Everything is crumbling, the swallow’s nest is frozen over,
the trees are bare and moss eats the corpses of old lovers.
Winter berries red as blood are the only fruit in wickedness,
this place is cursed, my heart is ice, and winter is far too
The caged bird trills a mournful tune
and with regret sings down the moon.
The free bird thermals up the sun
and never rests on laurels won.
The caged bird plucks her feathers blue
and asks the stars of what to do.
The free bird knows not what pain means
immune to wounds found inside dreams.
The caged bird gnaws on her silver lock
and wears down the Grim Reaper’s clock.
The caged bird never flies, wings of stone
so she crawls in shambles to the unknown.
The free bird sees the caged bird crawl
and he laughs above, no help at all.
But for water, but for dreams,
the caged bird gives a scream,
and her dirge is heard the world
over, the free bird is hurled
aback her gale, his wings break,
and together their falls make
the foundations of hope quake.
For the caged bird has tasted freedom.
Every time you say “high-functioning,”
I feel nails scratching my cheese brain
can’t you see all the ganglion holes?
The dead traumatized neuronic garden?
Each intrusive thought is a stab wound.
Every panic attack suffocates a sphere.
Every manic outbreak is a machete slash.
Each depression is a culling of millions.
The OCD thought patterns are flamethrowers
My mind is a battleground. A horror scene.
Psychosis is barbed wire around my stem.
Delusions are corsets draining me of air.
Hallucinations are vices driving down.
Paranoia is a straitjacket, tightening.
People are on disability for a sixth
of the diagnoses I have – depression,
anxiety, panic attacks, psychosis, OCD,
ADHD, mania, dissociation, bipolar,
violent, horrid intrusive thoughts that
make a monster of me, normalcy is just
a dream when your soul is bedridden,
well is not real, health is not possible,
and the Sword of Damocles is my balance,
so I swallow the pills, walk the tightrope
and sometimes I slip into a net of razors.
The Devil once said my soul was a black hurricane.
That every time I injured myself, I bled red gold.
Through Satan’s eyes shadowed mountains engulfed,
my spirit the abyssal storm, tempestuous, ruinous.
My mania and fire of violence razed stone houses,
sucked water from wells, lifted wolves to the air.
I carried dragons of pitch, in me were the waves
of tsunamis, abreast on thousand mile gales, I
was beautiful, I am wretched, maybe I’ll be Lilith
and eat the corpses of infants, maybe I’m Medusa
and when men get too close, they turn cold and stony.
My heart is a harbinger of doom, my heart is wind.
You could siphon the currents of my blood in a flute
and it’s tremor would break the Seventh Seal, o Beast
of the End, come to my thundercloud breast and suckle,
I smite friends and foes alike, I am venom murder,
black snake of the sky, void mother, girl hurricane.
You’re growing tired of me, I can tell, my feathers are fraying
angels without wings aren’t angels at all, I can’t sing a lick,
kick me out of Heaven into the hellish choir with Cuban cigars,
the smoke will give me asthma, I’ll breakdown, scream, beat my
arms black and blue like I did laying on the floor with stigmata.
Today is not my day, tomorrow never comes, and yesterday died.
We may well nosedive into the Pit and scream out our last words.
May as well carve my epitaph “Life was Short and Shit, I Quit.”
(After all, writing out these trite little poems keeps me alive.)
I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.
It is so brilliant to not breathe.
It is so terrible to live like this.
My eyes are rotting wounds, tears venom seeps
onto crater collarbone, I drag invisible knife
through the ugly swell of breast and belly, rue
my creation, my sickness, my mind hellish bells.
I am constantly falling down an elevator shaft,
and when I cling to the pulley, I cut my hands
on barbed wire, I do not deserve life, friends,
for I am a swamp hope sinks into and cannot fly.
My brain is on fire, bipolar beast, ricotta cheese
holes and smelly with fog of medicine, depression
mania is wedding dress restraints, I married demons
that ride me with spite, I am Hell’s bird, Babalon.
When you have wanted to kill yourself a hundred times
no, jump in front of a train, no, drown in undertow?
Does that make sense? Thanatos drive whispering you to
take a razor and fuck yourself up, get high off death.
There is no end, just cycles of pain, my thoughts
scream, teem with obsessive compulsive, a panic parade
but I bury the swords deeper and walk bleeding heart
I am the sheath of my torment. I carry agony well.