Sleep. Weep. Repeat.

It’s like a birth but it is in reverse never gets better, always gets worse

10 notes

I do my best. I try my hardest everyday and get no where and at night I write it on the back of my eyelids: “It’s okay.” “It’s okay.”

It’s like staring at a Bible. They’re kind words from hopeful men. But there is no God and my faith is dead. Now rest.

Filed under phone fun stuff things writing

7 notes

Its 4:20 pm and there’s a women outside on the street screaming on the phone to her husband how she doesn’t love him anymore, how she doesn’t know what to do anymore, how he’s a drug user and how all their small problems added up into something unsolvable.

Yesterday my brother wasn’t listening to what his wife was talking about and insisted he was. I wanted to grab him by the throat and tell him to fucking pay attention. But these aren’t the lessons you can teach, they’re the lessons you learn as you go.

People bum me out.

12 notes

"So what do you do now days?"
I guess I stay at home a lot and try to avoid the old familiar. The breakfast shop employee asked if we’re married yet and I replied saying I’m working on it and I don’t go there anymore because of it. On The freeway I keep my eyes on the pavement the first ten miles, sometimes twenty. I try to avoid seeing the streets and the exits that can take me to you or all the roads we used like escape routes. It’s hard going outside. On the freeway I look for your car and don’t know if I want to hide or find out when I see one. In public my head spins like a drunk. I look everywhere, I scan over every one. I find her old hair colors on other people, I find her body type, I spot her shoes, I see her jackets, all scattered and spread among everyone and every single time, instantly, I’m terrified and breathless that it’s you. It never is though and I never know what to do or what I would do if it was.
I’m uncomfortable and scared everywhere.

My heart sits heavy in my chest. I want the ocean to hold me under, I want the Earth to open up and swallow me, I want God to tell me to be patient and you’ll be mine again in this lifetime but these aren’t thing that ever happen. So most days I’m quiet. I don’t know what to say and I don’t know how to talk or which words to use. I sit alone with playlists made for dosing off to sleep and I read through books. Books never ask anything of me, they’re not curious about what I’m thinking or how I’m feeling. They don’t regard me, they just continue onward with my fingers running over every word until we crash into an ending. They’re like you in that sense.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing just write free write practice

22 notes

brickhomes:

when you turn out the light the brightness doesn’t go away
and when you shut the door
the noise just doesn’t stop
there is a boat in a harbour that is tied much too tightly
to set sail
my friend is making me listen to
Bruce Springsteen for the first time
and you’re trying to cut that knot
I don’t have a sharp enough knife
to be of any use
but that’s life
it’s a big world
it’s an ugly place
there’s no map for where you are going and I’m not strong enough to follow
I forget that we are children
hiding under covers
hoping for the best

it’s one hell of a life

Filed under Hi Joe Love you

4 notes

Small:
Depression stopped being the ocean
it wasn’t the size of a mountain
it didn’t feel like a black hole
and you didn’t expect the Earth to open up
and swallow you whole.

These delusions were useful.
They were a means to show
you’re not that tall
you’re not that big
no human is
and your problems are not an exception.

But you didn’t cure.
Depression settled in
pinched shut your wounds
like stitches
too spaced apart
left you bleeding
and held you together
barely
until you realized
your insignificance.

You stand
at five feet eight inches
and that’s the whole extent of you.
Your problems are small
your ideas are small
your love is small

you are a grain of salt to the ocean
you are a grain of salt to the universe
you are a grain of salt to the earth
and you are a grain of salt to who you love.

Filed under fun thoughts depression poems poetry prose writing

6 notes

Start A Fire:
It’s getting colder. Two days ago I had a dream she called and I woke up flinching towards my phone to find out a dream is always just a dream. Last night I dreamt of holding her again in bed and I slept nine hours. A dream is always just a dream.
Some thoughts keep you warm, other burn you down and out like you’re the mob and monster. Mutilate yourself until you fit. Starve till you’re smaller and smaller. Until anxiety shaken short breaths feel full. “I am small and insignificant! I am small and insignificant!” This is my universal mantra I chant as I stretch and sprawl out on the bed half full.
Pulling covers and tucking them over my shoulders with my knees tucked into my stomach. The bed is now a quarter full. This is how I keep warm at night now. Smaller and smaller. More and more insignificant. Less and less hairs and perfume found and more and more of just me.
Just drink until you put on more weight, till your brain is too dysfunctional to dream and you’re just dead for eight hours. Drink until cold doesn’t mean alone and night is just night and not another time she hasn’t returned.

Filed under Poems poetry prose writing just write exercise life hack best life hacks drink it off drink everything off yeah do it

2 notes

Ever sleep nine hours and wake up grumpy you’re still alive?
Haha, yeah me neither. That’d be classified as an anti social behavior and looked down upon by people really making something of themselves.

12 notes

Do not remove the flowers from the Earth.
I feel humanity the most
when I remember putting my hands
softly around your neck.

Man has a fascination for breath
and a fetish for asphyxiation.

See
the French Revolution
and sixteen thousand heads
rolling
with Doctors
screaming at them
wondering if they’re conscious

and all the ones branded guilty and liars
secured, dropped, and hung.

No more thoughts
no more words
flowers
pulled from the Earth.

Sunflowers
remind me of cancer
and these deaths
and these thoughts.

Stop pulling people
by the neck.

My hands rest
left hand
pointer and middle fingers
tucked into your hair
index and pinky
resting on your vertebra

right hand
all fingertips
resting
like a pianist
against the back of your head

This is when our foreheads meet
and noses touch,
this is where
our breath
is softest.

I will not remove you from my Earth.

I’m no gardener
or massacrist
but I always liked to hold my breath
when I was stopping yours.

Breathless
and
silent.

Passion
sometimes
sits motionless and still.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing

3 notes

Anonymous asked: I really love this, ''everything you touch rusts and fades.''

Thank you.

it’s been interesting losing twenty pounds cause depression, I smoke so much I can’t help but feeling sentimental and guilty about emptying a cigarette pack a day. And I like the rust part too, kinda shows effort but constant failure all at once.

Life is fun. I’m fun.

16 notes

I Have Trouble Sleeping:
You’re there
four a.m.
outside
shaking the cigarette pack
anorexic
and empty
you are a narcissistic God.

Pulling ribs
from the chest
burning them up
turning everything you can
into a depressive
twenty-pound
weight loss.

A pathetic and sickly Midas
everything you touch
turns to bronze
everything you touch
rusts
and fades.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing

10 notes

Add:
You take photos of the things you don’t want to lose
and then you lose them.
You look back at them and invent suicides.

These are the mountains
I want to drive my car off of
and don’t visit anymore.

This is the bed
I want to never wake up in
and hope I don’t wake again.

That’s the smile
burned into the back of my eyelids
and aren’t responsible for anymore.

There’s the woman
I’ll never stop feeling the weight of
and won’t hold anymore.

In public
you count the people.
There are eighty four people here tonight
seven more people have shown up since you first counted.
You’ve checked five times
and each time none of them are you.
This is good
and this is bad.

Your heart gets confused
can’t remember if it’s the size of a fist
or a small car.

It feels like a ton
it feels like a grudge
it pumps blood
it sings whale songs
and wonders alone.

Your head
can’t stop making bus routes
and laying train tracks.

This is how you could be here
this is how you get to me
just open your mouth.

Anxiety comes in the form of an Earthquake tonight
there’s too many people
and they all weigh too much.

Return to your car
recline the seats
stare at the ceiling
and for the first time feel crowded
in your car.
Choke back your heavy breath
beat down your speeding heart
and go home

collapse on your bed
cry and realize
you’ll pray to a pill over a god any day.

Please.
Fix my fucking head.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing depression anxiety super fun time I went out last night had a super great time

6 notes

Tonight
I am drinking
ninety percent proof whiskey

because there is only ten percent of me
I feel worth keeping.

I drink to become.
I drink alone in practice.
The ocean
is God.

In all it’s mass
in all its calm
with all its unforgivable depth
with all it’s restlessness throughout.

I am practicing degeneration
of myself.

I am alone.
Sick and drunk in bed
my head bobs buoyant
the rest of my body is lost to the ocean

mouthful of saltwater
head full of things that won’t sink and die.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing

3 notes

I use to think it was the most romantic thing
to tell someone you needed them.

Like fairy tales
and nursery rhyme
they are.
They are love in fiction
and they are complete hell
in reality.

Filed under shorts poetry prose writing poems