August 17th, 2017

 August 17th, 2017
The days that are joyful are so few.
My former self belittled down to a ghost.
I dread every waking hour,
Begging for sleep knowing it won't come.
I reluctantly settle into my doleful home.
I resign to the fact that I am alone and will be for a long time.

August 17th, 2017
I have reached a new level of loneliness.
I never knew one could experience this.
Never knew it was possible.
I try. I really do try to socialize.
They all fade away.
I have too many problems.
I'm always forgotten.
I'm lucky if I am an afterthought.

August 17th, 2017
I am ignored.
No one is there when I need someone, anyone, the most.
I am continuously let down.
I suffocate on all of the ill thoughts that cross my mind.
Those wicked thoughts that cross someone's mind only when they are alone with themselves for too long of a time.
Ones that bombard me with all of my flaws and imperfections.
Ones that tell me how I will never be loved or accepted because of them.

August 17th, 2017
Those thoughts often lead to bad decisions.
Decisions that harm me at my own expense.
I feel nothing and everything.
Yet, my emotions are so strong I can't decipher them.
They overwhelm me and I cannot focus.
I need to feel something I know is real. Anything!
So I slice open my flesh in hopes of finding something more.
False hope that is.
All I find is unsatisfaction and shame.
I'm a disgrace.

August 17th, 2017
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.
Am I insane?
It's hard to tell when I can't see how I can change.
I'm stuck in a rut.
Some sort of twisted tunnel vision.

August 17th, 2017
On this day the realization of how much I hate myself is profound.
For a long time I fooled myself into thinking I was okay.
When the truth is I am not at all.
Besides the vicious words supposed loved ones have spewn unto me,
there is also society that tells you that you aren't worthy if you are a certain way.

August 17th, 2017
I realize this is a very depressing poem,
but realize that the author is a very depressed person.
It's fitting in a sense.
It's becoming harder and harder with each passing day to hide it from people.
They notice I'm not carefree or happy as I once was.
I have dark circles under my eyes from sleepless nights.
Also from the nightmares that come like clockwork and burden me with past traumas.
My lack of eating, or, when I do eat I go to the bathroom and come back with blood rushed to my cheeks from regurgitating.
They notice how it is hard for me to keep a sentence on the right path.
I stumble over words. I forget them.
They notice how weak I have become. It is hard to open a water bottle.

August 17th, 2017
My life has by no means been easy or even that good.
Though, I do have to say all that I have been through:
Abuse of all kinds, starvation, homelessness, torment, and some life threatening, unfortunate circumstances;
The torment inside my head is much worse than the actual physical situations were.
The mental scars that traumas in my life have left on me are much worse than enduring the actual traumas.
I can't run from my own mind.
And it is too overwhelming to even try to actually talk about them and solve some issues.
I act as if they are no big deal.
When in fact they are the one thing that keeps happiness just out of my reach.
Doubt, pain, anxiety, panic, guilt, resentment, hate, and anger.

August 17th, 2017
I am the reason for my own unhappiness,
for my mind and self are not able to forgive the ones who have harmed me.
I also am unable to forgive myself.
I am the reason I am being held captive in my own mind.
And I hate myself for it.

August 17th, 2017

Numb.

Have you ever had a feeling that there was something your mind wanted you to say.
Needed you to say.
But it just lurked there on the tip of your brain just out of reach of your consciousness.
Never to touch your lips?
Thoughts never to meet air?
Thoughts never to be even fully thought about.

Because if you did:

Everything would get better.
You finally said something that you needed to say.
You said something that when withheld blocks you from growing.
Blocks you from ever fully thinking in depth about anything.

Now your mind is free...

...only if only.
Yet, it never leaves the tip of your brain.
You stay in some sort of foggy state.
You can't think.
You cant feel.
And you can't tell if the wounds will ever heal.
You think things out.
But only as far as the block will allow.
Then you stop.
You forget.
You succumb.
To your mind.
Now you're numb.
You're back where you started.
Nothing was done.
Nothing was done.

Are you OK?

Are you ok?

I don't know.
I'm trapped in an ever sinking sort of bubble in the middle of the depths of an ocean.
So first let me figure out how to pop it.
Then I will tell you how I am.
If I am ok.
If I still know how to breathe.
Still know how to talk.

Because right now I don't know.
And haven't for a while.

Mother

I wrote this one when I was super hurt and really angry. I wrote it kind of as a story book that has a start and a finish. Bad start good finish with the characters. Because it does say jesus freak and hypocrite thats going to hell, i am not putting myself above her. We are all sinners. But in this particular poem and as my emotions being as they were when i wrote it, I took the beginning and end into weighty extremes of contrast to give the poem tangible emotion so the reader could feel how i was feeling then.

this is it:


My mom's a control freak;
Wow, ain't that neat?
But I'm a Jesus freak,
So have a seat.

I gotta tell ya somethin',
So listen well.
It's all about a hypocrite
that's going to Hell.

She says, ¨Do as I say, not as I do.¨
Jesus freak--she claims to be one too!

When it comes to the day when she goes up to the sky,
God will send her far back down with a shrieking cry:

¨I DO NOT KNOW YOU! SO GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!¨
¨Why?¨ She asks, ¨All I did was do everything out of spite.¨

Down, down, down she went.
Sadly on that day her soul was spent.

Thankfully that day is yet to come.
For my mom, let's pray some.

O Lord, will you heal my mom's heart from all the wounds she's had?
Will you make her heart one that is joyful, cheerful, and glad?

O God by your hands alone
Make her heart stitched together and sewn.

Healed, God. Healed.
Make her old life repealed.

Create in her a pure heart that has you as number one
And the Holy Spirit and the Son.

I pray all this in Jesus' graceful name,
Hoping that, with a pure heart my mom will soon do the same.

Amen.

A Summer in Shackles

I awoke at dawn to calamity.
Known and unknown voices tell me to rise.
I stumble into the living room dizzily;
I can't believe my sleep encrusted eyes.

Binding his hands are iron clad restraints.
On his face shame; mixed with something I can't name.
I've lied to myself too long--you are no saint.
From now on my life will never be the same.

I draw what I've seen on a paper pad
and then hand it back to the police officer.
The drugs. The pills. The stealing. THE LIES. Why dad?
How could you? How could you do this to your daughter?

¨I'm sorry.¨ You say. I don't know for which part.
Sad thing is; I've known of what you do from the start.

"Living in the Moment"

Today is the oldest you've ever been.
And the youngest you will ever be.

That takes "living in the moment" to a whole new level.

Because of certain restrictions in my life I cannot live my life fully to the extant I want to.

I'm still shackled by the metaphorical umbilical cord.
But I'm yanking on them.
The chains.
For years really.
And soon they shall break apart.
And I shall be free.
Yet with the iron cuff forever around my wrist.

The Sad Story of a Used Eraser

I am a used eraser.

A person who has had me from the very beginning of my time has
Used, abused, and then tossed aside my very existence.

They once loved me.
Needed me for their daily life.
Now that they have used me: I am done and over with.
Now, they only need me to abuse so they can be happy.
Feel better, some sort of twisted joy they get from abusing a wee little eraser.
Hurting it everyday, without any apologies. Not that they would matter.
The user, only speaks to me when they need something or is angry.

Piece by piece I float away on the wind.
Until all that is left is some piece of rubber that can fit in nowhere.
Yet, the user and abuser has one last laugh by tearing that small ring of rubber up.
Piece by piece.
Still yet, piece by smaller piece. Kicking it while it's down.
Having the last laugh by scattering them all in different places.
So that even if the eraser were to be whole again,
It would never find every piece that the user and abuser scattered.