idiography

each day staggers by
in stuttered compromise.
heaven meets hell in my stormy eyes,
but my wrath is surely wrapped up
in the way i never cry,
the way i won’t admit
how much i’d love to die.

i am sick of this existence.
i want to unzip my skin
and flay it from the ribs,
to let my bones step out of it.
i’ve stopped feeding my demons.
now they feast on my flesh.
pain is my steady hand, and not my torment.
you avert your eyes, but i love how i deserve it.

if you knew me like i do, with no secrets,
believe me,
you’d hate me as much as i did.
i’m better than i was, but i’m still just a kid.
one year older, none the wiser.
i still want to die, but i made a promise.

if i could tear myself to pieces again,
i’d do it in an instant.
if i should leave this sallow casing,
shut your eyes and cash my chips in.
if i make it hard for you, don’t fail to mention it, for i’ll repent for it.
i mean you no sacrilege-
i’m simply demented.

i still suffer every day. i just learned how to hurt invisibly.
i’m still enamored with my own pain, but don’t want anyone to worry.
i’ve chosen a new medium so i can rest in peace.
i’m done with trying. i just want an ending.

i would have done it already
but my conscience keeps me.
i’m tired of holding steady. i only want to sink.
each day that passes by just brings me closer to the brink,
and i’m tired of having to think.

how low will i get
before it kills me again?
how low will i get
before i get on with it?
i’m tired of the pills and tests.
i’m past the point of being worth it.

i say i’m in purgatory- waiting to die,
cause i know this will kill me.
i’m playing deadly limbo with the bar dropped to my feet.
motivation left me, but i’m still keeping beat.
but how long can i maintain this without sinking completely?

-originally written jul2014. wrote a nice drop c# chord progression a few years later.

i.
fantasy kid,
they tell me,
you’ve got your head in the clouds.

but it’s better up there.

ii.
i’ll do what you want for now
but i’ll have you know,
i’m a celebrity in my own head.
and i don’t need to figure
things like taxes and math.

i dance
around beautifully brazen ballerinas
and flowers missing half their petals
before they’ve even bloomed
and weave justice back into romance
and weave romance back into words.

i make my own living
where i am king
of thieves and beggars
and i am respected
for my fraud.

iii.
you expect me to remember
the littlest things
             (names,
                 dates,
                  rules)
when i am too preoccupied
by things that fill my head
              like the sounds of words
              like the way they make me feel

and due dates make me anxious
so i’ll just erase them
why don’t you understand
i have the power to change the world?
my pen is mightier than your scalpel.

  (i don’t need to meet
  your plastic-surgery standards,
  your smiling faces with lying eyes)

iv.
what is surviving in your world
compared to even living in mine?

-written in 2011.

i’m fighting with gravity
to the death- until my head rests,
empty as my belly
on this false-porcelain floor-
skin waxy as laminate over
these heavy hollow bones
waiting for freedom-
liberation from this sullen casing.

i shake, manic-
blood pressure in the basement,
nauseous from diet pills and anxiety.
jittery, stare at the ceiling-
a spider, stick-limbed, teases me,
but here’s the silver lining:
no curds or whey coating
my shining insides.

i am stronger and brighter than ever
as black swims in my vision-
light-headed from malnutrition,
i wrap fingers around my wrists
to make sure i haven’t escaped my limits.
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it won’t snitch.
we’ll keep this surreptitious.

spilling my bloodred guts, my blood,
won’t make me wither,
and confessing won’t save me either.
this red ribbon stays tied around my wrist.
secrets kept keep me stable
clinging to my only success,
self-confidence cellophane-wrapped
in my absence, my transparence.

the whispers don’t mean a thing.
i am frantic on a wire frame,
white noise on parade.
the ground can only hold me for so long.
i’ll sprout wings from my ribcage
and float away.

-originally written jun2013

“arson is always the answer”
he says with a delinquent grin
we’re fucked and fucked up
smashing our own storefront windows
for the sake of the beauty
in the shattered glass,
in the crimson staining our skin  

we keep ourselves busy
tending to our wounds
then brag later, calling them battle scars
in an attempt to counteract
the pitying stares and then
the disgust when it’s learned
their source is our own hateful hands

just stroke our teenage egos,
stoke the flames
and we will continue
to set your world ablaze
we’ll search for awe and distraction  
fuck consequence
you know we had no future anyways

-originally written apr2013.