it hurts to be alive and i can’t fake it it hurts to be alive and i can’t tame it it hurts to be alive and i can’t defer it.
survival so excruciating- like a pen writing with no ink left like a toy with all its battery spent- destined to be deprived to fail
to die multiple times.
things in life aren’t always for free, lesson lived and learned times squared yet it still annoys me, especially if i had a few microsteps in a better direction- after months of paralysis and now see my body pay in energy , as well reason-clouding anxiety. Fuck. Ugh.
my sky is crumbling…
pieces flying downward
cluttering this empty space i can’t call home
becoming a part of the mess that plagues me
my self-created sunshine dims
adding to this ever present darkness
filling the expansive void of failures
that i anxiously stack and eventually step on
only to fall once more on the edge of unexpectedly
deceived by a holographic image of progress
of a bluest sky with cotton-y clouds and real sunshine
I fall apart in the loud silence of bipolar depression aftermath.
I, a broken piece of nothing, a presence existing under erasure.
half-lived life, so unfinished
half-sewn disguise, so unpretty
life reduced, sanity obtuse
-but it was time
to let go:
said the voices of my misplaced mind.
In aguish. In laughter.
Then, now, never-after forever
In wanderlust. In desperation.
I am reduced.
You are amused.
Manic Tears in Depression
Color*Fullness though not in full color format.
Or is not black the dense color of darkness? Artist within every shadow.
Hidden from our field of sight. Anxious transmitter of lust.
Clothed by a translucent, sheer, fabric laced with light.
I hate myself right now. Like many times before.
The stocks of my net worth dropping below zero. All my savings funds lost and withdrawn.
All of everything sucked into this black hole, tearing me to pieces, not breaking my fall.
I hate myself. Sometimes in bulk. Others in miniature.
Always there. My heroic anti-hero.
I love myself. Though I now admit it, I most often forget. Like now.