Man In The Radiator

 There's really not much left to say. Or maybe nothing to say at this moment. If I could decide on the exact day when the sky would open up and the earth would be devoured into an apocalypse sparing no living souls, I would choose August 21st. I don't want to be reminded of anything anymore. Here's a new poem.  “Starcrossed lovers On a treacherous night Sharpening the blades  Of murderous delight.”  - Steve Severin  Trapped Discarded black lace dances Across the rain-soaked windowsill Once used to shield your escape attempts Numbered steps to ease existence  Gasping for swift release His hands are clenching them closed He’s tasting your blood filtered through twisting necks And ink-stained bed sheets Your tongue slipping through flecks of skin Trapped in his blackened gums. Pills scattered across your cut-up desk Xanax lodged in your drying throat Poisoned spit is your only resource Overburdened by the new familiarity  Memories stand on th...

  I suffered through a dream the other night where I was welcomed in and accepted by certain people I will never see again for the rest of my life. There was a specific person that was absent in it, which was a blessing really, and I felt so content and relieved to be back in this certain house talking with these certain people as they expressed the same fear that I had - never seeing each other again. I woke up, of course, and it took me a good few hours into my dirge of a morning to remember the dream, to remember the feelings elicited in it within me during those sleeping hours, and realize it was simply all a hypnogogic farce. Reality rushed back into me with a savage gust of power and shattered me. It's been nearly six months and I have no idea how to process any of it any better than I did when it was happening.  I can't write anymore. Every day is spent in a chemical haze brought on by constantly having to switch medications and suffer through the initial side effects o...

 I haven't been able to write in a while. It all came down again. A low period. An unshakable grip from the barren desolation of an overwhelming abyss. I don't think I really mean anything I've written in this poem, well, I guess some of it I do mean and feel to a horrible degree. But it isn't fair to still be writing about this drivel. I thought I moved on, or I was moving on, but it all came back to me in such a horrific way and I don't know what to do but to force myself to write it all out in a desperate attempt to get rid of it all. It doesn't work. But I was beginning to feel horribly disgusted with myself for not being able to write for a while, and this particular piece of writing is a woeful return to poetry and is quite frankly a mess that I do not wish to edit or reread or revisit ever. However, maybe I got it out of my system. The next thing I write will be free of ruminations of this particular person who has all but ruined me and will hopefully be ...

Why does it have to be like this? Will I ever not feel the most intense feeling of shame and existential disgust within myself when I am incapable of writing? I'm extraordinarily fed up with going through periods of productivity followed by a glut of nothingness where even the mere thought of actually writing something down feels like a massive crowbar slowly cracking open my skull. Going on and off my pills in irregular intervals hasn't helped, I assume. But either I stay on the pills and suffer the side effects or I unburden myself from them and tempt the failing strength of my head and its abilities to stave off my suicidal ideation and constant unrest. Now they want me on Xanax. Or Lithium. But it could be much worse, I realize. I don't need these pills to literally stay alive, but in a way, it does feel that way. I don't know what part of me and my mind actually functions properly. Clearly not the creative part. Anyway, this is a poem I attempted to write, I don...