her bestfriend were spending the day together she tried to forget that she was spending the day with him to help him be with the girl that he likes.

You dipped your toe hesitantly into the water and pulled it right out.
I was already in, swimming freely as I forgot you were still on the shore.
I'd always taken to skinny dipping over bathing suits. I like the freedom, I like the way my bare skin feels in the water.
I turned around to see you looking out at me on from the shore, a hand over your eyes to shield them from the glaring, blazing sun.
I dipped my head below the water up to my nose, so you could only see my eyes as my hair fanned out over the water.
I could see it in the way you stood there alone- you were unsure. You were scared. The way you fingered at your shorts and the way you moved your hand from shading your eyes to instinctively rubbing at your hairline said it all. You were petrified of diving in like I had.

I used to be like that too.
I used to sit on the shore as the sun scalded my scalp and peppered my shoulders with little brown spots.
I used to dip my toes in and step back, watching the ripples go out in the water from my little interference.
I was afraid that ripple would unstill all of the solidity and security I had in my life.
I was afraid to make a scene, scream with joy as I crashed into the water.
I was afraid to be bare and seen and open to someone else, much less in broad day light.
I was afraid it would make me childish or foolish.
I was afraid to just go for it.
I was so afraid of getting in and feeling the waters chill and feeling insecure and ultimately feeling like I could get left alone there in my bare state, wondering how I could have been so open in the first place.

And one day, I realized diving in head first was the only way to go.
I couldn't live on the banks and only dip in my toes.
I couldn't go my whole life not knowing how to swim.
So one day, I jumped right in.
I screamed with joy.
I laughed as he splashed me and held me under the water and threw me around playfully.
He held me and it felt like something I can't describe.
We swam for some time until I realized I couldn't tread his waters anymore.
It felt like I was fighting to just stay afloat, like I was drowning ten times over.

I cried my own sea when he left.
So I know what it's like to tread this water alone.
I know how ******* scary it is to go underneath for 5 seconds and resurface to unstilled water and empty horizons.
I know how gut wrenching it is to dry yourself off alone and leave just the same.
I know how that can sometimes leave you with  the notion that not only do you not want to swim, but maybe you can't ever do it again.

I can't promise we'll swim together forever.
I can't promise we'll get out together either.
But you will never know if you don't dive in.
So when I watched you dip your toe in, I realized I needed to come get you myself.
Sometimes people can't just jump in.

I walked out of the water and grabbed your hand.
You sheepishly looked down, and I smiled and lifted your chin. I understand what you're feeling, trust me.
I saw the sun catch your eyelashes and make your eyes shine just a big brighter than they usually do.
I rose up on my tip toes and whispered into your ear, "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and jump in. Dive right in and let me show you how to swim. I'll go first, and you can jump into my wake."

I turned and jumped without a second thought.
That's what you do when you're committed.

Maybe wouldn't follow.
Maybe you'd leave.
Maybe you'd scoff at what I'd said.
And that's the catch. Some people will.
But not you.
I resurfaced to catch you momentarily screaming as you hit the water.
I caught your moment of carefree, genuine joy.
You came up, water droplets falling from your hair down your face to return to the water.
Your eyes gave the water a run for it's money, they were so blue and bright I'd thought maybe the sea had met the sun and created them.
You smiled at me and laughed, loudly and heartily.
You swam to me and splashed my face, which made you laugh harder.
My smile must have been too big for my face because you hooked an arm around my waist, our feet lightly kicking each other as we tried to stay afloat.
You kissed my sundried lips and coyly offered,
"So, is this how you prefer to swim?"

Frankly yes, it is my preferred way-
Bare, all in, openly and freely, with little to no inhibitions.
I swim with the notion that I'm being as genuine and bare as I could ever be.
It's the same way I love people.
It's the same way I love you,
And it's how I hope you love me.

its taken me too long to unstitch my hands and free every thought you shuffled and stuck inside of my head

one. i think you lost me somewhere between wanting to cross miles to get to me and forgetting i exist because at some moments it feels like you worked overtime to fix the abandon architectural artwork inside of me like i was community service

two. after you came and knocked down trees and shifted the tides, every ounce of clarity was able to mirror
your whimsical efforts of drowning me out with pretty girl phrases and only calling me when you were too high to choke out my name

three. i had something inside of me that was kept under glass and i let you behind closed doors and watched you destroy it
i let you build me up with toy blocks just how you wanted me, and i let you lose interest when you decided it was more fun to knock me down and listen to the noise i made when i hit the concrete

four. the Worlds Most Fragile museum was being catered to in the holes in my chest and if i was an armoire and you opened me up your name in red pen ink would spill out of me over thousands of artifacts and priceless memories that you've bubbled over and consumed

five. even as i write this, you'd think i would find a home in an elementary classroom by the way i can barely remember how to speak
and ive got no doubt that you went out with your usual bang
and when you left you took a goodbye that never quite delivered and all of my words with you

six. my grandmother told me insects sing, for months, the same song in hopes that they will attract a mate with their repetitive soliloquies and maybe that's my hope when i tell you i love you even when you hurt me, hope that maybe one day you will pick up the phone and echo my ache with a clear, sober melody that sounds like home.

im sure the insects will find someone who enjoys their neurotic patterns and im sure i will sleep alone in an uncomfortable bed only shushing the silence as the mailcart comes by my front lawn and pauses for a second as if it empathizes with the way i stand at the door.

seven. im always waiting for a manilla package addressed to me
containing every night i spent trying to be anxiously clever and overlooking your bad judgement and the flickers across your sentences where you were forcing yourself to care

eight. every night all i receive is the crickets and a reminder that the letters that spell out your name had become my own personal hamartia before i started whispering it in my sleep

nine. ever since we met you've infected my veins like you were a deadly back alley drug and there's something so addicting about wanting to fix someone and figure them out and work for their love

ten.  if you steal my expressions and bury them in your ground and stick a wooden stake through my last words in order to make sure i only resurface when your sobriety is fully compromised, i will, as writers do, create myself a new dictionary

the act of your name will become a verb: forcing time to scrub the inside of every part of me you touched like im a sold off garage sale item and you're trying to expurgate any emotional damage that might have been done to lower my price

the way the bugs echo will become an adjective for when i am too tired to go out and pretend that my feet arent sinking into the floor

the drilled-for-oil glass museum in my heart will become a noun;  the eighth wonder of the world, and i will continue to let people destroy it and piece it back together for the sake of art

the way you left me and the ferocity of how you stole every part of me i showed you will join adverbs and Aristotle's tragedy principles among people who created their own cloudbursts.

the way i wrap everything i've wanted to say to the back of your head as you walk away into a bulletpoint essay will become my new definition for poetry and i will build myself up from the ashes i will create from your destruction, i will sing my own songs and showcase my own museums and mail my own letters and i will **continue.

he moves, like a dream
—memories that resurface from murky depths,
scenes cut out from rolls of film, flickering.

he moves, like a song
—glittering stars that descend from the heavens,
the sound of water hitting the rocks, never-ending.

he moves, like a wish
—prayers from you to me, from me to you, from us to God,
deep and shallow breaths in the interstice of smiles, promising.

he moves, like a warrior
—ink that never runs out til its story has been told,
cries that can be heard from deep inside, reverberating.

he moves, and he moves
—and he stops,
chilling.

he moves.

Sometimes when my mind drifts
it goes back to endless hallways
and that all too familiar scent
overtakes my senses

My spine actually cringes
at the thought of the needles
piercing the central nervous system
they forgot to numb

my thoughts swim in the pools
that formed in my mother's eyes
as she quoted the neurologist
"your son is dying."

I can still taste the confusion
that drowned my confidence
and left me wondering
if it'll ever resurface

my dreams never stopped crying,
if they even have the chance to exist
they're nothing short of terrifying,
nightmares replaced the rest

it's odd that I can remember
the sickness that consumed me
but completely and utterly forget
the happiness that prequeled it

Conceited
Masochistic
Everything in between
My blood boils
My eyes swell
The taunting is obscene
My fists will clench
and my heart will wrench
as the words keep me up at night
They're haunting my dreams
and ripping the seams in my head, like a frayed kite
What nests in my mind
are thoughts so malign
and most of the time, I'm caught in their bind
How did I create you?
Too weak to sedate you
Impossible to break you
Improbable to change you
it might be self pity
or could be self rage
but I call it acceptance for the choices I've made
I will never be perfect
I've accepted this now
but it's hard to resurface, with you bringing me down.

I'm writing little phrases
Because I can't keep a thought going
My mind goes back to instances
I shouldn't be writing about
Or at least resurfacing
Because I promise they aren't real
I promise they aren't real

Cant bear to hear the voices;
dragging me down;
feeling the failure!
Voices mock me                                                               ­                    make me frown
nothing ever goes right:
want to keep on                                                               ­                     
with the fight,
be strong                                                           ­                                   
move on                            
with my life
there is something
that stops me when I
find happiness negativity                                                       ­             
cuts me like a fine knife  
anxiety makes me feel on edge;
paranoia makes me question
and sabotage everything
depression lowers me
to the point where I
feel lack of energy
or empathy any more
If anything I want                                                             ­                        to sleep in bed                                                              ­                           not feel this dread
I use to medicate
myself with beer
and pain relief
taking any medicines
I can get to feel no pain
To feel no shame                                                            ­                        
for the anxiety         
to go away
but it never went
only made me forget                                                           ­                   
the symptoms
the mania I get                                                              ­                          feel a hint of euphoria
but later irritated
over ****** and frustrated,
the world is moving too slow
Im obsessed and sometimes
delusional: the demons are smiling  
they've won the battle but not the war when they took over my mind; for a short while but since sophie was born
and my life almost thrown away
at the age 28 I decided to give life another go and work hard to live an cleaner life the best I can                                                              smile more even when I'm low be grateful                                        

I'm still alive and here
want to feel I have a bright future
now with a baby and boyfriend
that  loves and understands me
its hard sometimes

when you can feel the bad memories resurface,
negative vibes in my mind
hit me like a bullet or cut me like a knife
want to keep telling them not today
that I will not fall to their darkness and decay
that they can't beat me and that
I'm no longer a failure
but a fighter still here to tell her tale;
despite all the *******
and people grinding me down
over the years;
bringing me to tears
I tell myself each day that
I'm a fighter and I'm still here.

I write in thieves argot
I'm far gone......too deep to resurface
not worth it, go further
into my mind, i'm blind to the time
Life is fleeting, and i am bleeding
needing    to        get        by
  while i get high......
Passing the day,
in a way, that keeps me dragging too slow
with no where to go
stuck in the muck, without any luck
pain struck while i **** myself
into the ground,
with no sound       to    wake    me
I ramble on, gambling on
unlucky eyes
send in spies to cut ties
with my past, the memories last
carve my name in your heart
we fell apart.............

here        gone              forgotten

Like an iceberg floating
I float in water
Like an iceberg floating
I'm weighed down by weight on my shoulders
And if I could lift them I would
And I did and
I wish that I didn't
As I float
Frozen

And I wish to flow freely
As the water does around me
And I wish to flow warmly
Coolly
Unrestrictedly
And I wish
I wish for so much
But I'm frozen in place
And all these years have passed by
And I've just hit the tip of the iceberg
And I still struggle with all that
Under the surface that I can't seem to see

And as it all resurfaces
And the weight returns in force tenfold
And I clutch at my chest
Turbulent
Clawing
Unstable
To hit into another iceberg
To feel the jarring vibrations
It's overwhelming
One cannot heal from such impactful encounters
To feel these feelings again...

You wouldn't want to.

And as I float by
Like an iceberg floating
I hold the weight of jarring vibrations
And like an iceberg floating
What's to keep me from breaking apart
Should I encounter these feelings again.

I think I understand hookups and one-night stands now.
The key to moving on is to replace until there's nothing to unravel upon.

I mean, It's fair.
I do it too.
Moment by moment,
conversation by conversation,  
I replace the replays,
and that is about as far as I'll go.
I can't bear the thought
of another touching me, like I'm not yours.

I got another ring today,
All big and loose.
Funny how I picked this one,
it keeps falling out.

It's been two months since I stopped wearing yours,
I honestly don't see a difference in the way it fits on my thumb.
That should be the end of it, but oh well, I guess it isn't.

I walked to the grocery store, paused at an aisle,
took my time frowning over chocolate bars.
You used to get me Munch, so I picked the KitKat.

I don't skip meals now, (well, most days I don't)
and in place of our routine conversations, I let a random show run in the background.

I drown noise with noise.

My days are decent.
I'm surrounded by mindless jibber jabber.
I participate.
I paste a bright smile.

“You look well now,” they say, “Well I am” I reply.

And as a matter of fact, I am fine.
9/10 times I am.

Then in a random mundane moment, memories of you resurface like a ring light and
in that single moment,
I let myself crumble.

“I don't want him back.
He isn't the same person anymore.
I'm not even me anymore.

If it's meant to be, it'll be.
He's the love of my life.
Well don't let him in,
when (not if) he comes back.

Do it from love, not for it.
You deserve happiness.
Both of you do.

You want love.
You are love.
The ocean doesn't look for its water,
Why will you look for what you have?

It is what it is.
and this too shall pass.”

So on and so forth my inner monologue goes,
and I stare at my phone wondering if I can conjure you from my thoughts.

I am kinder now. With myself, and everyone around.
I know you're proud,
and I kind of wish you'd say it to loud.

Can I possibly wrung out my favourite version of you, this time?

My thoughts swirl and I let them play.
Incantations in my head
Obligatory 3 am, weary sighs, contempt and pure rage.

Where is the calming lull of sleep, when you really need it to sedate your despair?

Resignation sets in, I play a familiar game.
I ask the universe and unbiasedly it delivers the same day.

"Universe, give me a sign, I'm really done this time.
Yellow flowers if he's coming back,
Dandelions if he's not.
Universe let me move on. This is the last time, "

In my version of He loves me, he loves me not
I break flowers, not petals.
I look for answers in colours and not action.

O,
my mind,
won't you meet me alone?
When the Earth's eyes close
And the valley winds blow.
To ensure,
Being clear,
That none could see nor hear
None of the throes nor fears
Reflected through shattered mirrors.
As ashamed as I am, cautious as I am aware
That,
as I am,
in this state of disrepair,
I’ve walked upon an anxious, lengthening pier,
That leads to the middle of the ocean, only to stare,
At the waves of defeat that, underneath do quake.
For still beating is my heart, so even though it aches
As the disappearance of you leaves unconsciousness in its wake,
Seeing how perilous the seas may be, to only drown in a lake,
To perhaps resurface once more in the following morn,
Is a promised hope wherein dreams dissipate forsworn

I must get lost in inspiration… because he was inspiring and I was taken. I felt the need to keep him in view and let the colour of the world bleed beside me like the blur of an oncoming car, recognized then forgotten. I could sit there consumed in patience, and when he spoke I would listen. Though, if he never did speak again, I would have been content listening to the way his shifted weight reset the chair beneath him.

I still think back to the night we met and I cannot quite grasp why he was there, or why he approached me. Maybe it was the laws of emotional physics that force those who are lonely to embrace another’s loneliness. So, from across the room he came, confident in the fact that I had no one to talk to. It took me less than a second to figure out that he was a fresh face, so I allowed him to ask me question after question. At each pause an appropriate nod, yes, or smile was inserted. We were having a conversation.

They say misery does love company, so maybe it was merely the atmosphere of dingy black lights and unfamiliarity that brought us together. A connection rooting from a mutual desire to be anywhere but there.  

I shocked myself when I asked him to come home with me. He shocked me more when he said he would. We walked together in the snow, along the sidewalk leading to my basement apartment. He didn’t wear a coat, and I thought he could have been freezing. But the expression on his face seemed to imply he didn’t mind. I remember I was wearing a red rain coat, with the hood over my head and brown curls falling down either side of my face. My hair was brown and long in February. I thought I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. I felt at home in the snow on College Avenue.

We lay in my bed, with the lamp on nightstand switched on. I remember how cold my room was during the winter, but can’t recall feeling cold that evening. We talked about ourselves, each sharing pieces of the past and future. He talked about what he cared about, he talked about his grandfather. I thought that was lovely, a boy sharing something personal. He looked like he might cry, and I thought that was pure.

He had a tattoo of a finch on the inside of his right arm. He wore glasses, ones that looked like they belonged on the face of an aged man, but they fit perfectly on his. He told me about his passion for writing and photography. At the time he was working on portraits. I told him I was into landscape, and he was interested in seeing some of my work. I was interested in him, though I only know this now.

I can quite put my finger on what may have initiated our first kiss. It didn’t last long though; I knew I didn’t want to be the girl making out with a stranger in my bed. Yet, I had invited him- a contradiction I never grasped. He fell asleep in his jeans, and I on his chest.

We spent the next few weeks with one another. Our nights were filled with dinners, shows, red wine and scrabble. Our walk through the icy forest was our last encounter.

I often find myself looking back on that afternoon and wondering what I could have possibly said or done to have caused him to feel he had had enough. At this point, I was beginning to understand that this was a person I would have liked to spend my nights with for much longer than a few weeks. I was under the impression he felt that way for me. So when he texted me the next day explaining why we would no longer be seeing one another, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for a long time. I cried harder because I didn’t understand his explanations. There were many, and each one wasn’t a logical reason for not wanting to be with someone. As difficult as it was, I avoided asking why and said that I understood (no I did not) and acted much more mature than I felt necessary. He appreciated that, and hated him for it. He said we could still be friends we would get a coffee sometime soon. I knew that we couldn’t and we wouldn’t.

I thought back to the night we had first met, and how two options presented me. I debated over going downtown to join my friend at her boyfriend’s birthday, but I had chosen the party on College Avenue. I cried about not choosing downtown. I wished I had not met him, wished with everything I had that he had not made a place in my life. That was when I realized I was heartbroken.

I never realized it until then. Through all those weeks I was under the impression that he was the one consumed with me, and yet here I was – defeated.

My hair is short and blonde now, it is July. It took me five months to write this, five months to heal. I look back on this relationship and one line continues to resurface. A few months ago, I was looking back and trying to pinpoint the signs of a failing relationship that I missed. I still can’t. But I do realize now, that I was always scared, timid and silent. I want to stress silent. And I can present our relationship with one line; I think it may actually even do somewhat of a good job explaining its failure too.

*He filled the spaces with prompts that I do not take for I feared he would recognize all that I lack.