8.11 free write

There are two sides to everything

Every story; To you, to me

There are two sides to everyone

One we hide, and one we try to love

A coin with two faces

the same, but opposites adjacent

Revealing both the bad and good

Don’t let that be misunderstood

For perhaps not feeling the way you should

There are two, ever at war

Pushing and pulling

But never knowing what for

One side is you, the other me

One to choose, one to lose

And both incomplete. 



I’ve lost all hope a thousand times before 

But with every fall, it’s a little more

No one knows just how deep these hooks go

But I do

I don’t know how to break these chains

Because I’ve tried and prayed everything

I am on my way down to the grave

God forgive me, for all that I am

And teach me, to be more than human

Cuz I am living at the end of my life

And I know that I am going to die
Was it always meant to be this way

I have wondered every single day

I tried so hard to right my mistakes

But I never thought that I’d pay

A price so high

With my life
I know I can’t break these chains

Tried a thousand times, there is no way

I’m on my way down to the grave 

I fought the war and washed the blood away each day

Just to find that there was no other way

You are the only one who knows my pain

God deliver me, from all that I all

And relieve me from being human

Cuz I am living in my last days

And without a miracle

I will fade away
I’m sorry that I would throw my life away

But all I want to find anymore is an escape

Never thought it could get so bad

That all I want is to forfeit all I have

Just know with this breath now

You’re not the only one that I’ve let down
God forgive me, for all that I am

And teach me, to be more than human

Cuz I am living the end of my life

And I know that I am going to die. 

7.30 free write

      Some things just are; and when all has been done, they very well may still just be.      

       They say that there’s a solution for most anything, and maybe they’re right; for no one meant that the solution would be one that could repair your emotions regarding a matter- the simple thing that is at the root of the suffering- simply how we feel about the things that just are. Lovely a sentiment it that all things may have some semblance of solution; sometimes the thing that just is, happens to also be the emotion. One of the fundamental steps of acceptance- a huge part of what the human experience is – is first being able to identify what you can’t change, and therefore work towards acceptance. Great, so through acceptance everything has a solution. Except that to me it seems like a fucking cop out. What about at the end of all the processing, positivity, diversion, gratitude, service, and denial- what when acceptance never comes, when peace never again alights upon you through all the years of seeking the ever-elusive acceptance; When all there is left is the giant fucking lie that it can resolve the resulting pain or that one can alternatively find something to well enough distract from what is undesirably branded into nearly every neuron? No, I think at the end of it all, some feelings just are, right or wrong- and in all the time, I’ve not seen myself strong enough to disallow the reaction to powerlessness to destroy me.

P.8 the Red Letters

       I met Shawn on an online matching site I had used on and off over the years for some form of social interaction. Though he lived somewhere on the other side of the country, so we’d never technically met. Like 99% of the countless people I had spent varying amounts of time talking to, there was no romantic inclination, but we seemed to enjoy harassing eachother. Our friendship eventually consisted of the occasional handwritten fuck you letter or some other Russian or Japanese profanity; we hadn’t talked in some months but I knew that he was a “good Mormon” as I always teased, and would actually say a prayer for me. Though I wasn’t sure what there really was left to even pray.

      I remained in that spot for an exceedingly long time. I couldn’t even think where I could fasten the damn rope if I were to work up the guts. I almost laughed; of course I was terrified of the process of dying, but even more so I was afraid that God would condemn my already tormented soul to an eternity of the hell I already carried pieces of inside. I know they say how could a loving God send anyone to hell- but I think we send ourselves; most often paved with good intentions. The dreams never failed to remind me what hell was like, and I had seen things, so it made it easy for me to believe that there is such a place.

I had taken plenty of time doing extensive research on the statistics; success rate, cleanup, risks of failure, and pain level. How the fuck you could really have information on how much it hurts to die of a shot to the head ot number of other things, I wondered. But I had always considered the high probability suicide attempts carried of just fucking myself up and ending up worse off. I had already tried stopping my heart with excessive stimulants, and had more than once starved myself into multiple organ failure; surprisingly, I ate even less now. but I always seemed to elude the odds as well as the Laws of Thermodynamics ; cheating death so many times and in such circumstances that most would attribute it solely to the hand of God saying I needed to stay for some reason.                                                      He would never tell me why.              I didn’t believe He had any “plans” for me anymore , like everyone has always told me. Still don’t.  I believed it for a long time; but counting the years and now in my heart I only believed that my life had been closing for a while. I knew God was real, there was no debate as to that. I’d seen too much, been given too much proof when I laid out my fleece time and time again; and we had talked for long enough in these ways that I could never question His existence. We simply disagreed on most things I guess. 

     I considered maybe I should try something less traumatic for whoever found the body. Or if I should just do it far out in the mountains, where I liked to be. I was barred from purchasing a firearm, so I had been thinking of overdose or preferably a fatal drug interaction. I was a small person and I had already been mixing all kinds of drugs for some time now, as well as taking benzodiazapenes with alcohol every night after I learned Thomas Kinkade died that way. “The Painter of Light” he was called; My parents had a Kinkade in practically every room of the house. The irony.

I hoped that I would leave something behind as well; because I think the only thing worse than leaving or being left, is being forgotten.


I felt a moment of relief, realizing I had finally slept at least a few hours, judging by the daylight outside the marred window. I realized everyone was gone; at check in, vitals, or daily intentions group.

Oh shit, I’m fucking late again.                                                                                                                    That’ll be another strike. I jumped up and dashed out into the hallway, but as soon as I got up and started to move, the spinning started again. I stopped and steadied myself against the wall just outside the door. I still couldn’t breathe right, the leaden weight on my chest, the pain in my neck, and the same familiar feeling of a drugged- out, irrational panic. Yet I hadn’t taken anything. I stopped just outside the door to steady myself against the wall. I guess the sleep didn’t help. I was still so distant, everything warped and my eyes registering in the same maddening slow motion that I laid awake trying to ignore. I righted myself and made my way to the dayroom, now filled with most every resident of the ward. The nurse glanced down as I walked in and I saw her make a mark on her clipboard. And I’m screwed again.

It was another small room- the one we all spent our meals, free time, and groups in either here or the hallway; unless granted behavior- based privilege to go out to the dining hall or the small, burgundy-carpeted room to exercise in whatever manner one can find. I always seemed to be losing my privileges however, because  I always managed to screw up somehow . There were no windows in any room but the bedrooms, of which was the beautiful view of the parking lot and a brick wall. If you didn’t know better, you could otherwise think the entire place was some underground bomb shelter.
I took my place next to my tattooed hallway buddy, tilted my head back against the wall, and closed my eyes to detract from the dizziness.

“Hey where ya been?” he whispered loudly in his California slur. I could tell he had already taken his benzos today.

I never could understand how anyone would want to intentionally feel drugged out of their minds. I always denied the sedatives no matter how I upset I was, or how bad the anxiety attack. Maybe I was arrogant, But I preferred strong-willed. OK, so I probably should confess to being a bit arrogant, but it was only because for so many years as a minor, usually what someone thought was “in my best interests” ended up fucking me over in the end. I didn’t open my eyes yet, lost in the all the directions my mind was spinning off into; each thought triggering ten others which in turn bred more.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? We had a deal; You know I couldn’t be late again.” I tried to blunt the tone of my frustration, but it was always fueled by the constant spinning, screaming static in my head.

“Oh….Sorry dude… I was out for smoke break.” I heard him give an exaggerated yawn.
I feigned a smile, “oh yeah, I missed that too huh.”

“Sunshine! You look like you’ve got something to say!” Mr. Illuminati was putting me on the spot, likely to convey that he hadn’t missed my tardy appearance. I opened my eyes, to see a roomful of eyes boring into me.

“Victor Frankl;” I countered, “when we can no longer change our circumstances, we are then challenged to change ourselves’,” I said.                                                                                  Oh how well I knew it; how I told it to myself a thousand times, and oh how I had consequentially grown to loathe it.

“A very apt reply, I guess you were listening,” he noted with his signature shrill laughter.
I blocked out the remainder of the high-pitch drone of the group therapy guy who was always apt to remind us that he was a member of the Illuminati and wore his superiority Over all of us “sick people”. I was so fucking tired of people using that word to describe me. I’d rather be called a bitch, a whore, or anything else- any day of the week. I honestly wished I was heartless enough to to be a whore. At least then I’d have an income for the first time in five years. I felt terrible but couldn’t help but laugh a little to myself. If I could change one part of me, I would be able to better control- or at least ignore- my emotions. They always got in the way. Maybe then I would quit smoking entirely, and look for dopamine somewhere else.



I’ve got so much beneath my skin
I wouldn’t know where to begin                                                                                                          I don’t know how to win in this war with far too much emotion
So I try to make you believe me for just another heartless motion

The weakest part of me now
Always seems to bleed out
Though I try so hard to hide my heart
of scars
and where they begin                                                                                                                            
when I feel so goddamn pathetic again

It’s like I’m always trying to make you understand
But no matter what I say, it won’t come out how I had planned
If I could hold my heart in my hands
I’d give it to you just to make amends
But I feel that I’m the only fool again                                                                                                                                                     and everyone is just looking in

I know that I am often wrong
and always singing a different kind of song
maybe I’m not the worst there is
maybe my decisions will never quite fit
seems that the right things never feel like it
But I never figure it out

The weakest parts of me
Always seem to bleed in-between                                                                                                    the lines I try to hide behind
I don’t know If I’ll ever get it right
If feelings won’t always drown me inside
I can’t be a prisoner of my own mind                                                                                          But how can I control what holds and makes me cry

It’s like I’m always trying to make someone understand
But no matter what I say, neither of us gets it
If I could hold my heart in my hands
I’d give it to anyone, just to make sense
But I feel that I’m the only fool again
And everyone is just looking in

The truth is everything kills me                                                                                                      I’m not as strong as I used to be                                                                                                     The truth is often hardest to believe                                                                                               But I only know what I have seen                                                                                                The truth is that I’m terrified                                                                                                               My right’s wrong or your wrong’s right                                                                                          The truth is I’m too weary to be                                                                                                   And every little thing seems to kill me.




6.28 Free Write

Do you ignore my tireless cry

Or do you simply choose to stand on by

I know I’ll be fine

if okay is just not dying

But I wanted more

I needed more

I sacrificed everything I held in my hands

With Nothing left to lean upon to Rest ever again 

Wandering a dry desert place 

Hopeless in knowing this

To have every thing is still made as nothing

And all that nothingness is everything there is left

Or ever was

When everything has been done

And nothing remains to try

But to recant and relive of the same weary striving 

Do you ignore my many tears

Why do you bother dragging me through all these rendered useless years

Couldn’t you have chosen another

Of greater subservience and honor

There’s too long a road still ahead

Of empty, tortuous, nothingness 

It’s too much pain to stay awake

I’m sleeping my life away

But I’ll be back again for the thousandth time at dawn

To ask you the very the same question

Why bother, why hope

When this is all I have come to know

Are you trying to break me down

Expose the truth I always push down

Hide it from everyone

One word and I’m broken wide open

Why do the signs all say the same things

You of all know of my chains

Do you mean to taunt me

For what I’ll never have, feel, be?

This same melody has resonated

Haunted me for the decades

Lying in the dark

To listen and pour out my heart

Was it all constructed like this

For reason, with a purpose?

Because I’m just bitter and wish I could take it all back

Every dream, every breath, every step

It’s screamed at me since it began as night 

That the answer for me lies in plain sight

Right in front of me

But I’m too blind to see

too weak to reach

I don’t want those things anymore

I don’t want anything at all

It’s too late for you to try now to answer my prayers

I can’t feel anything 

Does it matter if you care

The thousand times you’ve tracked me down

Sought to bring me home from underground

There’s no point now

I can’t do both

I can’t let it go

Because it’s one with my skin

There’s no getting out 

And no getting in

I didn’t want to be like this

But at a certain point it was allowed

A fatal disease to riddle me throughout

Killing me slowly, burning from the inside out

No these signs don’t change Anything 

They just make me so very sorry

For what can they mean

When You know I can’t do these things

Help me understand

I don’t think I can

Why do you remind me

For what can light have to do with misery?

You bring it back to a person who’s lost

I thought we’d all forgotten

She’s gone

And so is her hope and soul

I think You meant the message for someone nearer to being whole

Not me-

who else you could be speaking to

I don’t know

When I’ve lived and grown up alone

Send the angel with a miracle

Or end a breath that’s miserable

For You should know

That I could never do both.