Nay, neither sleeping
Lay no white lilies,
My soul is tainted.
I have embraced
The greatest sin.
What once was light,
I would make dim.
Nay, neither sleeping
Lay no white lilies,
My soul is tainted.
I have embraced
The greatest sin.
What once was light,
I would make dim.
The whisper of willow leaves,
Wind winding through the trees,
Can’t do a thing to ease
Thoughts like a million bees
Inside my head.
Nine hundred thousand
Are things that you said,
One hundred thousand more,
To make sure I bled
Wouldst though had a sword
So sharp as to sever me from myself,
For I cannot stand the tether
That binds this constant pain within.
Flit erratically … and
Thought from mind.
Mind from thoughts.
Reality from …?
and then The Dance.
I have found the fae-folk,
And they are angered.
My intrusion, unnatural,
I step forward, but cannot.
You may not cross the barrier
In such a manner, I am told.
Go back, Human,
Even Death does not want you.
I watch the people, and their
Greener sided fences.
I note their masks and their reflex defenses.
I move through life just being myself,
‘though I could be anyone. Anybody else.
I watch the people and their plastic smiles,
Their luxury sports cars driven less than five miles.
Armani suits, suited to suit them,
Or viewed through the right eyes, suiting their disguise.
And I wonder if they’re happy in their artificial lives.
I watch the people. I could mimic their movements,
Act out their gestures, smiles, plastic puppetry.
And I wonder if I’m happier inside self-misery.
‘Cos I could have it all, have everything I see.
And all it would cost is just me.
I have a troubled mind,
Athough the trouble’s mine,
I find I always mind, mind the trouble, yeah.
I get angry,
Oh I get angry. and
I don’t know why it’s true, but, I get angry that I do.
And It’s not me, no,
At least, the one I used to be,
and, it’s not me, no, not the me that I’m trying to find, no..
Somebody help me, won’t
Somebody kill me, cos,
I have a troubled mind,
And everyday I find
My troubles spilling over
On to you, on to you.
What can I say?
Everyday we’re getting closer.
Some like to jump the gun,
Trying hard, hard to be someone.
Others yet, wishing for much less,
Tend to leave a mess,
Against our won’t or will,
Everyday we’re getting
Do you feel it?
When you are down,
Down inside yourself?
Those deeper dives.
The separation and fear.
This isn’t me!
All the while,
To every failing fragment.
The darkness of the void,
And the bright splintering light of insanity.
Feel that sickening
Hair and life in tangles.
Hair and life a mess.
Hair and life darker than they should be.
Should buy a brush.
My mind’s become my enemy,
Playing all these tricks on me.
Is it now, before or after?
Each waking day I’m walking through
Makes each nightmare
Mixed up, used and self-abused,
My screaming sounds
Am I collapsing in, or
Wherefore, my happy-ever-after?
My thoughts ring out like gunshots,
I feel the wounds within,
The warmth inside me bleeds away,
My soul is wearing thin.
I’m standing here in darkness,
Staring straight into the sun.
My heart unable to decide if
I’m ending or just begun.
The choice keeps getting colder.
Do I end here or begin?
Because before I get much older,
I might end up giving in.
‘I say’, said Alice,
And so she did.
Until such a time,
At another tea party,
In a different rabbit hole,
She heard, reverb, words
She knew were hers.
She recognised well that which she had created,
Now in another place, twisted and restated.
And she screamed with anger.
But her mouth was quite full,
Of delicious cake.
And she choked, and swallowed,
Then, on reflection, took another nibble,
And swallowed again.
‘You’, she said most sternly,
‘Have NO RIGHT!’.
‘No right at all’, she continued,
‘To take words that I have wrought,
And use them as your own retort.’
But no one replied, and
With no thief in sight,
She returned, despondently,
To eating cake and thinking furiously to herself,
In between appreciating the silky sweet icing,
How she might, she might..
‘Someone has stolen my words!
I simply can’t abide the pilferring
Of perfectly presentable poetical practice.
Something must be done!’
And something was.
The familiar cry :
“Off with her head” was heard,
And with it, every poetical line and verb
Alice had created here,
Indeed, once there, had dissapeared.
Oops! Something happened to their page.
‘And that’, thought Alice, ‘is that’.
‘But now I don’t know what to say.
They’ve taken my mouth and my voice away.
They’ve taken my words away!’
‘I can’t say what I wish, I wish!’
‘Words and emotions I need to shout!
Going ’round in my head like a fish,
And THEY CAN’T GET OUT’!’
‘An Alice with no voice of her own,’, smirked the Cheshire Cat, ‘is hardly an Alice at all, now is she? My, my, whatever shall she do?’.
‘I suppose I may as well no longer write, Cat’, said Alice.
‘As I cannot speak the words of how i feel then,
In case someone was to simply steal them.’
‘But I don’t know how I might ever mend,
Without all my words to spend,
Like bright pennies at a bakery..’
She had a thought.
Say, do you have any cake?’
Alice sat, munching cake, and taking time out to think on the matter
She wakes up every morning
Just to die a little more,
And this feeling, unbelonging,
Well she wonders what it’s for.
The world’s a crazy jigsaw,
With no design to it,
And still she always tries so hard
To make the pieces fit.
The clutter of her past life,
Scars from so-called friends,
Too much toxic baggage
In a suitcase of pretend.
Life is life, no meaning,
No laugh, no joke, no prize.
There’s just the punchline friend,
And you’ll find it’s coffin size.
Around my house
They’re planting cemetery trees,
And there’s no breeze.
Forth, or back,
As the flowers all bloom black,
In a garden such as no-one sees.
And the children play no more,
Where once they played before,
Outside my door
In the street.
Nobody can see me now,
At least, unless they choose,
Except the girl that lives in the house on fire
And pretends she has new shoes.
She says hello
From time to time.
I forgot to notice
When I stopped thinking I was ok.
If indeed, I ever considered such circumstance.
Now I am older,
But still, I find myself lost.
A child in a crowd,
Frightened and alone.
Alone on my own instead,
The crowd is in my head,
Everyone I’ve ever met,
Everything I ever said
Or maybe ever will,
I stopped forgetting
To notice if
I ever thought
That I thought I was ok.
The fall of darkness finds
Sleeping within cool sheets
And honest dreams. Though some perhaps,
Twisted sheets. Twisted dreams.
You said you drew night near
Because it was a dark and endless place.
One of life’s hidden mysteries,
How darkness folds to finds more space.
Recursive fractals, unlimited dimensions?
Logical limitations until you
Reverse them, inverse them,
Treat them like university knickers,
Inside out. Then front and back again.
Where does the negative space go
When it’s right there, missing on the page?
Where does everything else go,
When darkness makes it all unseen?
Peer into the spaces between,
Nothing that isn’t, is ever what it seems.
Perhaps darkness isn’t endless,
But rather an end in so many ways.
Severed from the tip of the universe
When the beginning was just beginning
It’s beginning phase.
And not knowing what else to do,
It just lingered without a clue,
Clinging and surrounding.
Is simply a lost and lonely loose end.
Looking for a friend.
Where’d it go?
The bright star I should follow.
The blackbird or the swallow,
I hoped would guide me home.
For I am lost.
Meandering, misguided and malingering,
Looking for a coloured string
Or breadcrumbs softly scattering
That mark my path unknown.
You may feel lucky when you know where you are,
But unfortunately for me and my stolen star,
This reversely is adversely conversely true,
And I’ve wandered way too far.
And the moment, this moment, well maybe I own it,
Or maybe I’m in a dark room,
Pitch black, with a cat that I’m trying to catch,
Whose existence I only assume.
And my dreams all sprout from darkness sown,
And I’m always and never forever alone,
They forged my last sword into a throne,
An unending game I play to atone.
Swirling in my haunted head,
Promises broken, friends misled,
Choosing one, not the other instead,
What have you got to lose?
Only your dreams, your soul and your shoes,
And the brightly coloured thread.
I’ve often been to the edge and back,
It’s now a familiar sight.
This might be why I always wear black,
It feels false to wear anything bright.
Cheerful colour is something I lack,
And I never don anything white,
No sporty wear designed for the track,
Somehow it doesn’t feel right.
I only get things from the discard rack,
To better reflect my plight.
Every single one of us
Has something longing tries.
That speaks from unseen places,
Within each heart, decries.
No grand proclamations,
No great discourse or mystic word,
But a simple desire
To be understood and heard.
With each attempt to make a sound,
Ten will overcome.
Our melodies defeated,
Our vocal chords undone.
Too oft these sounds are violent,
Compelling gentleness to choke and die.
For each of us that has no voice,
Therein shadows lie.
I spend so much effort resistin’
Anything that feels like addiction,
Convinced myself I was winning,
While you were addicted and grinning.
Now I’m not so sure,
What I was put here for,
Always avoiding the dance floor,
Avoiding drugs and drink even more.
Got buried in my own sorrow,
Hating being alive,
While you lived life like tomorrow
Would never, ever arrive.
So who was the idiot then?
Happiest way back when
We had the chance to be carefree.
I thought that I could see
Further than you.
Guess I hadn’t a clue.
You seem happier still,
Moreso than I ever will.
Lately I seem to find
Myself in a forest of pines…
My wisdom but a soap bubble
Those of us whom
In life, are cast to play the sadder part,
And so sad thus,
Said possessive of a heavy heart.
Oh! Feel the weight of me!
Dreams are easy to achieve,
If dreams are all you want to be.
The sky may be full of Angels,
With just your lonely star,
But if they’re dancing on that pin,
They won’t be going far.
The only way for you to win:
Be more than it says on the tin,
More than you think you are.
Well here we are, it’s time again,
The festive season.
Time to hurt the ones we love,
No rhyme nor reason.
An Angel sits atop the tree,
As something to believe in.
Should e’er an angel come to earth,
May my heart unfreeze then.
If we all got gifts our deeds deserve,
Not rewards just for believing,
There’d be no need to wrap them up,
You can’t hide the truth by deceiving.
Good to heaven, bad to hell?
Some have faith,
But some things
You can’t buy or sell.
We all find what we need to believe,
Don’t need a reason.
I only have faith in what I can see,
Enjoy plastic season.
I don’t think I ever grew up, just older.
“There’s no happy ending.. so they say.
Not for me, anyway…”
-Dr. Horrible’s Sing-along Blog
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 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
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.
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 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 return it’s ridicule.
‘I will not never inversely opposite become antithetically unhappy’, I say, although I doubt it will fall for any convolutions of 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 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;
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
‘One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.’
— Emily Dickinson
“I have never seen battles quite as terrifyingly beautiful as the ones I fight when my mind splinters and races, to swallow me into my own madness, again.”
— Nicole Lyons / Hush
“And I keep on tellin’ everyone the truth,
But maybe that’s not the move,
And everyone wants to hear a strong opinion…
If it’s the same as you.
And they say honesty is the best policy,
If that were true,
Don’t think all of my friends would hate me.
— Bea Miller / That Bitch
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.
‘He said, “I see you now, and you are so very young,
But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won,
And I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun.
And now will you tell me why?”
Well the young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye.
She said, “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try”
But her face was a child’s, and he thought she would cry,
But she closed herself up like a fan.
And she said, “I have swallowed a secret burning thread.
It cuts me inside, and often I’ve bled”.’
– from ‘The Queen and The Soldier‘ by Suzanne Vega
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 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
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.
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.
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.
When you liked me,
I even kind of liked myself.
Now you say you hate me
Like you’ve hated nothing else…
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.
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
You realise Disney’s ‘Beauty & The Beast’ isn’t really a love story, Belle just has Stockholm Syndrome.
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,
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.
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.
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. “
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.
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.
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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’.
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.
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.
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
Despite the best efforts of . . friends; family; doctors; psychologists; etc,
I live with the strong sense that my life consists of just. .waiting to die.
Passing the days in varying degrees of misery, until such time as I part ways with being alive.
It’s not as fun as it sounds.
Afraid of climbing further
Out along that limb?
They’re burning eBooks
Now, down below, my friend.
Anything can be something
The universe is out my window,
The stars all shine and the moon hangs low,
And I wonder where the parts of me go,
When I’m not myself, the self I know.
When I’m busy being someone different,
Parts of me wonder where parts of me went,
Where was myself for the time that I spent
No longer at home, not paying the rent?
So while myself was out to play,
I sat and idled my time away,
Where I went I cannot say,
I hope I had a pleasant day.
And now myself is home again,
I’ve been here since who knows when,
Where will I be in the end?
If I find out, I’ll tell you then.