Still Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous things,

picking thorns from trees,

like a blended sugarcane,

DMT, bonfires and peyote,

cigars and syringes,

sparkling fringes,

champagne, cocaine,

and pornography,

somewhere out there,

fathomed too deep,

Where I hardly sleep,

And maybe it’s killing me,

how my eyes stay closed,

mouth neatly sewn,

over words of my own,

this place is forsaken,

this space can’t be taken,

the loose change shaken,

from the secret pockets,

sewn neatly in my cheeks.

Roaming the Hallways.

 

These are things:
hidden meanings;
soundly maintaining
in between –
the likes of you and me.

The same goes for anybody:
structured similarly;
that functions remotely
close to –
any likeness to Yours Truly;

It becomes impossible to see:
your side of anything;
my heart does not hear or speak
the obsolete –
language of a Hollow King.

I ride lost in loss and strife:
the chaos of a star’s dying light;
the haunting of a dead man’s life
but why –
must you roam the hallways at night?

When I cannot comprehend:
the commands that your faded voice sends;
across the emptiness of the long-forsaken
echoes within –
the spaces and places of the ill-spirited gardens.

I cannot answer then:
a single one of a hundred questions;
the dialect has tumbled over the edge of extinction
you win –
but a world where you’re happy is hard to imagine.

Night Terrorist.

I don’t know,

what it means,

I don’t recall,

too much at all,

all that I know,

upon wakening,

both fists in a ball,

afraid of everything,

the walls feel like,

they breathe on me,

eyes are blurry,

skin is clammy,

a revival of buried things,

from a past most terrifying,

I can’t run or hide,

and I can’t scream,

he’s there searching,

out there lurking,

disfigured and bloody,

undead and muddy,

with a blade that keeps flashing,

at that moment,

another layer of torment,

I am sickened by the scene,

as I know deep down,

with certainty,

that eventually,

he will come find me,

slash his shiny blade,

right through my airway,

and there will be,

at least for me,

no way to escape,

this same old crime scene,

same old tragic psychopathy,

a crimson crown,

trickled down,

my face, but I feel no pain,

and I steadily drain,

terror from my severed veins,

my memories,

washing heavily,

down the gutter again.

 

 

 

Scared.

I guess it’s good that I can’t recall the nightmares I have after I awaken from them; they are bad enough to often already have me in tears upon waking for the first time for the day – and I don’t mean like a few little snuffles either – I mean like full-blown

“I’m upset as hell and can’t stop crying and don’t even know why”.

I’m a fucking trainwreck
I’m a fucking headcase
I wake up in the morning and I’m sobbing and scared and the worst part about it is that I can’t even put my finger on WHAT I’m so afraid of or WHO. I just FEEL SCARED.

Non-Morning Person.

Why is it like this every morning? Why must I be so upset when I wake up after a night terror? It wasn’t real…just nightmares…here I am…in one piece, and okay…
Why do I awaken covered in jello sweat that runs ice cold?…
with thoughts of all things bad and bloody just below the surface…
unable to focus my mind…
I hate mornings.

The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.

Bashful and Insecure.

Um Bashful...

Insecure.