Inconsolable

One of the worse parts of anxiety

is the irrational worries and fears

it puts in my head.

Or maybe it’s the hours spent up at night,

lying in bed crying,

where I whisper to myself that it’s not real.

they’ll never happen.

Just keep pushing past them.

But what am I supposed to do

when one of those fear turns out to be true?

The pain going through my being

is inconsolable.

How do I tell myself that nightmares

are not real when they become reality?

Hurricane

I’ve never been one to mind a little rain.

Everything needs a little water to grow.

It’s when the hurricanes hit that I begin to quake.

A little rain won’t hurt they say,

but what do you do when you’re drowning?

Drowning in despair, emotions, thoughts

with no idea when or why the storm had to strike now.

Maybe you’ll get some false hope

in an eye of the storm where

you’ll let yourself believe

that it can get better; it will get better

only to be hit by the other half of the storm,

far more furious than the last.

All you can do is bunker down and stay inside,

hoping that this storm won’t be your last.

But that’s hard to do when you know at the end,

when the sun decides to make a reappearance,

you’ll be faced with the devastation and despair

that came from the havoc and furry of the beast.

It’s hard to let yourself rebuild everything up

when you know that at any moment

another hurricane could strike and tear you right back down.

I’d like to believe that horrible cyclones are few and far between,

but I’m more realistic than that.

Whether I intended to or not, I have to realize

that my life has set its roots on the coastline

and I am forever destined to keep being hit

by bad hurricanes over and over

and the only way out is to either succumb

or get my shit together and move out,

but that’s a lot more strength than you’ll find

behind these batters doors .

Choices for Voices

We have choices, choices, choices

to be made with difference voices.

And sometimes you speak too loud

because you’re feeling way too proud.

Other times you sit by, mute

your own horn afraid to toot.

It’s hard to tell when to take stand

or when to simply wave your hand.

You want to speak up for yourself

but may only hurt yourself.

What Are We?

I’m tired of the game

and trying to explain

just how you hurt me.

 

With all of your words

I’m split into thirds

thinking what are we?

 

Your power you flaunt;

don’t know what you want.

You keep changing your key.

 

You’re back and you’re forth

What is my worth?

Baby, what are we?

 

You’re up and You’re down

I’m flipped around;

a ship lost at sea.

 

You’re always my choice

but I’m losing my voice.

What about me?

 

Decide our plot.

Want this or not?

What are we?

Iceberg

Sometimes all I can do

is share just the tip of the iceberg

of what makes me depressed.

It’s usually som superficial reason,

I know.

But I can’t find the words to share

about the tons of heavy ice

beneath the surface

that actually make me want to die.

So no one really understands

what the things weighing me down are.

They just see the silly, stupid things

that set me off on a plunge

and think I’m not worthy of help

or love

or attention

because why would sleeping in

be enough reason to kill yourself?

Nobody cares about that.

So no one hears about all the things that came after

like the dreams

or the self-destructive thoughts

or bringing my worth down.

Or feeling like a failure.

Because why would anyone

understand that all these things

are just a result of sleeping late.

2066.9

2066.9

the mountain air is quite crisp

and the smell of maples and pine

fills their lungs with something brand new.

 

At 2066 high

where the land meets the bright blue sky

and birds dare to spread wings and soar,

where they can see everything.

 

At 2066 feet

two young hearts begin to beat,

for perhaps the very first time,

together as love starts to grow.

 

Up at 2066,

above the crunching of dry sticks,

you can hear two souls come to see

without each other, they can’t be.

 

 

Escape into My Dreams

Sometimes,

when I’m up late

and I need to

come up with

a dream so I can

stop crying and

maybe get some

much needed sleep,

I dream of what

it would be like

to marry young

and finally be

able to escape

this hellhole

and never have

to look back again.

Could it really

be so easy?

Is that the price

of my freedom?

If so, I don’t think

dreams and reality

operate on the

same currency.