The voices are loud in my head

They tell me what to do

Sometimes I would rather be dead

Then hear their words untrue

What can I do to live my life

Free of pain and internal strife

What can I do

What can I do

To escape the blade of their knife

The voices are loud in my head

I try to shut them out

From dawn til I go to my bed

They yell and scream and shout

They are all lies I tell myself

Poisoning my life and my health

They are all lies

They are all lies

Yet they hold me fast with their stealth

The voices are loud in my head

I will not let them win

They believe that we all are wed

If so we live in sin

I shall prevail and conquer all

I will not succumb and so fall

I shall prevail

I shall prevail

And start to hold my head up tall

#mentalhealth #poetry #trijenrefrain #OCD

What's the point in trying anymore

When the people you trying for don't even care.

They don't even notice.

What's the point in putting on a show 

When they could care less whether you're happy or sad.

They don't even notice when you're upset or suicidal.

What's the point of giving up everything

When you never get anything back.

They don't care.

They don't notice.

What's the point in doing anything,

Breathing.

Smiling.

Living.

What's the point in any of it at all.

I heard a thud

It doesn't bring me any entertainment

Sounds out of the ordinary

Down in the basement

Deciding to investigate

Curiosity can be an ailment

Walking to the top of the stairs

That leads down to the basement

Opening the door

That leads to my amazement

Each step creaks

As I walk down to the basement

Surrounded by the darkness

A scurry along the pavement

My mind is a mystery

Wishing to find myself in the basement

Can I be silent if boys are made men beneath the altar

I must beg for you to hear more for the sake of innocence

As bells toll on the seventh day, and boys warm pews

I worry that another light is shortly extinguished

All glinting eyes are pure, vicar please keep them thus

If they blush it means they still tremble at the sound

of their own voice. They're children. To them, 

everything is a novelty, never interfere with innocence

Open up your eyes women, attend this duty 

with obsequious care. No other boy should henceforth,

know any evil and pain in the hands of a vicar

The neighborhood kids, always, avoid that tree.

Destruction and disaster lay near

they learned from that year

that many who pass by

will soon cease to exist

stay away 

they all say

from that destructive tree

all have someone taken from here

this tree will never be touched 

and always avoided

to avoid death

Master the art of deciding

which apologies to accept, and

which to ignore,

and you will never again have to

look him in the eyes

knowing that

"I'm sorry"

doesn't always fix what was broken.

- you said it last time

Row, row, row, your boat

Gently down the stream

Ha,ha, I tricked you,

I'm a submarine. 

Oh, wait there isn't any water.

it begins

as a sweater-

borrowed. scratchy. wool.

unbecoming.

it gets caught up, tangled

on all the other pieces of your life

old patterns are torn, ripped-ragged

defeated. 

it becomes

wet. weighted.

a cloak, dripping in cement

breathless.

it dries out and shrinks

too small-

soft belly, left dimpled & hanging-

exposed.

it moves, the sweater, to your waist

a knot of certainty

tied loosely at your hips-

resignation.

you learn to leave it

folded neatly in the top dresser draw

but later you find it at the bottom of your hamper-

guilt.

when you are sure enough time has past

you bend, kneel. pull the sweater to your face,

drink in its musty smells-

respite.

life continues.

like this-

for some time.

back & forth

round & round

at last, the darkest of the days will come:

you are unable to remember when you met it last.

the sweater, has vanished-

shame. sorrow.

only then will the scarf arrive-

worn & faded and seemingly out of nowhere

a piece of you will know-

will delight in its softened wool,

in the sureness of its structure.

and even as it changes-

size, shape, direction

as it comes.

as it goes.

you stay.

wrapped in it;

forever.

Remember the little girl?

The one with the dirty-blonde helmet cut

And the laugh that rumbled from her belly,

That vibrated up through her throat and

Slung ecstasy onto our ears?

I still see her,

Sun-colored sundress covered in pink flowers,

Layered over a white T-shirt,

Running,

One arm outstretched,

Clutching a dandelion,

Joy spreading her mouth wide

And the sun glinting off her silver fillings.

One thwack to the back of her head,

In that same moment.

I felt that wooden beam 

Hit my gut

In that same moment.

I remember 

My jaw came unhinged,

Saline reached the brim of my eyelids.

What's happening to her? Who's done this to her?

I couldn't save her.

The dandelion fell.

Her body fell onto it.

Is she dead?

Tiny shoulder blades

Moved up, down, up again,

And I watched her spirit

Struggle against the mystery blow.

I should've looked,

Should've searched for 

Whoever wanted her crushed.

My eyes fixated on her crumpled frame,

Her undulating shoulders.

The dandelion.

Irrational, I know,

But she loved that dandelion.

There will be more orange-yellow weeds,

Just get back up.

Where I thought I had reveled in her joy alone,

I at last looked up and saw

A crowd had gathered.

When, I couldn't tell you.

She's not moving, they whispered.

Call an ambulance,

Save her,

Somebody, save her,

I should've commanded action.

When the crowd turned and walked away,

I lingered.

But only briefly.

I thought of her through the night.

Maybe we all did.

I returned next day,

Mind hardened in preparation for

Unending guilt.

I came upon where an outline should've been.

I saw nothing.

Then where is her body?

A rustling behind me.

My face fixed into a scowl,

A warning.

I am not friendly.

Do not approach me.

But it was her.

Scowl moved into half-hearted smile.

A guilty smile.

A "please still love me though I left you"

Smile.

I saw no fillings.

Set in a somber face,

Her eyes met mine,

Dropped.

She moved past me,

Quietly, 

Almost silently

Past me.

Past the dandelions

Around our feet.

I can fix it.

I plucked an orange-yellow weed,

Here, don't you want one?

At my voice, she turned.

I don't play with those anymore.

Sometimes I see her still,

In my mind's eye,

When it wanders in search of something prettier

Than what's before it.

I remember her.

I see her in old pictures.

She stands beside me in the mirror.

At best, she'll crack a half-smile,

But only when I tell her

I remember her.

Oh how I long for your touch,

The once again sweet facade of your voice,

Little girl surrounded by a lonesome world,

Death you did not grasp although sometimes,

I wander,

If it would have been for the better,

So much pain surrounds me,

So much pain for the loss of you,

The loss of air surrounds my lungs,

Gripping life like oil on a summer's grill,

Grief is a monster to those consumed by death,

Yet the jaws of its vindictiveness are much greater,

When the loss is acquired by the living.

Not the little girl I once knew,

Void of blue eyes and innocent smiles,

Crying away the day,

Dreaming of pain in the night,

Sweet water falling down bruised cheeks,

Coating the rivers of ruin,

Surely you must see your reflection,

In the mirrors of your past,

Must long for the joy the content,

The truth and honestly of a beautiful present.

How hearts ache for damned,

Suffering in their own private Hell,

Heat of flames only to burn brighter than,

The spark of unspoken unrelinquished pain,

Grieve attaches to the living in the absence,

Of more living; leaking true death,

Silent tears and no bouquets of flowers,

For the stranger in the bedroom down the hall.