Amidst the chaos of our lives Lies a stillness in which we break. A moment beyond repair, Of silence, pain, and despair. Enfolded in loneliness, We suffer. At times, with sorrow so great, Even our right to tears is taken. Othertimes, with such an ache, We hope not to awaken.
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 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 kind of messed up mental itch, But if I scratch it ’til it don’t itch any more, There’ll be chunks of greyish matter scattered all over the floor.
They say you’ll never love someone ‘til you learn to love yourself, Well Catch 22, here’s a thought, let me share the wealth. How can I learn to love myself, ’til I’m loved by someone else? The lesson goes both ways, as most good lessons do, And because everybody else hates me, I’ve learned 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.
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’
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.’
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. Almost was. Hot and heavy tears, Almost unfallen, Often unnoticed. Always unsure. Perhaps they fall for all the could-have-beens. Perhaps they fall because I’m uncertain on which side of the glass I belong. Feels lucky.
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.