I started with a mirror,                                      
with questions of who and why.
But he just stared back at me,
reflecting what I already knew.

I met with a prophet,                                
who gave me a what:
The illusion of God,
and He was the only way.

I searched for a philosopher,
but was met with several.
Each had conflicting whys,
but none a who.

I moved on to science,
and it gave me a how:
It told of creation,
but never the why.

I read some books;
each had their own why,
And each character their own who,
but it was just fiction.

I looked at old photos,
and found an old me.
But I could not see who it was,
or what it all meant.

I turned to self help,
which told how to find who;
But this notion was sold to me,
and I lost more than I gained.

So I went back to my mirror,
and I broke it.

Dysphoria is like having to *****.
You're sitting there, weak and trembling;
every movement becomes twisted into a bout of nausea.
You're pale and helpless; held captive by your sickness

Every fiber of your body aches to oust the illness
A vile purgation, stinging and hot against your throat
Waves and waves of sickness pouring out of your body
Until finally, feeble and wavering, you stand.

And the color begins to come back to your face.
A relief of all the gross and disgusting feelings
Allowing you to lay down again and rest
Without your head swimming with blight.

But that is not dysphoria.
There is no purge
There is no relief.
You are hit again and again with this nausea

No hope for an end
With every breath, your stomach churns
With every movement, your body shakes
Your eyes are closed and you bite your lip;
Any action can only serve to entice the disease.

No medication could ever relieve such a force
Of this malady, this fever, this ailment.
Nothing can calm the tides of dysphoria.

And here we walk
the invisible road
No land markers tell of the way

Except the pressed earth
of ghostly footprints
All these little troubled things;
We press on further

We walk the road before the dawn
And without a noise to disturb
The lethargic world around

We walk without a stir
and without the notice
of the life nearby.

The world melts
My senses combust
My fingertips tingle

The world sways
I sway
I collapse

I feel numb
Disoriented
Everything goes dark...

A light.
A siren.
A vision of faceless faces.

I am alive.

The smell of disinfectant.
The idle chatter of two nurses.
A buzzing in my ear.

I am alive.

Under the porch


of someone’s apartment


shrouded in a cloud of


cigarette smoke and a


lingering winter’s breeze lies


twinkling plastic jewels


in the damp dirt

Between the Midnights dreary rise and Dusk’s weary awakening,
The early morning encloses the world
with a soft, nebulous blanket of darkness.

Whispers of moonlight bleed through the black
allowing each insomniac creature a glimpse
at the languid world around.

Street lights cut through the dark
and chase away the stars.
Nothing but calm and solitude.

Pitiful are those who awake to the early sun’s start
and not to the Moon’s reign.