Hair-Tied Up in Madness

My hair is a prelude to my mental illness,
an introduction to the dissatisfaction with stability within me;

The first time I ever dyed my hair, I was sixteen,
a peak in the development, rather lack thereof;
my brain once a high-functioning factory,
now a run-down fun house,
cracked mirrors replacing every assembly line
that used to cycle through its daily quota.

The last time I dyed my hair,
it was just a month after cutting away a weathered ceiling,
dipping and bowing against the weight
of years drowned in this disorderly environment.
The sight of the goldengrass speckled chunks falling
to an unkept, unswept floor, sent shockwaves
down my spine, leaving behind a buzzing sensation
of power that having control over change contains.

But now, I plan to let my hair grow natural;
I’ve lived in the looney bin for as long as I can remember,
and despite the wallpaper being molded,
and the ground not being made of marbled granite,
it is a place I’ve found comfort in, a home with hope;
There are renovations to be had, new memories to be made,
and aspirations to attain.


Check out my new book Penny Poetry, now available on Amazon!

Transparent Oblivion

Did you know that some people
know what it’s like to float;
they glide through their day to day
living in warmth,
smiling at the birds and waving at the trees.
They are the kind of people you envy;
the ones that know the secrets in the rain,
and the promise of an open book. 

It is hard to believe in such truth;
such peace,
when transparency became an enemy to me
the moment I realized
not everybody craves a gunshot lullaby
in a world as cold as the metal on your tongue,
and the gift of oblivion is long forgotten.


Check out my new book Penny Poetry, now available on Amazon!

Anxiety’s Perspective

Have you ever missed the sun
while it was still beating down on you?
The anticipation of it no longer being there,
despite the droplet of sweat running down your cheek
from its kisses on your forehead?
Have you ever longed for the nightfall you fear
at every day’s end, not quite sure
of the monsters awaiting you under the next silver moon,
but not wanting to be left to wonder?
Have you ever shuddered to what was not yet confirmed
to be reality by any means other than your own mind?
It is a peculiar feeling,
being lost in a perception of vulnerability and irrationality,
stuck in a constant state of questioning and confusion.
You find yourself spending more time being afraid
of what could-be,
instead of observing what actually is.


Check out my new book Penny Poetry, now available on Amazon!

The Only Thing I Knew

I used to leave the window down on road trips
because I was scared of the silence
whenever the music quieted.
Scared of the runaway thoughts
hitchhiking along the highway
in my mind,
thumbs poised and ready
to jump at the first chance of an open door.
I was scared of the semi-trucks
looming over something so small,
so breakable,
when I could not hear them approaching.
I used to leave the window down on road trips
because I feared the quiet
might never leave.
And now that it’s gone,
I sometimes miss
knowing the only way to smother it,
is to make a sound.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Anxious Comfort

I’m screaming in the ocean,
letting the salt corrode the words
off my tongue,
and spiral into small bubbles
that leaves you with only the sound
of a faint whisper breaking the surface.
I breathe in with the intent
to fill the empty pockets that my lungs
were not strong enough
to give you the air you needed.
I tried to give you these words
but was muffled by the weight
of suffocating in the silence
that hugged me
when no one else could.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Letters

I left you a note
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I witnessed your first teardrop.
The day you plucked petals
off daisies
and swore to become stone
like the wall
at the base of the river. 

I left you a note
on the porch swing in the garden
where we shared our first drink
and you confessed
the way your insides were alive
beneath the concrete
you mixed
for the water to set around you.
The day you told me of the weight
pressing against the dams
you built around your heart,
and began writing your name
in bottle caps.

I left you a note
in the mail slot
at the rehabilitation center
where you spent six months
proving to yourself
that the addiction was not
protection;
a guard against your feelings
no matter how hard
you tried to force it to be.

I left you a note
in the Starbucks
on the street with no sign
where I witnessed you sober
for the first time since seventeen.
And you promised to god
that this was the goodbye
to watching your downfalls

I wrote you these notes
with a hand guided by hope
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I’m now forced to realize
the meaning behind those words.
And I wonder
if somewhere
you’re witnessing my first teardrop.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Between the Highs

This poem is written in that space
floating away from sobriety
coming down from the high
of talking to my escape
and returning to the beast
that’s tried to drive me away.
Depression is the wedge
trying to get between me
and the only one strong enough
to push back my demons
when they outweigh
even the toughest parts of me.
This poem is written in that space
between hello and goodbye
when I’m struggling to exist
without you next to me.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Reasons

I’m running out of reasons to smile
in a world that works backwards,
and sad eyes miss the feeling
of being praised
for anything other than their gloss.
I’m running out of reasons to laugh
in a world that moves forward
and forgets there was ever
a symphony of happiness
to dance to.
I’m running out of reasons
to keep searching for them
in a world that denies
answers to the questions
I want to ask.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Cycle

The cycle starts on the days,
I live with my head in the clouds,
consumed by a lightness,
flowing in the weight of the wind.
Each day’s water clinging to my curves
until the collection grows heavy
and I pour out my heart
to the undeserved without raincoats.
My raindrops salty,
overflow the reflections in the ocean pools,
stirring chaos in the flooding.
The cycle ends on the days,
I live floating in the aftermath
as the sunlight soaks up the damage
I caused at the bottom of the circle.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Patterns

One..Two…Three..
I count my breaths like the memories,
the fog pressing weight into my lungs,
and let the clouds rain through the windows.
My soul is distorted in the flooding,
puddles collecting at my feet.
I play this numbers game until
my mind forgets the images,
and replaces them with the programming
of ones and zeros,
and water becomes nothing more
than a thinner in my veins.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!