Steaming water for my broken heart, Scented soaps for salty tears. I try to scrub it all away, The memories and the years. Scour now, arms once which held you, Attention, hands which may have touched. Each part in turn desperately tried To be cleansed and purified, So I might finally forget. But how to scrub clean a heart? The most oft affected part. Shall I cut it out or cry it? It hurts enough for me to try It either way. I doubt there yet remains Enough water in the world’s whole drains To wash me free from you.
I suppose the trees, in retrospect, I should have attended, my neglect Of time’s subtle scythe, and due respect For their reminder; nature always calls, And she who answers always falls. A premonition of my future Abandoned casually by trees Crying red, Dying, dead. 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’.
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.
Some might fall asleep with ease, Such vanity! 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; See me falling. Trying to pretend That the song will never end, But for better or for worse I think I’m running short of verse.
I can pretend at emotion, Lip syncing to the song, But the words are all rehearsed, And each 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 I’ve 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 To you.
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.
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
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,
Vicodin? Percocet? 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.
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. Favourite author. Favourite food. Favourite colour. Favourite mood. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.