I said to my friend ‘Most of the time, I just hate being me. I wish I was someone different.
Do other people have those kind of thoughts, or is it just me that thinks that way?’.
She said ‘No, other people wish you were someone different too.’
I said to my friend ‘Most of the time, I just hate being me. I wish I was someone different.
Do other people have those kind of thoughts, or is it just me that thinks that way?’.
She said ‘No, other people wish you were someone different too.’
I don’t know that you exist,
On others I don’t even really care.
I want to slit my wrist,
But I fear I’ll find but emptiness in there.
On so many days
I’m simply lost inside my brain,
Or inside the parts that might remain
If you cut me all apart,
Awareness and an aching heart.
But some days
I cannot unremember,
For the sun becomes an ember
When compared to you.
All that will exist
Are the parts of you I’ve kissed,
So at least I will have all of you.
You’re my everything.
I suppose the trees, in retrospect,
Should have attended my neglect
To time’s subtle scythe with due respect.
Reminding that nature always calls,
And she who answers always falls.
A premonition of my future
Abandoned casually by trees
Autumn leaves, as they led
Falling echoes of my life,
Fleeting, fled. Underfoot
On which to tread, and I,
Despondent, sighing said:
‘There lies everything,
Don’t by it’s beauty, be misled.
The whole world and all within ends thus:
These dying leaves are us’.
Success can make you bleed,
Because what I thought I wanted
Wasn’t really what I need.
And it’s not how I imagined
To walk a mile in those shoes.
Sometimes when you think you win,
I find it somewhat ironic that in society today, when someone suffers greatly from a particular mental illness or malady, that they will go to such lengths to ‘heal’ them.
All kinds of medications and treatments have been prescribed to me.
Many that are illegal in any other context.
Amphetamines, benzodiazapines, anti-psychotics.
Iron infusions, supplements, electrocuting your brain.
They do so much to keep you alive and attempt to make you functional.
Even when they shouldn’t.
Even when it would be so much cheaper and easier to let you die, they still refuse.
But they have no objections about removing your rights, forcing you against your will to continue to exist in constant misery and suffering. To remain alive.
Even when you shouldn’t.
I used to dream of the great ships.
The enormous deep space freighters.
They had seemed so romantic and mysterious then.
A silly girl, dreaming of interstellar adventure and glory.
I turn up at the wedding,
But they won’t let me in,
I must have been specified
I’m sure I’m on the guest list,
Please have one more look,
It’s my sister getting married
So I must be in the book.
Can’t you see that I’m a bridesmaid?
I’m getting kind of harried
And I’d hate to make a mess,
But if you don’t step aside,
I have a switchblade in this dress.
So I’m jiggling my legs like some frenetic junkie, waiting for the benzos and codeine to kick in.
It’s one of those nights where despite the warmth of the room, I feel cold inside.
My self hating nihilism is all-prevailing and the certainty that I will never be better, that I am doomed to endure day after day of misery and frustration, clings to me like a cold wet bedsheet.
The experience of staying awake all night, especially 2 or 3 days/nights continuously, not only creeps into joints and muscles as stiffness and pain, but eventually becomes a pressure inside the head, like a clamp crushing upon your brain.
Given enough time, everything about staying awake long for extended periods of time becomes unpleasant.
My best efforts to boost my mood upward, to think of positive things, and to convince myself life is worthwhile, such as trying to believe that one day I may be even happy, is met every time now by Poes’ Raven, embedded in my mind, it’s vocabulary no greater now than from it’s famous past.
‘Things are going to get better’, I repeat to myself.
“Nevermore”, comes the inetivetible reply.
‘One day, I will be happy’, I even try to believe it.
The Raven croaks, “Nevermore”.
‘I WILL be happy’, I tell it.
I wonder if it understands double negatives.
‘I will not never be happy’, I offer.
In the end,I just offer it ridicule.
‘I will not never inversely opposite become antithetically unhappy’, I say, wondering if it will fall for the syntax and reply ‘Nevermore’.
The raven just stares at me. I suppose because the raven is a creation in my mind, trying to fool myself when I know the plan, isn’t really very logical.
But logic seems to diminish exponentially as the hours continue to pass without sleep.
As does motivation, positivity, and the will to live.
I’m beginning to become so freaked out that I can’t even cry.
I want to, I can feel the tears behind my eyes, but the raw scraping of my nerves won’t let them flow.
A tiny bit less control and I’d probably be laughing maniacally. Panic and lack of reason start burning hot in my chest, a strange counter point to the ceaseless icy chill in my guts.
From experience I’ll still be awake this time tomorrow (5.30am), so there’s always some potentially delusional posts to look forward to.
Some might fall asleep with ease,
Amost equal to the envy
That graces my every weary breath.
These empty, malicious hours
Will not be filled by mere distraction,
Night demands complete attention.
She will be neither shunned nor ignored,
Tearing into your head like sheets of sandpaper.
Time, ever her gleeful accomplice, slows all,
Until the distance between each minute mark
Surpasses all the great oceans as one.
While confined to a coffee cup,
You keep paddling.
There seem so many truths,
Which one do I face?
Which one takes the place
On the pedestal?
When I tried to face them all,
They warned me I would fall,
Now I’m falling.
Trying to pretend
That the song will never end,
But for better or for worse
I think I’m running out of verse.
I can pretend at emotion,
Lip syncing to the song,
But the words are all rehearsed,
And every line is getting worse.
All I feel now is an emptiness,
Just nothingness, maybe less.
An undefined ache
Where I thought my soul should go,
But it’s always been a fake
And I just put on a show.
So convincingly the act
That I once believed the fact
That I could be a real girl.
But oh, Pinoccio,
I should have listened
You know, it really is the strangest sensation.
Often the everyday circumstance of my daily activities will remind me so much of myself that for a time, I almost become convinced that I am me.
This might sound peculiar, but more often than not, I am not myself.
Who I am at those times, I am entirely uncertain, for it seems to change as often as the weather changes its underwear, and quite probably more often than most people change their own.
Undoubtedly I am Alice, and have been for as long as I can recall.
If one should look upon the dictionary for guidance, an included passage may briefly read: ‘A female given name: from a Germanic word meaning “of noble rank.”’
Well, la-di-da and how do you do? Shall we sit for tea, sipped from finest china, little finger extended thus?
I could certainly give myself airs, until the fine china is revealed to be shot glasses, and the only finger I seem to extend of late, is most definitely not the little one.
Beyond that, I could not say. It’s hard to maintain perseverance or commitment when what you want, what you care about, or want you feel capable of doing, change from moment to moment, leaving a trail of chaos strewn behind, abandoned projects belonging to another me.
Not the current me, or even the previous me, but one of many. I don’t pretend to multiple personalities, but when your mood, desires, dislikes, and underwear completely changes each time, well, it may as well be a different personality.
So, from time to time, I am reminded of myself. I remember what it was like to feel a certain way, and wonder if perhaps it might be worth revisiting that state.
Many times, there may be a certain amount of overlap.
Sometimes I remember being myself, who isn’t or wasn’t me, but could be again if i were inclined to make the effort of being more myself than I am, was or could be.
If I had anything to say, maybe of interest,
I’d pin the fuckin’ thing up on my pinterest.
But all my conversations now are with myself,
And it’s slowly eating at my mental health.
Like seagulls picking at a whales’ rotting corpse,
The wide beach view is fine, until of course,
You look a bit closer, see the detail,
That’s my sanity: half eaten whale.
I should probably get a friend or maybe two,
I like them in the same way that I like you.
Fine until they open up their mouth,
Then I don’t want to hear whatever shit is coming out.
Well, maybe I’m a narcissistic bitch,
With some really messed up kind of mental itch,
But if I scratch it ’til it don’t itch no more,
There’ll be chunks of greyish matter scattered all over the floor.
They say you’ll never love someone until you learn to love yourself,
Well Catch 22, asshole, here’s a thought, I’ll share the wealth,
How can I learn to love me, ’til I’m shown love by someone else?
The lesson goes both ways, as most good lessons do,
Since everybody hates me,
I’ve learned how to hate me too.
Spent three weeks in an unmade bed,
A pounding in my skull,
Repeating thoughts in my head.
Like the lyrics of a song
Singing ‘please let me die before long.’
I’m trying hard to hold on to the act of holding on,
But even now my own mind wants me gone,
So the line I’m holding onto’s not that strong.
The basic problem with this kind of rope, you see,
Is that it’s tethered far too tightly to my sanity.
Maybe if I enjoyed a single moment,
Maybe if I could control or own it,
I’d be happier alive,
Given a reason to survive,
But all I get is non-stop misery.
So fuck me.
No apologies for profanity.
I’m stuck here in my head, wishing I was fuckin’ dead,
Because there’s nothing in this world that I can see,
Nothing for me.
Nothing for me.
The first bottle was so sweet,
I ordered a case of kisses
Now I’m drunk on your lips,
From nothing but sips,
Do you long to drink deeply too?
The fun-fair’s coming to an end,
The few poor tokens yet to spend
Have tumbled from my pocket.
I hesitate and weigh the cost,
Move along, or seek them? Lost
Among the trampled grasses.
The mask that lasted for so long,
Now cracked, the smile forever gone,
Has broken, and will not stay on.
Raistlin. Of course I was always Raistlin. Weren’t we all? I’m pretty sure that was the point. Or maybe I’m a bad judge of fiction. It’s been a while since I read it.
I don’t ever recall categorising or identifying characters by ‘gender role’ back then. Instead, sorted them by, as Magneto puts it, ‘what I want, and how I’m going to get it.’
I think that puts me….just over the Neutral/Good side of the True Neutral line..
Great, apparently my gender identity / awareness is based on an AD&D alignment table…As well as revealing me to be a massive nerd. Methinks I spake too much. (Contemplates deleting this post..)
With great power comes great mental illness / torment.
Seems to be one of those days. Time to get offline.
Some days I don’t know if I’m more like Dr. Horrible or Penny.
Surrounded by tired clichés,
My mind dies.
A myriad of mortal, mired ways.
As is wont with mind to mend,
I’m drawn to midnight lakes’ embrace.
My freezing, bare-feet thoughtless wend
To every deeper, quiet place.
I forget how elegantly swirling stars
Weave such delicate distractions.
Flickering inside and out
Barely seen refractions.
Starlight floats in darker water,
Gently mesmerising motes.
The lake becoming midnights’ daughter,
Magic and music without notes.
More oft’ my private galaxy,
Calms more than ‘cut’n’bleeding’,
Regardless, tonight my regret remains
Highly caffeinated, thoughts still speeding.
[End pt 1.]
I never even noticed the clock.
Did it tick?
Did it tock?
Did it not?
Was it frozen in indecision,
In the moment that was lost
When you reached the doorway threshold
And you stepped across?
Stuck? Between that second and the last,
Unable to move on, unable to move past
A fate of helpless observation,
Endless replaying rotation.
A mechanical mind,
Unable to find resolution
Or a hint of absolution,
Sounds so very much like mine.
Because when you left the last time,
When you left for the very last time..
I never even noticed the clock.
I can smile at a party.
After the turn out, I
Turn off my burnt out
I can greet you on the street
And you won’t even ask
About the chosen mask
I look through out at you.
I can attend a family event,
I’m still quite able
To sit at a table,
Pretending to be me.
See the pallette spread before me,
Choose a colour, it adorns me.
Pick the right one, I can be
Anyone I want to be.
If I can be anybody, oh so easily,
No difference that any one, not even I can see,
One face or another, all so equally..
Which one is really me?
She brings me spun-shadow,
Like a cotton-candy treat,
Delicate, and deceptively sweet,
She says ‘taste of this’.
Already sugar high,
It’s so easy just to try
Spun sugar with a darker dye,
Just a bite.
But an insidious spiders web,
A sticky gossamer thread
Like fine, fine spun-sugar,
Gets inside your head.
Ensnares you there
Wraps around you,
Like a sticky quicksand glue.
Mired in darkness
That clings and brings
‘Taste of this’.
Have you seen my life around?
Now it’s lost,
I have found,
The whole world wanting.
Not pages torn from fairy tales,
Far stranger by many accords,
No songs to make a million sales,
Or plays stepped out on Broadway boards.
But it’s a dizzy, dancing, summer spark,
A falling, flying Meadowlark, and
All those nights spent in the park
Laughing in rain, and wet, and dark.
Also the sharpest knife that ever was,
A blade that has no par.
It has to be that sharp because
It constantly cuts, with ne’er a scar.
Those kind of days are hard to misplace,
Oft’ tattooed upon my face,
There, in ink you can’t erase,
Writ large the tale, my fall from grace.
Did I learn to hate myself
With such immaculate perfection?
Self taught and unaware,
Still I excell, I succeed,
Seemingly such a strange sensation,
For I fail flawlessly amongst
Yeah I lost it.
My mind, I lost that too.
I lost my heart and everything,
The moment I lost you.
Now I’m shaking and unsure of
How I’m supposed to feel,
My friend’s are so blasé
But to me it’s a huge deal.
My stomach’s in my chest,
I’ve lost track of all the rest,
Each cell in me is bleeding tears.
Although I’ve tried to act my best,
I don’t give a fuck about
Backlash or all that cost,
When all I want is gone,
So you might think I look ok,
Kinda normal in a geeky-goth way.
But I always dream and dream of the world
Where I’m the ‘trembling, adored, tousled bird-mad girl’.
And I long to have a writing-desk,
Like a raven in a riddle,
‘But there’s something inside,
Trying to eat its way out from the middle’.
I’m a tattered teddy-bear,
Never quite cared for enough.
Although I claim that I don’t care,
I’m still completely stuffed.
Our whole lives playing
At make-believe and pretend,
Like every song or story,
All songs and stories
We act so well, the human lie,
But acting takes its tole,
For if we are to fit the role,
A piece of us must die.
Did you ever never
Stop and ponder whether
If forever is a never
that simply will not die?
Then maybe never is an ever
That was severed from forever
And will eternally endeavour
To reconnect together
From the tragically cut tether
That was in a manner clever,
Keeping ever, never and forever
From being ForNeverEver.
Here’s the thing:
Small glitch. Device died. Lost my tags.
This may result in the occasional doubling up / repost.
It will all sort itself out in the end, I imagine.
How did I miss them?
Everyday they came.
So small, it all just seemed the same.
If I noticed without worry, I am sorry.
For each microscopic gap, the infinite tiny spaces,
Gathering gradually over time.
Connecting to make this chasm.
Such a painfully intricate distance
15 boxes of pencils, and
Countless pages, and
I’m still trying to write
How I feel about me.
15 boxes empty, and
More notesbooks full, and
I’m still trying to draw
What I want you to see.
When your mind is broken
And the world is wreckage
They tell you to say:
That you’re not ok,
No, you’re not OK.
So I said it, I wrote it,
Used my blood to draw,
And what the fuck for?
Nobody listened, nobody cared,
Nobody got what I shared and I shared.
I guess that was lucky,
Because although I had tried
To express how I wish how I really had died,
Express how I hated myself and my life,
How my pain got less with each cut of a knife,
It turns out I was actually, really, OK,
Compared to how I am now anyway.
Soulmates and lovers and
BAEs til the end.
They come and they go,
So I guess they pretend.
They all seem to break
When they should try to bend.
If you ask me the truth,
All I want is a friend.
My heart seems to ache,
It won’t bend, it will break,
Because all that I want is a friend.
Blow on, Ye wolves of the world,
Howl and hammer ‘pon my door.
This axe is whetted well,
My walls far more than sticks and straw.
Which was once considered easy prey,
Now armed and filled with violent rage.
Therefore unto thee I say:
‘Best Ye blow the other way’
Apparently my informed honesty is wasted,
Overwhelmed by stolen analogies and unfriend-me messages.
‘Unbalanced Alice’, so susceptible to mind-space deficiencies
And fairy-tale moonlight monoaminergic rushes.
The happiest of unhappy clowns. Careful never to grow up,
Because adults abuse their lungs and veins,
Simply to achieve the same.
Despite these slow bright waterdrops,
My rainbow remains incomplete.
I thought I had booked my happiness well ahead of time,
Pre-forming a flood of excess enthusiasm.
Instead, I made popcorn for the gathering storm
And prepared to go swimming.
Still not sure which to get.
If only oblivion tasted more
Like raspberry and chocolate.
Why are these things so hard to choose?
Although nothing really matters when
There’s nothing left to lose.
Vodka? Tequila? Fifty year-old Scotch?
My favourite song that hurts just right,
Put on ‘The Crow’ to watch.
Video diary? Hand written letter?
Email or text?
It doesn’t matter, it will won’t change
What will happen next.
The worst part
Isn’t that you hate me.
It’s that you make me hate myself.
-Doctor Who / The Eleventh Hour. ( Matt Smith)
I’m not sure if I forgot
Or have just grown indecisive,
But I can’t really quite recall
Exactly what my life is.
I used to know where I belong.
Used to have a favourite song.
Now I don’t know
What my greatest fear is,
Favourite beer is,
Time of year is,
Or even how deep the lithosphere is..
OK, I never really knew that last one,
Carry on, my wayward son.
Her smile is a Mona Lisa Crash Cart.
A work of art that stops and starts
The broken beat of my poor heart.
Her lips are painting perfect, her smile mystifying,
I bet even a single kiss would be electrifying.
When it’s briefly, brilliantly, put on display,
I surge with desire to steal her away.
When I see her, my career ambition
Is ‘art critic with a heart condition’,
So I can see her defibrillating smile play,
As they wheel my corpse away.
Wanna know how I got this scar?
Let my trust stretch a touch too far.
Got run over by the car
That you happened to be driving.
Shattered limbs, broken bones,
Barely breathing, made it home.
Found everything I’d ever owned
Burning on the front lawn.
You said our life was such a mess,
Everything my fault, more or less.
It didn’t hurt much, I confess,
Until you smiled.
Destroy the things I want and need,
Run me down, for I concede,
The only thing that makes me bleed
Is that smile.
Like a knife, it cuts me deep,
Leaving scars I’ll always keep.
You ask me how, but already knew.
I got these scars from you.
Where do the pieces of a broken heart go
If they’re too fragile to stitch, or you don’t know how to sew?
Are they put back together with some mystical glue,
Or is there somewhere you can go, to purchase one that’s new?
One thing’s for certain, it takes forever in time,
Fresh hearts are in demand, judging by the waiting line.
Installing a new heart must be hard, I’ve no doubt,
But I’m stuck at the part where your insides are your out.
This isn’t really new though, it’s not my first time ’round,
First-timers wait the longest, due to covering fresh ground.
I always ask for Adamantium, for a heart that cannot break,
But they keep giving me a glass one, and no choice but to take.
I never see who does it all, maybe it’s Santa Claus.
If he’s not received my letter yet,
I’d like to add this clause:
“Dear Santa, let’s just skip right to the end,
You can forgo all the material gifts,
If you’ll hurry up and mend
I thought I was too cool to care,
Now maybe that’s too true,
There’s an Eskimo outside my door
Building an igloo.
I’ve always wanted to be cool,
But detachment was my reason,
Now I am so very cool,
So cool, I’m fucking freezin’.
Frozen up in isolation
I can’t relate to you.
I’m the White Witch of Narnia*,
Somehow remade anew.
Snowdrifts almost covered me, my igloo and my sled,
I was speechless as you walked away,
Then you turned and said:
‘You know nothing ‘pon snow.
Let it go.
Let it go.’
*(though really, you can’t beat Tilda Swinton).
Melancholy musings must
As everything, regress to dust.
All things return from whence they came,
Doth my memory the same.
Sparks of Spring-blessed childhood.
Early risings and cool dawn grass,
As sunrise amplified reality
Granting tiny temporary kingdoms
To my imaginative keeping.
Barefoot child I,
Twixt river and orchard wild,
Would careless spend my day
Full of mud, fruit and fae.
Until as is wont, up I grew.
Something one should never do..
I hate weekdays,
They drag us from our bed,
Where we could snuggle down together,
Keep each other warm instead.
The winter morning chill pervades the room,
Then together, almost as one, and far too soon,
We cast aside the cover,
Glancing shrewdly at each other
Before competing for first shower,
Hot-water, soap, and scour,
While the other makes us coffee,
With toast all buttered down,
Warming frozen fingers,
Wrapped in a dressing gown.
Humming out a cheerful morning song.
Perhaps I don’t hate weekdays all along.
Melvin Udall: “People that talk in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”
-As Good As it Gets
Melvin Udall: “Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes, with boats, and friends, and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that’s their story; good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you’re that pissed that so many others had it good.”
– As Good As It Gets
“Procrastination is a way for us to be satisfied with second-rate results; we can always tell ourselves we’d have done a better job if only we had more time…If you’re good at rationalizing, you can keep yourself feeling rather satisfied this way, but it’s a cheap happy. You’re whittling your expectations of yourself down lower and lower.”
When you liked me,
I even kind of liked myself.
Now you say you hate me
Like you’ve hated nothing else…
Hey, It’s me, calling up at 2am,
Just a little bit off my face.
Ima need some bail again,
For fighting at some place.
Shouldn’t have gone out,
Probably should have stayed home,
But when I’m empty, and angry,
I’m not safe when I’m alone.
I tried my best to fill up the hole,
Indulged in dancing and alcohol.
Maybe got just a tiny bit lit, but,
It’s called a hole ‘cos there’s nothing innit.
Lost my temper, and before I knew,
I glassed some bitch and her boyfriend too.
She needs stitches, he might be blind,
Maybe I went too far this time.
It filled the hole, but I must confess,
It only filled up with more emptiness.
Black is the colour in which stars shine,
And hiding underneath closed eyes,
Black is the colour in which you’ll find
Dreams and Realms Untold reside.
There within the colour of coal,
A canvas for the mind and soul,
A wonderland where you’re made whole.
Not a colour, but a tone,
It’s somewhere safe to call your own,
A place that’s yours,
And yours alone.
You say goodnight,
Time for bed.
In the stillness of the room
I can hear your gentle breathing,
You have fallen straight to sleep
Before my feet are done unfreezing.
Another icy night,
It’s the middle of that season,
Our body-warmth beneath the quilt
Is not the only reason
To lay here.
To stay here.
I picture monsters in the darkness,
But I’m not much for believing,
There are much worse things by far,
Like the clock hand slowly cleaving.
Cleaving away each helpless hour.
And I lie here, wide awake,
Hours long since passed from evening,
Well into the morning now,
I wonder what you’re dreaming.
Because I’ll lie here with my mind,
My mind all madly teeming,
Body cramping, muscles screaming,
Trying so hard not to move,
Or accidentally waken you.
I’ll lie here all night, suffering instead,
So that you can sleep soundly, when we both share a bed.
So this is what ‘forever’ looks like
From the other side.
A lot like broken promises
And echoes of goodbye.
Like everything you never got
But always thought you’d get.
Like each forgotten lonely grave
Of every childhood pet.
The only thing that’s certain is,
It looks a lot like loneliness.
I thought I’d upgrade my depression,
See how it’s looking in 4K.
Ultra High Definition is the new norm now,
At least that’s what they say.
So I tried my tears in Ultra High,
Unsurprised to see,
The resolutions that I cry,
Are way past UHD.
One AM is staring at the ceiling.
Two AM, the window and the moon.
Three AM can’t tell me what I’m feeling,
Four o’clock is too large for this room.
Five is slowly breathing in,
Six is breathing out.
Seven with the sun up brings
Another day without
Unsure, I feel unsafe.
Former pillars and paragons of my life
Now indifferent to my demise,
Pretend to care just enough
To avoid aspersions and lies,
Potential implications of associated guilt.
The small signature attached to the bottom
Is cutting and carelessly impersonal.
A full stop to the note :
‘If you do it, don’t make a mess inside.
I’m the one who has to clean it up.’
Suicide reduced to an inconvenience.
You realise Disney’s ‘Beauty & The Beast’ isn’t really a love story, Belle just has Stockholm Syndrome.
There are plenty of moments
Of heartache I admit,
Some hurt more than others,
And those hurt quite a bit.
But nothing cut me open
As surely and as swift,
As when you walked up
And handed back all of my gifts.
The ones that had meaning,
Given over years.
But you just dumped them in my hands,
Ignoring all my tears.
I confess not knowing what to say,
Never having felt that way.
You walked away, left me to hold
Rejected pieces of my soul.
Keep one eye on the wolf, my dear,
And one eye on the door.
But then who dreams the dreamer, dear?
And which one came before?
So one eye for the dreamer then,
One eye, one dream too many.
Best you look behind again,
Before you don’t have any.
There may be those who think I’m just not that bright.
But I can find a door-frame in the dark,
I don’t need a light.
There’s no mail service here on any weekend day.
I know the letterbox is empty,
But I’ll go and check it anyway.
If the remote doesn’t work
I mash harder,
If there’s no food in fridge or in larder,
I’ll check two-dozen more times just to see,
If something appeared magically.
I can open those childproof caps,
But still the hot and cold taps
Confound me unless coloured or labelled,
Or why a tablespoon is not for the table.
And I still trust people,
I still open up my heart.
And I still can’t find myself
In the dark.
So you’re empty,
And you’re angry,
Once with hope
That’s now gone,
It’s been used.
Stole your believing,
So much doubt.
You let the world in,
Now a hollow thing.
Eaten from the inside out.
So you sit there,
And you don’t care,
They took so much more
Than you had in store
To be taken.
And the heart
You once had,
In this world,
I’m dressed to bitch, and
There’s an angry itch
Behind my eyes.
One that says I may be guilty
Of more than one demise.
Imagine their surprise
As I cut them down to size.
My verbal six-shooters hang in cross-draw,
Sights filed down, and furthermore,
With a quick-pull-trigger,
This mouth is set to go off.
‘You’d better run, better run,
Outrun my gun.’
I know you claim I’m gutless,
That I don’t say what’s on my mind,
But you just lack the mental wherewithal
To read between my lines.
Your attempts at clumsy sucker-punch
Text messages aimed at my head,
Will never vitate my ego much,
Without polysyllabic words instead.
I admit it may be perniferous,
To be consistently superfluous
With every transcription writ,
But no use of simplified language
Will make up for the F in your wit.
‘A rose by any other name
Would smell as sweet.’
My life, by another name,
Would still be incomplete.
But is this life?
Betrayal of self.
Exquisite waste of moments?
I idle and decay
The meadowlark laughed.
Her singular propensity for disregarding
Guilt and sorrow
Made me think of you.
Everyday is such a perfect day
To be down.
Especially days when you’re around.
I try to tolerate such intolerable intolerance,
Given the chance. The circumstance.
It’s not the end
Of the world,
But I still fall
For the straight girl.
“It’s for the best.”
“It’s only a cat.
“You don’t want him to suffer ”
Such are the platitudes intended to make it easier to murder my companion of twelve years. My best and only friend. The most gentle and pure soul I have ever encountered, and quite probably the only reason I’m still alive.
When he’s gone…I can’t begin to imagine..
Now I must hold him in my lap while he is murdered.
MURDERED! despite knowing it will end his suffering and it must be done.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
I haven’t done anything else.
What good are windows?
The view stays the same:
Grey, grey days only promising rain.
One more sign I’ve lost control of my brain.
Perhaps I should say ‘I never really had it’.
It’s not as though you can reach out and grab it.
Trying too hard to do whatever it takes:
Deliberately remaking all my remade mistakes,
Never get to choose just which part of me breaks.
It’s like Tori and her ‘Little Earthquakes’:
“Doesn’t take much to rip us into pieces”.
“The monkeys have run out of chickens to fuck, and that’s why the world is the way it is. . .”.
– Beyond Wonderland.
Poems to resume at some random time in the unforeseable future. Because no one can see the future.
I don’t GO crazy, I AM crazy.
I just go normal from time to time.
The sun comes up, but you’re no longer here,
Just tangled up sheets and a pillow of tears.
Maybe I should thank you
For some madness in my morning,
At least it won’t be boring
I take comfort in my coffee cup,
Hide from feelings swirling up.
All that caffeinated sadness,
Barely holding back the madness.
If I could drink you down,
Would it make me drown
My life is a metaphor,
Analogies and nothing more.
No original thought,
Everything is store bought.
Which pieces are me?
What more can I be?
What else do I entail,
When my mind is retail ?
My life is a metaphor,
What good is it for?
Just recycled feelings.
Emotional fruit peelings.
My life’s a cliché
What more can I say?
I only care that I don’t care.
At least there’s some irony there.
All those times my English teacher
Critiqued my poetry,
Yet could never see,
That all along,
I was never writing poems.
I was righting wrongs.
Putting things inside my mind
Back where they belonged.
So if there’s nothing in my ‘poetry’,
That you can see..
There’s no standard meter,
Find in each it’s melody.
Note: Almost every poem posted so far contains a line ‘heavily inspired’ by a line or few words from a song.
This ‘line’ is the foundation for the rest of the poem, and usually the poems ‘meter’ is written to time / match the song the founding line is from.
Bonus points if you see them. If you reread the poem to fit the song, it will click.
‘Have faith, Alice, and everything will be alright in the end…’
Alice looked over her left shoulder, squinting into the setting sun as she briefly appraised the figure beside her on the ledge.
She looked back to the right. The train was still some distance off, and would slow as it reached this stop.
Her plan was to jump on top of it, as she has done many times, not in front of it.
But there was no need to tell the Angel that.
‘New, Huh?’, she asked, sliding down and leaning against the low wall.
There was still a few minutes to waste.
‘I am, yes, to your case at least, not to Guardianship.’ The melodic voice paused, then added ‘I have had quite a number of wards.’
Alice nodded, pulling out a toothpick and sucking on the end. She wasn’t sure what that was all about, but it looked badass on TV.
She got peppermint flavoured ones, cos if you’re gonna chew on a bit of wood, you might as well end up with fresh breath.
‘Had’. She said, ‘Where are they all now?’
She knew where they were, there was only one way a Guardian Angel took on a new ward.
‘Well, dead, naturally..’ The Angel started..
Alice laughed. ‘That’s reassuring’
She stood up and climbed back onto the outcrop of broken wall that allowed her access to this otherwise forbidden area overlooking the rails.
She was good at finding these sort of places.
‘What I mean is’, the Angel was fumbling to explain, ‘is that when a previous ward dies, even peacefully of old age, we are assigned a new ward to look after.’
The train was approaching the station, slowing down for its stop, to let passengers on and off.
‘That’s kind of like the deal I have’, Alice replied, turning around to face the Angel, her back to the now darkened sky. ‘I’ve had a few Guardian Angels, but they keep assigning me new ones’.
The hiss and clatter below signified the train was practically at a stand still. It wouldn’t stay that way long.
‘That’s unusual,’ the Angel frowned, ‘what happened to the previous ones?’.
Alice let the toothpick drop from her lip and flicked it deftly out of the air as it fell.
She’d spent forever practicing that move.
‘Some died. Most quit’, she said, touching her hand to her forehead in mock salute.
She stepped backwards, dropping off the ledge into the darkness below.
‘Oh dear’, murmured the Angel.
Scared and cold and dripping red,
A knife cut to the bone,
Something echoes in my head,
‘..don’t want to die alone..’
A gentle wind begins to stir
My Angel whispers low,
“Silly girl, you were always were,
You simply didn’t know.”
Her final words hang in the air
“Just like a glass that shatters,
You’ll always be beyond repair
In every way that matters. “
Each time you pass me in the hall
I find new depths to fall into,
When all I ever wanted was
Some kind of smile from you.
One meant just for me,
Have your eyes focus and see
Me standing there,
Red faced and feeling small.
I thought to go exploring,
Deep inside of me,
Hoping I might find the things
That cause such misery.
But what I found was certainly
No stately pleasure dome decreed,
No lands untold, or centre earth,
No, all I found was me.
And so myself and I spoke long,
And although I hoped we might,
We did not get along, but rather
Hated on first sight.
Myself confessed they hated me,
Despised me through and through.
I realised when I looked at me,
I hated myself too.
And so I’ll relate this little story,
Quite the handy alogory.
If spelunking in your mind,
Beware what you might find.
Sitting by the ocean with the break-up blues,
You’re in my head whatsoever I do.
You’re the irritating sand down inside my shoes,
You know I hate you, but I love you too.
I put my heart into a locket,
In an envelope inside my pocket.
Should I throw it in the ocean blue, or
Find someone else to give it to?
I don’t know why you always reside
Embedded in my mind.
A single grain that got inside,
That one that I can’t find.
You’re an irritation to my heart,
The sand that I can’t lose.
But I know a place that I can start,
I’ll empty out my shoes.
My life, the eponymous derailing train,
Out of control, and I’m feeling the same.
At least the wreck will be magnificent.
Read the news, see how it went,
My life in print, splashed across a page.
So unremarkable for someone my age,
She lived, she died, is what it will read.
The in-between is what I need.
So much time and room to grow,
I hope I do, before I go.
I’m standing on the shore,
Throwing rocks into the river,
Hoping I can hit a fish.
But I still have little more
Than I ever did before,
Other than wishing
On the wishing
Of a wish.
This place is feeling far too much
Like Kansas, or locales with such
Where is Toto when I need him?
Don’t want to be here anymore.
Where’s the Tornado or the Rabbit Hole
I’ve been longing for?
I cannot find my Wonderland,
Went and lost my Yellow Brick Road.
Threw myself into a mirror,
Just to have the glass explode.
Oh Neo! How I took the red pill,
In fact, I took them all.
Ended in the emergency ward,
Not in The Matrix at all.
I don’t want to be here,
For here hurts far too much,
Everything here is destroying me,
And I’m destroying all that I touch.
I long so, to leave this place,
To find somewhere else to go.
There’s this land that I’ve heard of once..
Something about a rainbow..
[ Connection Stable]
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Sits uneasily, bus seat perfunctory.
A lump of hard plastic.
Stares through the once was window, now just a diary of scratches and rage.
Watches uncertain possibilities of herself huddling around trash-can fires, scrounging through back alleys behind steaming food stores.
Standing staring back with vacant yet accusing eyes.
Sees herself in the cracks.
The could have been.
Might have been.
Hot and heavy tears,
Perhaps they fall for all the could-have-beens.
Perhaps they fall because I’m uncertain on which side of the glass I belong.
Hates the burden of this unwanted blame.
Unresolved guilt builds into anger.
Resents your unspoken accusations.
Sick with self-doubt about how true they may actually be.
Hates these imagined obligations of grief, twisted and embedded in my head.
All these not-so-very-unlikely possible, potential versions of me.
I hate them.
I hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate society, for making me feel as though I should constantly feel lucky.
Lucky to be as damaged and fucked up and empty as I really am.
Oh, so lucky.
‘And how are things with you these days, Alice?’, inquired The Cheshire Cat.
‘Well’, she answered, ‘You know that feeling when everything seems to be working out?
Your chickens have all come home to roost.
There’s a glorious sunrise, and finally, life is good’?
‘No’, replied The Cat, ‘ I can’t say that I do’.
‘Oh’, said Alice, thoughtfully, then after a little while, rather sadly, ‘Me neither’.
I pass through life
Unnoticed in dreary monotone.
Careless watercolour washes
Or perfectly placed impasto.
I wish for more than merely nothing,
Having been a sketch too many times.
How long since gentle hands
Knew well the contours of my face?
When last did we not kiss,
Rather drink of each others lips
The lingering taste of dew
And morning sun?
Too many days plus one,
Too many days plus one.
Please explain my existence,
Society, and it’s distance,
That only ever amplifies this
Self imposed resistance.
Decorating pillows with tears,
My armor but a quilt,
Alone, confused, helpless,
Masturbation and guilt.
I must have murdered an angel
In a previous life, now I atone,
Endlessly tortured and punished,
My brain is not my own,
Just constant echoes of darkness,
Alone, Alone, Alone.
This is the path I chose,
And here I am undone.
A clown without her clothes
In front of everyone.
Liar Liar Liar,
For closer to the fire,
What seemed like shining wings
Are melting waxen things.
‘As fake as a wedding cake’,
The Manson lyric goes.
I’ll be the slice left on the plate
That no-one ever chose.
Talks a lot
But says nothing.
Takes a lot
But never brings.
No more, no more,
I said before.
Yet here I write,
And now for something completely diff…
well.. ok, pretty much the same
Express Elevator Down:
to Major Depressive Episode?
Don’t mind if I do.
“I am just going outside and may be some time.”
Feeling a little like…
‘Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers.
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are,
We’re quicker, quicker.
Who cares if one more light goes out?’
-One More Light / Linkin Park
‘Please don’t go, I want you to stay,
I’m begging you, please, please don’t leave here.
I don’t want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel.
The world is just illusion trying to change you.
Being like you are, well, this is something else.
Who would comprehend?’
-Illusion / VNV Nation
A touch of unexplained joy
From that little extra stretch.
Crisp smooth lines
Of fabric untumbled,
Richness of hue and
Delight in a
Cast aside your sheets
But darkness leaks
Inside to out.
Always seeking night,
The weaker parts of me.
The cold air stings
Like a slap without sound.
Head thrown back,
I watch storm-clouds gather ’round.
Freezing wind whips over me,
I feel it through my shirt,
The pain it brings is welcoming,
No wounds, but still the hurt.
And I hear the rush
Of the breeze,
And the roar
Of the free-
Way beneath me.
Close my eyes, and I know
I could do it.
Just another one,
I could become,
I could become the delay
The commuters all hate,
Cos I ruined their day..
With my eyes closed.
Two days up,
Two weeks down.
Mixed episode, Mixed episode, lost count.
Three hours up, two down, two up,
Mixed episode again..
Two hours up, two days down..
Etc, etc, etc.
Rapid cycling is not given to record keeping.
Half a day up, 3 weeks down, 4 days up…
Blur. Blur. Blurrrrrrr.
Insanity, Insanity, Insane.
Smile Alice, we’re just getting started.
Sarah senses subtlties
In the flight of bumblebees,
Passing in the summer breeze
On their way to places she’s
Never seen and never sees,
Beyond the flowering trees.
My favourite colour is midnight,
Favourite time is soon,
My favourite song not written yet,
Alarm still set for Noon.
I quite like long beaches,
Just not walking along.
The time that I spend showering
Is the length of that favourite song.
I can’t stand cold showers
But love walking in the rain,
If there’s something I’ve never done before,
I’ll go and not do it again.
I’ve never seen a storm in a tea-cup,
Only tea-cups in a storm,
So I make sure to hold all my tea parties
Only when everything’s warm.
I’m party to tea at my tea party,
Where normally normal’s the norm,
And it’s cosier with a tea-cosy
‘Cos cosys keep everything warm,
And as we know about tea-cups,
The warmer ones keep away storms.
So that’s me in a nut-shell,
Where else would any nut be?
Will I live up to the low-down?
You’ll have to keep reading to see.
I used to have a dream.
I was on the cover of a magazine.
Now all I do I scream.
Doesn’t that seem..
Going up or down?
Country mouse or town?
Smile or a frown?
Heartbroken or clown?
Make a decision please,
Indecision brings unease.
You think I like to tease.
You will not contemplate
Angles that aren’t always straight,
You say lie, and lie some more,
Act as I did before.
Be an emotion whore.
When the footsteps had faded,
The last box removed,
I sat and stared at the empty room,
For the only thing that you left me
Was your absence.
I try my best to be careful,
Pay attention to the what and the wherefore.
But there always comes a time,
When I colour outside of the line.
I try so hard just to fit in,
Do everything the world is expecting,
But now and then you’ll find,
Not everything written will rhyme.
I put so much effort and vanity,
Into pretending I still have my sanity,
But too often comes the time,
I colour totally outside of my mind.
I am small.
I fit, I fall, am lost
Between the unseen cracks
In those lives I long to touch.
I am small.
Breathe me in, or
Sweep me up.
You’ll never notice me, or
What I want most of all.
I am small.
Hello there Miss Mirror,
Don’t I see you crying?
Don’t I watch you dying
Day by day?
Well hey there Miss Mirror,
I cannot be fake with you,
I cannot help hating you
In every way.
I wish you dead Miss Mirror,
I want to smash your face in,
There’s no beauty I see within
I smile and pretend like I’m ok,
And everyone I know
Views me that way.
But my masks are made from stone and lead,
And I carry them all
Inside of my head.
I know there’s something wrong with me,
But I don’t know what, and
No one can see
The cuts that run across my skin,
Where my soul seeps out,
And the world creeps in.
I don’t know about this thing called life,
Seems like it’s just a metaphor
For suffering and strife.
I’ve tried to see the beauty others see,
But I’m really not so sure
This world is for me.
The things you said
Have left me stunned.
I wouldn’t say those words
But the knives go in
And blood will run,
For you were not
The only one.
The worst is not how
They cut to bone.
But the feeling now,
I’m all alone.
You’ve said things
You can’t take back,
Then ask me
To forgive you that.
You act as though
There’s nought amiss,
But I don’t know
How to deal with this.
You act as though
There’s nothing wrong,
But everything’s wrong.
‘You’re doing it again, Alice’.
The Caterpillar exhaled swirling purple smoke as he nodded solemnly.
Hi ‘And YOU’RE doing it again, Absolem’, said Alice, distractedly. Her board game, in which she was playing all four of the players, was coming to a critical stage, and she wasn’t entirely sure what any of the others of herself might do next.
‘Doing what?’, asked The Caterpillar, puzzled.
‘Precisely!’ She exclaimed, not entirely certain what her point had been, but quite confident she had scored on that round.
Absolem just puffed silently on his hookah, staring at her.
Alice concentrated fiercely on her game. However, she was so determined on ignoring him that she did nothing but ignore him, and consequently lost all track of her game.
Eventually the suspense became too great, and she threw down the pieces in exasperation.
‘Fine!’, she snapped , ‘what am I doing, apparently so amazingly well, that I don’t know I’m even doing It!?’
‘There’s much you can offer the world.’
Absolem was frustrated, and beginning to grow angry.
‘You have gifts, Alice, and you’re just….’
He paused, searching for the right words.
‘Fucking things up?’.
Her eyes watered and she rubbed at them angrily.
‘YES!’, snapped Absolem, his temper breaking.
‘Well I thought you would have expected it by now. Because I do that, you know….It’s..’
Alice’s voice finally cracked, and hot tears rolled down her cheek.
‘…It’s all I ever do’.
Just when I thought
I’d seen it all through,
From the deepest of holes
To the darkest of blue,
Comes something new..
Now I see you with her,
I feel desire to kill.
I’m a mess of tears, but still,
I’m looking better
Than she ever will.
Now fifteen types of wrong are amiss,
There is no freaking manual for this.
Because I’ve never felt this anger before.
I wish to tear down the world..
Then tear it some more.
I really don’t know
What’s going to happen..
I’m not often given to crying,
I bear my grief stillborn inside.
In truth though, I’d be lying,
To lay claim to emotionless pride.
The genesis of these unauthorised tears
Is to look back over my life,
Regretting all of the wasted years
Spent fighting with fictional chemical fears.
Not the existence I once had planned,
Trapped the entire time,
In a fake and broken Wonderland
Within my troubled mind.
The worst part isn’t when people think you have a mental illness.
It’s when they think you haven’t.
This illness becomes a definition
Of what I was. Who I am.
It cuts my vocals chords
One by one.
Leaves me stealing
Your unused whispers.
I have become the doll
Of a vindictive child,
Pulled into pieces.
My mistakes are in magnitudes,
I don’t expect platitudes,
But I guess I just have dumb luck.
Tho’ my BAE says I’m crazy as fuck,
She ain’t ever gonna give me up.
That’s gotta be the “half-full” cup.
The long, reticent night doth fill
To brim, its glass with winters’ chill.
Slow are the hours I yearn to kill,
As each crawls by, lie sleepless still.
You drew me a map,
Said that X marks the spot.
Underneath that cross was buried
Everything you’ve got.
You said it wasn’t much,
But if I took the time
To go and dig it up,
What was under there was mine.
Then you took a Sharpie marker,
And you pulled your shirt apart,
And you drew a big black cross
On the skin over your heart.
They said ‘don’t you talk to strangers’,
So I never spoke to anyone new.
And when I no longer knew myself,
I stopped talking to her too.
Lying foetal, shower floor,
Sorrow starts to drown me.
Emotions like the water pour,
Refuse to let me be.
Guilt, a humid scalding steam,
Swirls up, I choke and gasp.
Any hope, without the rope,
Slips from my shaking grasp.
I can’t stand this naked near my friends,
The worthlessness I feel.
Just a problem they can’t see,
Therefore nothing real.
So now broken bits of me
Lie on the bathroom floor.
Try to pick the pieces up,
Cut your fingers finding more.
At times the pieces gather,
And it seems that I’m complete,
But one look of disapproval
And I shatter at your feet..
Once, a shining angel fell,
Becoming ruler and lord of Hell.
Does such a fate await me then?
Damned to fall, and fall again.
Sentenced to hell on a different level,
What comes now, when falls a devil?
It is with great indifference that I write to inform you of the death of your soul.
You may, by now, have noticed feelings of hopelessness, loneliness, anxiety and similar sensations, to a persistent and overwhelming degree.
Nevermind, it’s not as though you were using it in the first place.
Hot tears on my face.
Thoughts of a better place.
Wrapped in the occasional blanket,
Knees pressed to chest,
Staring out the window, savoring
Slow sips from the ambiguous mug
Of dawns’ emotional duality.
I have shown my admiration
With this timely rising,
Flavored nonetheless by a profound
Distaste for such an hour.
I am ever
A child of the night.
Hues of dawn outline buildings and trees,
Splashing golden highlights in colors unique.
The city drags itself from
Begins to live.
I watch and sip as the world is made anew.
That is what you said.
Easier it seems, to leave,
Than just to make the bed.
Your suitcase sits in the hall, although
I know you packed it long ago.
Long enough at least, for us to fall
Is that the way it goes?
Mysteries of mice, and answers
In the wind that blows?
What do you think it’s for,
This life? Even God admitted,
She long ceased keeping score
You even had to take
All our favorite art.
Wasn’t it enough to simply
Uninstall my heart?
Now you’re gone, I try, I try
To find the reasons we said
For any worth that you may find.
For anything that comes to mind.
Laugh at me,
Be it mocking or from joy.
Play with me,
I’m but a broken toy.
Love me or Hate me,
Just do not disregard me..
I’m standing here frozen
Inside this party crowd,
Thinking all these things
I want to scream out loud.
Swallowing so many thoughts
Of which I’m not that proud.
Now I’m staring at you all
Staring at me,
Looking so hard at
A thing you just can’t see.
And I think
I shouldn’t think
What I think
What you think
The sky seems damaged,
Gifts me with icy tears.
Well I’ll admit, yeah,
I’m a little more than tipsy.
Took a handful of pills
With some single-malt whiskey.
Cos I don’t know anymore
What we’re on this planet for,
Why I’m bothering with sober
When my life feels like it’s over.
And the funny thing is, yeah,
The thing that gets to me,
No-one would even notice,
I’m the girl no one can see.
I could get stoned, get wasted,
Be tripping, shit-face-ed,
Makes no difference at all,
If I chose to make that call.
It doesn’t seem that far to fall
I don’t have a Porsche.
Languid, silver hued moonlight,
Natures’ finest brush.
Paints perfectly poetic, yet
Starkly contrasting contours
Of your movie poster mouth.
Bipolar came to visit me,
I begged her not to stay.
She said ‘come along, and you will see,
That I know the way.
I know the way,
Come with me,
We shall be
A mixed episode consumes me again,
Making me a force you cannot contain.
Hypomanic depression, painfully exquisite,
Takes me to places no one should visit.
There’s nothing you can say.
Just get out of my way.
I’m bitchy and nice,
Both at once, stir it twice.
Of everything in one shot!
I’m feeling hell that the devil ain’t got.
Somehow also like a saint.
Are there some flowers I can paint?
On the wall, or any place?
For a brush, I’ll use your face.
What a masterpiece!
Crazy duality refusing to cease.
Every misery exquisite.
Each sadness an exhibit.
Hypomanically heightened sense
Makes every nuance of depression intense.
Hypomania, depression and pain,
Should never be mixed up the same.
I don’t pretend.
Make it end.
Make it end.
We all know how I feel,
From this endless exposition.
Got a scar that just won’t heal,
And I’m looking at you.
Won’t you put me back together?
I’m no egg upon a wall,
But I sure know how to fall.
There’s just so many pieces,
But they all feel so wrong.
No wonder men and horses
Can’t put them back where they belong.
Cos I don’t know how.
No, I don’t know how.
I run into old friends
Who look shiny and new,
They ask me ‘damn, girl,
What’s the matter with you?’
I say ‘It’s done to me,
It’s not something I do,
“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”
It’s my brain, and
Though I really don’t want to,
I’ll go high, (I don’t wanna),
I’ll go low, (I don’t wanna).
Synaptic strain has me feeling so blue.
I’ll go high, (I don’t want to),
I’ll go low, (I don’t want to).
“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”‘
Bearer of petals no longer.
Seeker of sunlight,
Trapped without garden.
Empty without rain.
I wither in darkness,
Unable to grow.
And just like that,
The world destroyed her creativity and dreams,
Like an ice-pick lobotomy.
I lean against the station wall,
Tethered to a painful weariness.
This recent storm of your volatile emotions
Left my soul wet and cold,
Bruised deep within every atom.
I close my eyes.
Unwanted but not unexpected,
My mind replays the scene.
My confusion. Your shouts.
‘Jesus, Alice, you and your fucking metaphors!’
For some reason, I recall your eyes most clearly.
Flashing swirls of anger and shattered sanity.
But without my fucking metaphors,
No one could relate, nor understand me.
Assuming instead secretive flickers
Of mockery. Of stupidity or foolishness.
Not this, this multi-faceted tapestry
I try so hard to complete every day.
But they look at me as though they
Had just discovered coloured thread.
I build my wall
Of words and witticism.
Hiding from it all,
Afraid of the criticism.
Perhaps I prefer solitude
To your potential disdain.
Perhaps I prefer misery
To your complicated ambiguity.
Perhaps I prefer to stay broken
Than risk breaking again.
I wish I was surely
Drag me down,
Drag me down.
My face is numb, yet
I cannot cry.
Drag me down.
The ink stains of my eyes
Reflect my coffee coloured skies,
Drags me down.
Drags me down.
Hopelessness that I despise,
Yet every day reprise
Drags me down.
Ah, what bitter tears these?
That like acid, carve such sorrow
‘pon my face for all to see?
Witness in the way I walk,
The lack of my self-worth.
Then when I talk,
Hear inflection filled with vitriol,
Bitterness that takes its toll
On you, on me.
Censure prefers my stained and empty eyes.
No mystery remains inside,
It’s leaking now, seeping out
Through a crack I cannot hide.
So behold this pretty self pity poetry,
This cliché and uninspired hand.
The emptiness within
Isn’t that what tears are for?
You know when you’re sleeping,
And you know that you are dreaming,
But you still have this dream where
No-one can hear you screaming..?
Because I get this feeling
Nothing’s what it’s seeming..
I’m so numb, I can’t feel, or
Tell what’s real,
Or what I should believe in.
And now that I’m not dreaming,
My voice is hoarse,
For of course,
No-one can hear me screaming.
You’re murdering yourself
Inside dreams again, and
It breaks my heart.
My pillow drowns
In hot tears as
You thrash and die
A thousand times in my arms.
Another burning summers day
Yet through and through, I’m freezing.
The world belongs to shadows’ thrall,
The leaves fall out of season,
Like dark red drops of blood they fall,
And all the trees are bleeding.
Ground covered in bright disorder,
Yellow, orange, red,
Scatter now without border,
Mirror thoughts falling in my head.
Once I loved, and lived, had sorrow,
Joy, and everything between.
The truest line is one I’ll borrow:
‘My life has killed the dream I dreamed’.
So, if I fold my clothes using the Kondo method,
but some items are really long, and I tie them in a knot
…does that mean I just learned Tie-Kondo?
‘And since we’re down,
Might as well stay.
Might as well fry some eggs.’
– Tori Amos
Where now does your honesty abide?
I think I saw it broken down
And rusting by the roadside.
If it were ever to exist,
I think I must have missed
When you sold it for some cigarettes
And cheap and sour wine.
Everyone tells them.
From the grand false promises told by commercial advertising and famous rap songs, to the small secret ones we tell ourselves in the midnight light of the refrigerator, that ‘just one more snack won’t hurt.’
Everyone believes them.
In the end, it’s not believing the lies that hurts the most, but the unveiling of the truth behind the lie.
Exposing the ugly reality hidden underneath the happy fantasy forming many parts of your life.
The sunlight of truth shining on your vampire’s masquerade.
And it burns.
The lies you tell yourself are always far more damaging than those told to you by others. Even those closest to you.
Or perhaps that’s just another lie.
The lies that cut the deepest are usually those best hidden.
It’s not the magician you have to keep an eye on, it’s the assistant.
As the line from the movie* says: ‘the closer you are, the easier it is to fool you’.
Maybe he wasn’t just talking about magic, it applies to relationships too.
Some things bend.
Some things bounce.
Some things mend.
So I don’t write.
I have no dreams.
I won’t listen to my mind,
For I always find
I can’t separate
My sobbing from my screams.
*’Now You See Me’.
These neglected vampyric lines,
An awkward symbiotic pain
Desires to be written,
Hungers to be read.
Demands from me
Everything you may consume.
All that I hold within.
Alas too oft
My ink grows thin.
I’m not sure whose finger is on the trigger,
But let’s pull it.
We both know I need the bullet,
We both know I want this all to end.
We know it’s pointless even to pretend.
Oblivion will be my only friend.
Death, a rotting corpse of us doth make,
No different thus to when as fools
We lived and thought we were awake.
How arrogant our daily toil,
Because we moving breathed and spake.
How easily this mortal coil
Leaves us to linger in its wake.
I’m in for a bad night tonight.
I’m both feet first from the bipolar plane without a chute, and I’m pretty sure that I’m about to hit the ground hard.
I can’t pretend to write any more metaphorical poetry right now, can’t find the effort to put it into candy coated rhyming couplets.
Everything I would say is rife with clichés about torn up hearts and souls, and all embroidered with far, far too much wankery.
Anyone who’s been ‘here’ will understand:
Simultaneously flushed hot and cold.
Feeling so empty it’s almost alien, yet full to bursting with wanting to cry, freak out, and panic loudly from the emotional overload, only to find it’s always trapped helplessly inside.
Unable to sleep.
Wired but exhausted, unable to focus.
Wondering if maybe going through this again for one more cycle, one more DAY, is really worth it.
To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m bothering to post this.
The cynic in me says perhaps only 3 or 4 people will ever bother to read it, if I’m lucky.
I wouldn’t say that no one cares, but I can say from experience that no one cares twice.
You can ask continuously for help in a hundred ways in a hundred poems / posts and all you get are a couple of likes.
Right now, I’ve run out of ways to ask, especially when I’m not really sure what it is that I’m asking.
If I’m honest with myself, I suppose I post to affirm that I exist, right?
A thousand unread journals under the bed proves nothing, except perhaps, that it’s a large bed, or that they are rather small journals.
But to post online…’they’ say it’s there forever, in the web somewhere. Something I wrote, existing forever…well, for as long as the current form of the internet exists. Uploaded to The Matrix.
To have one person read it. To connect with it, to like it, or even to hate it entirely, is to create a human reaction to ME.
Just another drama queen right?
But I get it.
I read similar blogs. As similar as they get anyway.
So many cries for help, disguised as poems, stories, or conversations.
All wandering and winding around the topic.
Feeling it, but not unwrapping it. That gift under the tree that never gets fully revealed.
But what can I do, other than acknowledge, ‘you exist’.?
Your nimble tongue
Loads my velvet gun, and
I’m about to go off.
Skilled fingers test
My trigger, pressed,
Touch both firm and soft.
Our bodies fit together,
Book collections on a shelf.
Amazing how much touching you
Is like touching myself.
I love too well each dip and swell,
Your every perfect curve.
I hate how much I’m feeling that
You’re more than I deserve.
Life can hurt you quite a lot, so
Stand by your friends,
They’re all you’ve got…
Until they’re not.
I’m there whenever you need me,
Can I say the same for you?
You’re there when it suits you, and
We both know that it’s true.
I say no offense is meant, but
I’m through with convenient, and my
Is totally spent.
Today I hate everything.
Or would if I could care that much.
But all things die beneath my touch,
And now I’ve touched too much.
You say you like my darkness.
Those midnight madness parts of me,
The strongest of my threads.
Woven through and through,
The warp inside the tapestry
That weaves it’s wicked web.
You claim to love my darkness,
That it makes me who I am.
But although you see it every day,
You wouldn’t recognize my shadow,
Or know which hand I use.
We’ve been together for so long,
Lovers, and the closest of friends.
Maybe one day I’ll introduce myself.
Your digital dagger,
Your ego, and
Belief you matter.
Like so much playground chatter,
The forums, and
Become but noise,
As though raindrops patter