Panic

And suddenly you are reminded of
how much you dislike people when you are
caught alone In the middle of crowded
rooms. The noises increase to discomfort
and uncertainty. When the whispers don’t
seem to subside, like chalk scraping on a
blackboard, the voices thick and deep in the
air and you can’t catch your breath that has been caught
in your chest. So much regret, too much fear
you’re lost, don’t understand, hunched over in
tears. Can’t stop, door’s closed, too far to make out.

It stops. Complete and utter silences.

Quick and jolting, reality sets in.
It surrounds you slowly In waves as the
realization kicks in. Dull murmurs,
a steady heart, vision un-blurry, not
alone in the middle of crowded rooms
but you are simply coinciding.

Minimum Wage Slaves

We are hunched over backs with weary hands
and sweaty brows with sore bulging muscles,
our sleepless eyes furrowed with exhaustion.
Toiling long hours, and many countless days,
every day’s work barely worth the pay.

With tired feet and aching limbs we tend
to every others’ whim. We are proud and
we are spirits that are not yet broken.
Humble, willing, modest and true. We are
the many, the strong: minimum wage slaves.

Runaway

Well, I haven’t been on in quite awhile. Other than just being in a creative slump and not being on here, I may as well leave off where I stopped.

 

Just want to run

Till I collapse to the floor.

Keep on going

Till I can’t anymore.

Don’t know where I’m going,

Not sure where I’ve been,

Don’t know if I’ll ever

Figure out how this will end.

What frightens you?

What makes the hair on your arms rise,
Your palms sweat, your breath catch
In your chest like a wild thing caged?
Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of
A bedtime story, ghosts and goblins
And witches hiding in the shadows?
Is it the way the wind picks up
Just before a storm? The hint
Of wetness in the air?

Or is it something deeper?
Something much more frightening.

A monster deep inside that
You’ve only glimpsed in pieces,
The vast unknown of your own soul
Where secrets gather with terrible powers,
The dark inside.

While thy heart weeps, a cloud of fog shrouds thy

precious flower; and it soon wilts. Further

into the fog, it bursts into hot flames.

Henceforth from this moment, I shall say to

thee to never feel pain or misery,

only to be showered with the ray of

gleaming hope. May the withered be renewed

from its ashes, to grow into the brightest light,

to be a beacon; be merry again.

Sing the Sorrow

Sad song please go away,
Your melody is enchanting.
You sing my pain and drown it,
While adding fuel to my fire,
With only tears that may drown this.

You draw me in
With guitar notes so pleasing.
Like an incantation of a spell
Hidden in the metronome
Of your steady beats.

A voice so silky
It wraps me into your arms
So warm and welcoming.
Yet it taunts me,
Haunting me with
My own interpretation.

Sad song
I beg of you to leave,
Let go of me,
Or rather,
Allow me to
Let go of you.

Inverted Reality

Can you hide emotion behind your eyes?

do you feel it, like the heat radiates

from inside me? Is it contagious like

a disease without a cure? Can you sense

it, is it obvious there’s tears behind

here? This mask: I wear it and yet it’s clear,

you cannot see. I hide it too well, there’s

nothing you sense from my internal hell.

 

I want to write something happy, like a

Beautifully entrancing  picture that

0ne cannot stop staring at. Something that’s

so wondrous that it takes your breath away.

Not like a warrior at battle, but

more emotional amazement, like

The soldier has just returned home with a

Warm fuzzy feeling and a warm drink. You’re

snuggled up close with your favorite thing

on a cool, winter’s eve.  Perhaps this is

More like a dream than reality where

I’m not sad anymore. No more feeling

inside. Numb, yet somehow emotional,

though not quite sure what that feeling is. Not

sad, just empty. Every little thing gets

to me. Everyone that talks to me just

makes me angry. No one ever really

understands how I feel. Then again, I

don’t really either. There’s too much to say

with not enough time to show what I mean.

There’s too many things I want to convey,

But don’t know how to show it. So I

stay silent. There are only so many

words you can cut before they start to bleed.

The Burning Rain

The worst type of crying is the silent one. The one when everyone is asleep. The one where you feel it in your throat, and your eyes become blurry from the tears. The one where you just want to scream. The one where you have to hold your breath and grab your stomach to keep quiet. The one where you can’t breath anymore. You want to make a sound, but it won’t come out. You realize the person that meant the most to you, is gone.

I can’t seem to see the end of this road

I’ve walked too far and can’t seem to control

Who I’m supposed to be, how far that I

need to be. To get away from this place

I’ve come so far, only to find that

everything’s still in the back of my mind.

 Blood, tears, and alcohol, center of my

strife. My biggest fear as living my own

life wondering:how the hell did I end up

here? Getting older, finding nothing is

the same, coloring in the shadows just

to hide my own shame. I’ve waited for so

long to find the key, to get away from

my catastrophe. I locked the door to

my own cell, hoping to find a way from

this hell. I’m dripping with sin, and drowning

in pain. Bring on the burning hot tears and

the agonizing rain. As the sun rains down

on my empty parade, the clouds bring light

to my noisy charade. To finally

be happy, and it stripped away again,

is murder in the third degree, how could

you do this to me? My heart was mended,

my soul in repair. It now just seems that

I am left to rot in my own despair.

Death’s Kiss

Emotion overflows as it courses
through my veins. Could this be the only way
to make the pain go away? Why is it
when you’re sad and want to make the world go
away, no words can be said to make things
okay? Scream until you can’t speak anymore.
Yell like you’ve never spoken before. Watch
As your weakness is drained pulsing your blood
That was coursing through your veins. Every mark
Embellishes your shame. A mirror stares
Back glorifying your pain. Tracing your
scars with that bright shiny blade knowing that
without them it doesn’t look the same. The
numbness that ensues is like the blackness
to a bruise temporary as it may
be it is your only key between you
and insanity. Truth be told I have
hated myself too. That escape being
the only thing left to do. I’m glad you’re
still here to tell me to stop wasting my
time. That anger you feel, who am to
criticize? I’m not going to judge you
evident by the scars laced on my wrist
I’m just here to warn you: beware death’s kiss.

I am a drug with an addiction hard to kick

Thought I posted this earlier.. apparently not. This is a little darker than what I normally write, but I definitely dedicated this to anyone going through something similar.

Someone noticed my cuts on my legs. I don’t know who or when but they snitched on me. Everyone seemed so fucking concerned. They don’t understand. They say they want to be there for me, that I can come to them when I need to. They don’t want to see me hurt myself they say. Then why do they let the rest of the world hurt me. Why does it hurt so much just to be alive each and every day? It hurts every time I take a breath. It hurts more than when I finally got the guts to confess to my best friend what I’d been doing for weeks, and she hit my scars until my arm was red and swollen and I finally couldn’t feel my arm anymore, but she kept going. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t stop her because I deserved it. The pain couldn’t hurt worse then what I felt inside. What they don’t understand is how I’m ashamed I do it. I hate it every time I put that blade to my skin. I try to hide it, so why would I want to tell them anything. I’ll pretend I’m fine. They don’t know I’m addicted, that I’m a junkie. I’m addicted sadness. I’m addicted to pain. Cutting doesn’t mean I’m trying to kill myself, it keeps me from dying, from being crushed under the weight of just living every day. Most drug addictions have things that go through your blood to bring the pleasure. Does that mean I’m the drug?