Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

I want to hurt me, to prove that you were nothing special. I want you to see my scars, so I can scream “See?! I don’t need you to break me! I can do it just fine all alone!”

I’ll hold out for tonight,

The same as every night,

But I swear this time tomorrow

I’ll be better, I’ll be whole.


It’s not that I enjoy lying

But it’s the only thing I own;

My words are still my words,

Even if they have no home.


So while everything is burning

I’ll keep pretending I’m okay.

I swear I was just twenty,

So why am I thirty today?


I don’t want to keep going

Because I can never earn back my love

So I keep on leaning over the edge;

Won’t you give me that final shove?

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“In my heart, time stands still. Nothing changes, nothing grows… no matter how deep I go, I can’t cut myself free from you…”

This is how our world ends,

In that space between a heartbeat

And where our worst thoughts

Are lost into open air.

Isn’t it strange how acute

A simple sound can be?

How an uneven pitch can cut

The same as any knife?

Lines we set in sturdy stone

Are whittled down into dust,

Nothing more than a granite coat

Sprinkled onto cotton twine.

Faced with your whetted tongue,

You flay every boundary and beyond.

Our dreams are red confetti,

Quickly drying into tinder,

And it’s with the bitter taste

Of irony at its best

That we ignite our pyre

With the same spark

We once believed

Was love.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Every day is a cloudy day when you can’t even be bothered to open your blinds.

I love the smell of water in the air. It’s so fresh, and it makes the air feel soft as I take a deep breath. That scent adds some sort of fluffy tail to the lasts wisps as they trickle in, tickling the back of my throat, making my lips curl towards the sky. It’s amazing how different my entire body feels when I’m wearing a genuine smile. It’s a feeling I recognize and cherish.

But just as quickly as that familiarity invades my bones, it also begins to seep right back out. That smell of water clicks with other wires in my brain, and I’m rushed into a common scene; me, in front of my bathroom mirror. My clothes lie all around me, and my eyes are focused only on my reflection. I’ve done a good job hiding the scars for years and years, but I can’t hide them for more than a day from myself. And the image I see in the mirror, it always hurts so much…

I love the smell of water, because I love being in water. I love swimming and floating in a lazy river. I love cannonballs and diving into the deep end and going down the waterslide 1 million times. I love playing catch, making insane dives off the pier thanks to the soft landing the water provides. I love relaxing on the beach, sprawled out on a towel, working on my terrible tan lines. I love chowing down on watermelon and popsicles and cans of root beer. I love all of that…I loved all of that…I loved the water when I was a kid. I looked forward to going to Turkeyfoot Lake every weekend. I couldn’t wait to spend an entire day swimming, followed up with barbeques and backyard baseball. I loved catching fireflies at dusk, and lighting sparklers when it finally got dark. I loved my summers.

I loved being in the water, so of course I love the smell of water. But now those memories make my stomach cave in, because I know what will happen now, if I tried to relieve any of those moments. So many questions would be asked, and I wouldn’t be able to answer more than a few.

“When did this start?”

Before my first trip to the lake, I was already cutting, but I was just starting. I made sure to keep things small and in more hidden places, like my thighs and legs, places people wouldn’t see so readily. I already understood at 9 exactly how fucked up this shit was.

“Why did you start?”

I don’t have a good answer for that. The best I can do is this: I started cutting after I stopped peeling my skin and biting my nails. I would pull the skin from my fingers in 1st grade, I remember. I peeled that skin until they would all bleed, and it drove my parents and teachers insane. So, to avoid being yelled at, I progressed to more subtle, accurate methods. A pen prick here, a tiny slash there. It was just easier to maintain.

“Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?”

Does a cut hurt? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sure a deep cut would sting. I’m sure if somebody stabbed me, or a samurai sliced my stomach open with his katana, I would be in pain. But these little lines running the length of my arm? Those don’t hurt. They are shallow, hardly breaking the surface. They look worse then they are. But to answer your real question, I don’t know why I feel like I have to hurt myself, especially when I know my scars will hurt others much more than they hurt me. Lately I think it’s because I know the more scars I have, when someone finally does see them, they will see so many scars that the hope they can help me will immediately be lost. Basically they have become a sort of insurance, a fail safe to ensure that I fail.

“Why do you want to fail?”

Because I want to die.

“And why do you want to die?”

Because I can’t fix me. I can’t fix who I am. Dying won’t make up for the horrible existence that is me, but I can’t make up for it by continuing to live either. So my choices are to either keep going, or call it a day. I need to call it a day. It’s what’s best in the long run, for the world and me.

“Then why are you still alive?”

…because no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely give up dreaming that I’ll find a way out someday…

“So what will you do next?”

I’ll think about change. Then I’ll talk about change. Then I’ll plan some changes. Then I’ll make some changes. Then I’ll slip up. Then I’ll slip up again. Then I’ll give up on changing. Then I’ll find myself at the bottom again, in awe of how the bottom just keeps getting deeper, and I’ll start the whole process over again.

“And what happens, when the bottom never comes?”

It will mean I’ve either grown some wings and taken flight, or I hit the bottom, broke both my legs, thus making it impossible for me to ever climb back out.

“And when you can’t climb back out?”

I stay down there, and I starve.

“And then?”

And then…. I can finally accept myself…. and I will finally be able to die…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I tick away the time, peeling back the skin on my fingers, bleeding all over the pages of this brand new journal. I have a mechanical pencil with an abundance of .07 lead, but I still chose to write my story in red?

Take nothing for granted and keep your eyes focused on the future, so things like student loan debt and a terrible job market won’t swallow you whole. The thing is I don’t have it that bad. I have a pretty stable job, with plenty of potential for growth (which means more money). I am paying off my loans while living in an upscale, 1 bedroom apartment in a nice city. I have a new(er) car, cool guitar, full 88 key keyboard, and a computer that any fan of MMORPGs would kill to have. It’s all right here, and I’m right here, sitting in this comfy computer chair, listening to Yiruma’s greatest hits, sipping on bottled water and snacking on orange slices. My dishwasher just finished it’s cycle, so I have clean dishes. Since I’m getting up to put the dishes away I might as well put my laundry from the washer into the dryer, because of course my bathroom also has it’s own washer and dryer. When that’s done I think I’ll spend a few minutes on my patio. It’s cold out, so I’ll just quickly open my sliding glass door and sit in my lawn chair for a few moments while I watch the water from the fountain that’s still running in the pond outside my second story window. I’ll come back into a room that’s a comfortable 68 degrees Fahrenheit, because I turned the heat on weeks ago – it’s Winter in Ohio, so I’m just glad I got to put that off until Late November. A knock on my door indicates my pizza has arrived, so I get up and greet my usual delivery man, giving him a $5 tip because I know what it’s like to be working in food service, and my income allows me those small pleasures that I know many, many others do not have, so really I don’t think I should be giving out such large tips on such small orders I make so often.

But I do.

And it hits me.

I’m clearly taking this all for granted. My eyes aren’t focused on the future. My eyes are focused on those pills sitting on my kitchen counter, but they also keep sneaking peeks at the large kitchen knife, freshly sharpened right next to them. My student debt and job prospects aren’t threatening to swallow me whole, not even close. So why do my arms look like this? Why do my legs, thighs, waist, hands, feet…why does my body look like this? Why is my stomach all over my tiled bathroom floor, porcelain toilet seat, still running faucet? Why is this screen showing me nothing but a scene out of horror movie, and why is this screen in my bathroom? Ah…of course…you idiot, that’s a mirror…of course, of course, OF COURSE!!!! HAHAHAHA OF COURSE IT IS, YOU FUCKING MORON! WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!

WHY?!?!?!

WHY?!?!

WHY?!

Why?!

why?

why…

~I don’t have that answer. But maybe…another pill…another cut…maybe just one more, and maybe it will finally kick in…and I’ll be swallowed whole…