Goodbye Cruel World … Hello new shoes.

Late last night, my mind wrote my final goodbye.

A letter of love, kissed with a sigh.

This morning, I awoke and craved new shoes…

the note from the night was

p u l v e r i s e d

into a puff of practicality.



My pain does not need a hashtag.

But it is taken more seriously when it has one.

Just like a bandaid holds more significance, then a claim of mental torment. Your inner fortitude may burn brightly but only to those who dare to look into the flames.

The human perspective is entirely flawed.

New Dentures

Today I saw a sign.

“Choose Happy”

My heart agrees.

My head is less convinced.

My soul mouth can’t even see the sign through the blackend smoke of its own burning.


The ticking clock booms within the silence of the night.

I cannot hear it over the screaming in my mind.

Thursday Haiku

lethargy, apathy,

severe lack of dopamine.

washing needs folding.

The Torture of Creativity

A piece of me clings to visions of other tortured souls: Mozart, Pollack and Plath — each crazed by a cannibalised brain that told them to leap with ragged, haggard breath and a racing heart that thrummed to a tune of its own design, both discordant and undignified.

But the other side of me wonders: perhaps this is just unfettered creativity?

The process

When i begin art i most like to start with the blindest eye in my heart…

Then down to my gut where my instinct’s clear-cut while my head keeps screaming “Hey, what?!?”

Lucid Hallucinations

Pain surges lifting me toward lucid hallucinations. I ride it like a wave, unable to untie the leg-rope.

Blackout poetry

by nightfall, the house was sound asleep… offset by luxury

He wasn’t lost; surging, spurring unblinkingly, the cold-black dead body was already beaten but seemed untouched.

I know better but am beginning to believe in shadows.

I have to try to shower everyday 

He says I have to try to shower everyday. He says I have to try to shower everyday because otherwise I’ll Feel guilty. Like I’m sick. Like I’m giving in and giving up.

He says I have to try to shower everyday or at least every second day so I keep my hygiene up and feel better about myself. Like showering is supposed to be an achievement. 

But sometimes getting out of bed is the hardest thing in the world and if it wasn’t for an overwhelming need to pee, I’d never leave it alone. 

Because bed is the safe space. It’s the place where the rest of the world dissolves into a lullaby. It a place where my back aches because we have spent so much time together, comforting each other. Plucking at threads in the sheets like the strings on a cello. Ba boom, bada boom. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and I eventually get up to pee. Sometimes I don’t even bother to wash my hands.

Because washing my hands puts me next to the shower; in front of the mirror that shows my bloated swollen face, puffy eyes of derision and the blank expression of a person filled with apathy. 

So I go back to bed, unshowered, hands unwashed, teeth unbrushed, pills not taken. I go back to my bed where even the sheets seem sick of my company but my apathy continues and I just crawl under the covers to hide. 

Some days, I hear him singing in the back of my head, like a repeating lyric on a scratched record. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and so I wash my hands after I pee. I take my pills. I am again exhausted. So I go back to bed with my sore back and aching muscles and a soaring aria of lethargy. 

And then at some point. Some time. On an unexpected moment, when his lilting voice has reverberated in my mind, in just the right way, I rise. I rise slowly and lumber to the bathroom. My footsteps echo. Ba boom, bada boom. 

I stare at the shower. It will take every piece of my flagging energy to get undressed. 

I comply. 

Naked, completely exposed and beyond weary, I hear the bed singing to me. But his song is shriller. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and it’s already been three. I step inside and turn on the faucets. The scalding rain cascades down. I am so grimy that even the stinging hot water doesn’t cleanse me. And it leaves my wounded soul raw and red. But it hides the tears streaming down my face as my breath heaves to a familiar tune. Ba boom, bada boom. 

The chorus repeats in my head as I wrap myself in a towel. Because he is right. It *is* an Achievement and I have to try to shower everyday. 

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