Over Control

You must behave.

Those emotions screaming to be gratified

Must be tamed,

And so you learn to self-control.

Radically closed,

Fear outweighing your need for expression.

Disfiguring yourself

In accordance with the principles of shame.

A pavlovian animal

Afraid to eat before it hears a bell.

Over-controlling,

You atrophy your capacity to love.

Trying to be yourself

Triggers your own self-loathing and disgust.

Connection is impossible,

So you’ll suffer to remain in isolation.

Once you know,

Once you recognize how detached you’ve become,

Your walls become flesh

And they won’t fall away without your blood.

Opening up,

Slowly, like unraveling a tender wound,

The glue and gauze

Still clinging tightly to your flesh.

Even then,

It groans and aches under pressure,

And you’ll shake

Knowing how frail you genuinely are.

Standing precariously,

You brace for the inevitable plunge.

Embracing uncertainty,

Choosing vulnerability over control.

Psyche Dancing For Adepts

Illness, psychosis, and trauma

Perfectly juggled with masterful precision

In such a delicate balance

The endeavor of a lifetime

Is required to maintain.

At any cost it must be;

The slightest disturbance could upset,

Unleashing a therapy session’s worth of stress

Upon any unsuspecting victim

Unfortunate enough to present.

Caution is a necessity.

Every potential interaction is a threat

That could jeopardize this balance.

Teetering on the brink of collapse

Leaves little room for distraction.

Careful bursts of madness,

As in the chaotic illogical products

Of a strained and imprisoned mind,

Must be regularly expressed

Within these constraints.

Fatigue, loneliness, and irritability,

Exacerbated symptoms from all sources

With little but solitude, reflection,

And continual effort

As a reward.

With luck and practice,

One may survive long enough

In such a fragile and frigid state

To become numb or indifferent,

Or maybe self-aware.

In one form or another

This precarious dance must inevitably end.

Whether stumbling to ruin, wearing out entirely,

Or relinquishing enough

To transcend.

 

To Never Be Preyed Upon

To never be preyed upon

I learned

Either hunt or be hunted.

Be the breaker or the broken.

Swallow your sentimentallity

Or suffer.

Locked away in vaults

Of cold cruel steel,

Behind bitter dispassionate bars

Biting empathetic hands

I live

Looking out

At everything that’s kept away.

To never be preyed upon

Is to sever all your heartstrings

As each one tugs your veins,

Pushing them away

Before they draw you out,

Exposed, vulnerable,

Easy prey.

And every broken heartstring bleeds

In the buried vaults unseen,

Untouched by any hand

The writhing wounded psyche

I identify as me.

To never be preyed upon

Is to never be free,

Looking out to see pleasures

I wish I could’ve been

Open and tender

In such a way as to be

The delicate flower

I’ve sheltered to keep

From being preyed upon.

I weep

Behind locked steel doors

Ashamed of myself,

Afraid for myself,

In solitudes keeping

Too weak to be anything but

Never preyed upon.

 

 

 

Sick Cemetery

Suicides, fatal blunders, and resolute endurance worn away

The permanent final solution for late dysfunctional brains

Confused, despairing, or damaged, all will find their way

The Sick Cemetery welcomes all of them to stay.

Poly-disordered personalities with all the common names

All the common ailments from depression to disarray

Troubled minds, anxious minds, minds that wore away

Petty minds, brilliant minds, beautiful brains erased.

Beautiful grass and flowers over surcease of pain

Remembered and forgotten loves remembered all the same

Struggles, triumphs, failures, all buried where they lay

True equality is death, all is one is anything.

Visitation always open, bring your respects to pay

Everyone is welcome, feel free to read our names

So many come and go, we understand if you delay

The weary and tired, the dysfunctional and dismayed, everyone is welcome to be remembered past these gates.

 

What She Should Know

She was only just a child

When I was just a child.

We’re only children now

Even though we’re fully grown.

I needed some restraint

And some love when I was younger.

I have what she could give,

What she lacked I have become.

Fighting, fussing, killing time,

Self-obsessed, neurotic, home.

Child, mother, still a child,

Help me learn to be alone.

My hereditary depression

Cannot help but look at you.

Floating on in your distress,

Not a clue what you should do.

Look at me for worthiness,

Someone who you loved and made.

Shouldn’t I look up to you?

Is this part for me to play?

Maybe so, I’m coping better

Than you ever learned to cope.

With all that I could hold against you,

I don’t want to see you choke.

There for me, not there for me, matters little anymore.

Maybe you’ll feel better if you found something to live for.

The One That’s Hanging

Blind, with an overpowered sense of smell,

The one that feeds on the diseased.

Sliding in and out the gates of mental health,

Recycling flesh from the depressed and deceased.

The worm, a gargantuan behemoth,

An omnipresent filter of the lost.

Endlessly seeking the scent of suffering,

Transference of feeling at energies cost.

So the child in the trees, that one that is hanging,

The one that’s dripping wet with remorse,

That sways listlessly in the torrential rain,

With the seductive scent of suicide dispersed,

Attracts the sightless hungering mouth,

Who surfaces from the Earth to be fed,

Whose bloated body consumes her corpse,

Satisfied, swallowing the saddest of the dead.

The casualties caused by tormented minds,

The sick, the unstable, the neurotic and depressed.

The casualties consumed by the careless and blind,

Basted unwittingly in the flavors of distress.

The one that’s hanging and dead in the trees,

The tantalizing sadness that floats on the breeze.

The one who gorges on those passions released,

The final transference, Flesh and Feeling, it Eats.