Psychosis

A swirl of smoke paints its way to the heavens. Hate, contempt, anger, and despondency weave their strands.

Gray gives way to a multihued masterpiece: poison green and fevered pink, sickly orange and despairing blue, a psychosis that pulses with the beat of the bass.

The ephemeral tapestry blisters, shudders, and gives way to the breeze, dissipating, leaving only the rank stench of pollution in its wake.

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True Colors

True Colors
an angry poem from May 2013

Slow down, I thought.
Step back.
Take a look before it all goes black.
Heavy heart, troubled mind.
Nothing worse than running blind. 

What am I feeling?
It’s too soon to know.

— scribbled in a notebook while I was dating the subject of the angry poem that follows


Too soon?
Yeah, too soon.
I barely knew who you were, all right,
and now that I’ve seen your true colors I’m repulsed.
Beneath the flaky gold varnish I cringe at what’s beneath:
a fleshy mass of yellow, diseased tissue,
tinged green
and laced with veins of red
–scars that still bleed–
trembling like jello
and barely holding itself together.
I pity it.
I pity you.

Good luck with your future endeavors.
No sarcasm. I mean it.
I hope that by the time you find your soulmate,
you’ve had time to heal,
so she doesn’t see the ugly mess I’ve seen.
I hope you can hold it together with her
better than you did with me,
better than you did with the others,
because no girl deserves to be the victim of your insecurity,
least of all her.

I have no regrets, but I hope you do:
The first step to healing is admitting you’re sick.
You’re sick, boy, more sick than you know,
That ragged tear through your heart never closed.
Every breath you take rips apart the slowly repairing flesh yet again,
Till the newly opened wound
Aches.
Throbs.
Festers.
You tell yourself it’s over,
You tell yourself she’s gone.
I barely know you, and
Even I know better–
You’re not over it.
Her shadow still hovers over you,
And you’ve absorbed that darkness into your soul.
It’s twisted you, boy–just look, you’ll see.
And you have no right to take that out on me.

Good luck to you, boy.
I wish you the best.
Get well soon, heal,
Move on, live your life,
And learn to care without hurting those around you.
You’ll be better off for it,
The girls you pursue in the future will thank you for it,
And your true colors will shine through:
A deep clover green and a rich, warm gold,
Waving proudly in the wind.

In which I experience emotional overload

Dive off the blocks and into the sea of letters. A world of black and white where grey is a figment of your imagination, where the power of the written word is all you need to float onward, onward, into the bliss of oblivion.

Journal your life away. Too overwhelmed to live, too scared to love: hole up in a little den with paper and ink and plaster the walls with your scribbling. Papers, the palimpsest of a life. Scrape away reality to make room for the fiction.

Reality hurts. Its razor-sharp edges chip away what little sanity I have left. Maybe if I scurry away between the leather-bound pages and wrap myself tight in the parchment, it won’t find me. Safe and secure, never breathing, never dying, constant as the text on the page, I’ll be protected. Fiction my stronghold, fantasy my rampart, I’ll exist, and persist until the ink fades and blank pages remain. Clean, pure, and whole, without worry or regret or fear, simply…

Nothing.