Going Blank.Here's a blank page.
And it's been so long since I've written that I have no idea what to do with it.
The little blinking line is tapping it's toe against the pixels impatiently.
It's waiting for something.
It's waiting for me.
And so is my therapist, she'll be waiting. Not yet, but she will be by 3:35.
It doesn't matter because trust me, I've been wasting more than five minutes of her time,
But she'll be waiting nonetheless.
She'll charge me in currency,
Thought I'm the one doing all the hard work of spilling my soul to her.
And trust me, it does spill, right from my eye sockets and onto the floor.
Her office is a harbor and I'm crying the ocean.
Maybe I'm just taking on water.
I mean half the time I don't have a clue what I'm even crying about.
But she does so I guess that means something.
But she can't bring the old me back.
She can't write my poems for me.
She can't paint my paintings or bring back my creativity.
She can't tell my jokes or smile my smile.
And neither can I anymore.
I guessI’ve been known to make mountains out of molehills.
I’m often spotted hiding from the truth,
Like an ostrich with its head in the sand.
It’s like Dr. Phil and Animal Planet all in one.
My own personal TV channel, filled partly with static,
Partly with panic, and partly with empty.
You know, everything is filled with empty,
But even empty is filled with something I guess.
At least that’s what they tell me in my science classes,
Something, something; empty glasses are always full.
Full of air, and air is filled with gasses and gasses are filled with particles.
Particles are made of stuff. Lots of tiny stuff I guess.
Even light is made of particles, particles that behave like waves,
Cause they just can’t decide I guess.
Those particles, photons, wavelengths, flood the room.
They’re floating, undecided, from this TV screen.
If it weren’t for this hurt maybe I could shine.
Maybe my cells would turn into particles of light, moving as a wave;
Sometimes I hopeYou’ve taken everything I thought I’d learned, thrown it all out with the recyclables;
Maybe someone can find use for the things you thought I didn’t need,
Like pride, self worth, a sense of dignity.
So sometimes I hope the sky falls and crushes me.
My death wouldn’t your fault, the universes was just too weak.
When your rotting breath spewed out to talk to yourself,
You didn’t leave enough space for the sound to dissipate. Yes, I heard every word, every vile sputter rolling off your tongue reached my ears. Every mutter.
So sometimes I hope the plague comes back and sickens me.
My death would be the pasts fault. I’d go down in history.
Sometimes you don’t know how to keep your voice down in a thin walled house. Those words bounce from room to room like a frantic game of pong and my mind is no different;
Racing from this to that, wondering what I could have done to make you feel differently.
How I could get you back, tit for tat.
Eye for an eye,
Magnets Aren't Magic, It's Just Glorified Static.The reasons that opposites attract is that we all know what evils hide under our own skin.
We just assume that someone so unlike us could never harbour such things within.
Such things that bring tears late at night, panic attacks while driving on the highway,
80 mile an hour acceleration right past the cops, right past the traffic stops.
We think "No, no one could be worse than me."
And then we're surprised when it all comes crashing down.
The magnetic field of love switches off, the attraction is an empty urn.
Everything inside just burns.
Ghost Race, Time and PlaceMaybe we'll all die before we get home,
On the drive to where we belong, or to where we actually want to be.
In the end we'll all be ghosts with no place left to go.
Why The Date Is Written At The Top Of The Page2014 was the year I thought I figured it all out;
Why everything happens the way it does,
Why everything still hurts the way it always used to,
Why I was never good enough for anyone,
But especially you. Father, mother, sister, brother, cousin, lover, friend,and especially you.
In 2013 I started burning my lungs, started drowning myself in chemistry.
Started throwing myself into the arms of whomever would take me,
Whomever would give me just a little reprieve,
Just an ounce of "Please stay, don't leave.".
But I'd left long before and that version of me would never come back.
This is "ME 2.0", a fallen branch in the river,
Going with the flow of late nights and heart breaks, "I love you"'s and terrible mistakes.
In 2012 I learned that those who tell you they love you very rarely do.
They just want whatever they can get out of you without getting hurt in return.
They want you to waste all you have to give on people like them.
They thrive on knowing that they can take what they want,