adults

adults in suits. adults on trains. adults waiting for something to change.

adults not wanting to grow up and give in to convention. crawling screaming clawing at the carpet for a trapdoor out of the performance / expectations / death and taxes back to the merry-go-round. don't they know they're bound to dust no matter where / how far they run? from a distance it's clearer; we all are. sitting in seat C9 wondering just how much I've lost doing the same / not knowing how / wanting to let go. I've chopped the trees I used to climb myself. the nights are getting colder and it's well past time to use the timber. the pyre would dwarf the theatre but I can't quite find the exit.

he is risen

I run myself empty

out of breath

to stop on doctor's orders

he is risen

have I lost him?

not wanting to grow up

through the city to the cemetery

coughing possibility

a fairtyale psychosis

or maybe just regret

reaching for absurdity

disowning fact like innocence

I wash my hands

not wanting tomorrow / the headlines / thoughts I author

waking to face them anyway

'we miss you' waits for rain on marble

like the end of summer when it comes

unwanted with the rest

betrayed

she is weeping on the floor in the dust

cradling another doll

can you hear her pleading change away

a little longer?

how much difference can a little make?

the door is still ajar

raw data

they ask me to collect the raw data: what hides behind these urges? how am I actually feeling? what do I actually need? I hide from myself a little too well and can't cough back the answers they want. all I'm being asked is to witness the experience. all I can do is let it be.

off ward

my time off ward outlives my time inside. I fill every moment I can with something other than being where I am / listening to myself / feeling what I say. cleaning reading groceries etc. whatever I need / can keep me and my mind from the mirror. being outside in this body stirs forgotten childhood feelings I could do without; of embarrassment, not wanting to be seen. everywhere I go I am passed by people exercising - running and cycling and just out from the gym. I wonder what they're thinking / why they're doing what they're doing / how much is for them or others / how much are they like me?

I miss the quiet walk down the hall from my bedroom to breakfast. I miss the nurses / trivia at the table / beige walls and nothing out of place / the lack of expectation beyond eating enough. I miss the table under the awning in the courtyard / the meals that weren't so scary / the once or twice a day the others managed to laugh. I miss the paper on my mirrors and the dreams that gave me secret leave between the hourly checks at night.

there's a limitless out here / a lack of boundaries beyond the ward. rules and time fly fluid I can sway a little more / a lot depending on the forecast / time of day. surveillance is a memory / can only do so much to keep me spinning / captive to the rules that kept me there.

the same facade

on Wednesday I ride to school under overcast skies full of potential / promising rain / clouds unwilling to cry just yet. the office is empty I have worn my collared shirt for nothing but at least I made it to my desk / got out of bed to play another day. on the screens I flip between jargon and the news, both heavy with the same facade of duty: a responsibility to work and think about the world / to better comprehend my own insignificance / to reconnect with what once fuelled the heart / to remember compassion. the nurse suggests it could just be distraction. working well above her call she says there's something missing between how I am and knowing how I got here. she thinks I'm yet to process my emotions and prescribes a breakdown at my own discretion. if she were a witch she'd fix this all but she's not and she can't. I have to face the lions without divine intervention.

on air

I listen to you talk about me on the radio. silly breakfast segment in memoriam for those lost to the city that I moved to. you even use my name. the story sounds a little different in the studio. I like the way you change the plot to read the way you want. it's nice to hear your voice the way you want the world to hear it. did you want me to listen? did you know that I would? does it matter I still wonder what you really think and mean? so much between what we say and what we mean. I wear your carabiner; you keep my picture on your wall.

my window of tolerance

somewhere between the hyper and the hypo we can build a frame to water down the overwhelm. try to understand the feelings where they come from why they're here. ask yourself: how wide is my window of tolerance and what might it take to break it open let in a little more light? the window takes different shapes through the span of any given day shifting at the whim of hidden chemical agendas. I can only feign control of the panes as they change how much I can see of my own simulation. the plan is beyond my understanding I play puppet sitting at the table take directions from whichever voice outscreams the other over any given meal.

my window of tolerance never ceases to surprise, opening and closing at commands unheard from someone else. the view shrinks and expands each new aspect ratio a novelty to marvel from my front row seat to life beyond the skull. there is so much more to see.