At once you realize your deepest desire
Your hear flutters like fire
But verily it dies once you see
That fact has hidden from thee
Heart cools and turns to stone
As you realize that you are alone
Empty and devoid of joy
You were but a toy
Something to be played for a time
Tossed to the side once the other was done
You reach for your heart to give
To try and keep things alive
Only to find they’ve left you hollow
With no compass to follow
And your life isn’t any easier to live.



Today I feel like dirt.
Not hurt or carnage just residual damage
My heart aches, it breaks
Spirit faltered growth altered
Worthiness less and less
Resounding distaste
For self, for others
Put there by action and word foreign
Infectious and viral
It spreads and is magnified
Rejection and abandon
False is your chance
Dreams and hope, hope and dreams
Chaos concludes, how alone are you?

Its always when I cant

So very many times, I feel the urge and need to write. But its never when I’m capable, always when I cant. While I’m at work; when I’m driving; when I’m in a formation for the reserves; basically any time I have mp way to write or put things down, thats when my best ideas come to me. But then I forget my mind loses its thread and the moment is gone. I always try to find ot and write what I was thinking as soon as I’m able but its lost within the labyrinthine corridors of my mind. It hurts to lose these things, almost physically, like a piece of me has been shorn away and lost to time forevermore. I want to cry during these moments but as always I cannot.

One thing I didnt forget is this little gem that will never happen.

One day, when this blog is filled more completely. I want someone, a writer, a real writer to read through everything. In no particular order. I want them to read it, and use it as inspiration for a story, or series of stories, set in some kind of alternate universe. One where I feel more at home. Something that has the feeling of a science fiction/fantasy novel. With the main character mirroring my own psyche. A story that cam capture the pain and sadness I feel and set it free. I would consider attempting this myself, but I am I’ll equipped to take this journey. My skills as a writer too pathetic much like my own being. My heart shatters and hurts,a torrent of its own tears flowing forth from the holes and cracks that traverse its entirety.

I understand that this is a hopeless fantasy, derived from my desire to escape my own life and some over romanticized ideology that someone understands my pain on the level that I do. No one can understand the pain of another person, see things through their mind, especially not just from reading a few poorly written abominations.

My feelings are a flood, drowning the life within my husk.
And other indescribable things that can only be felt but have no words to describe them.

I just….
I cant…
It hurts.

To top everything

Apparently, my needs and issues were just to much.
Apparently you just couldn’t handle who I am.
Apparently, all my efforts just werent enough.
I took care of your kids.
I gave you all I had
I filled your gas tank, and bought you things.
They needed diapers, I bought them. You needed food, I got it.
I never asked you to change anything.
No questions, no complaints.
But in the end that wasn’t enough.
My depression pushed you away, and you told me everything you had to change for me.
Told me whats parts of me werent enough.
You never even asked why.
But I get it.
Neither did I

Titles are impossibly vague

Ive had a minor breakthrough. Everything ive ever done, anything I’ve ever given up, anyone I’ve ever hurt. All of that, is because of my lack of self care. I hurt so deeply and vividly I’m willing to try nearly anything to stop it. I’m afraid to be alone because I’m afraid I will end myself, I’m impulsive because I know it doesn’t matter because I don’t really care what happens. I have no desire to live here, now, or anytime in my past. I’m toxic to everything around me; consuming more than I need in an attempt to fill the gaping void thats been torn inside me by living. I hurt and take from the people I love and care for, and most people don’t seem to notice. I’m garbage, steaming universal shit. I’m not unique or special; I’m just a gash sucking the beauty of life into it churning it up into despair and sorrow and pain. Every smile I send is a lie, every laugh I echo id hollow and dull. Every action lacks any real conviction. I dont fervently believe anything; my convictions are false, self imposed facades to help mask the black within.

The only kernel of hope is that I dont want or mean to hurt others, though I do so consistently, which deepens the darkness within. I cannot help it, the pain and hurt is a magnet, pulling with exponentially growing gravity at my life fracturing me further and further. Like a mirror thrown crashing to the ground, then piled up and used. My inner self looks back at me through the pain as a reflection would the mirror.

The sound systems broken and the pain is all I can hear as I watch the million images screaming back at me. Their silent message lost totally from the maelstrom inside.

The only parts that hold themselves together are the parts I wish I could burn, remove completely so I might hear the sounds of the me I see in the mirror because at less it would be something different.

People are constantly telling me to find an outlet, to try and open up to them. To go see someone about things “you know, just to talk… Sort it out”

Dont you see, I have, I have looked for outlets but they all had something plugged in, and I couldn’t use them. I have opened up, and been shutdown, turned out, laughed at, and told how much worse other people have it enough times to know when people aren’t ready for my truths.

I’ve gone to see someone, when I was mentally capable of taking myself in. But, I’m too very good at the mind games they play, and despite the fact that I know their intent is to help I cannot help but tell them everything that makes me sound like I’m making progress, or that I’m just fine. I dont understand how someone who’s being paid to help people sort out their mental issues can do so little.

It all just seems so hopeless. Because no matter what I’ve tried, its all a waste. Like me.


Why is it that my creativity only comes from my pain and sadness. Why cant I write happy things, why does a torrent of unpleasantness flow from me.

I want to find inspiration in beauty; In a smile or the laughter of my daughter, from picturesque scenes in nature, from the sunset or sunrise.

I wish to see things outside dull shades of grey. I wish to see things as the younger me did. So bright and full of color. Unhindered by my life and thoughts; through the imagination I once had. The long roads tread by the mighty warriors as they rode across the desert into battle. From the eyes of the mighty engineer as he built a city around himself for the rest of the world out of little more than dirt. I wish to love as I always imagined it to be.


People are tough for me, understanding, relating to, and feeling for. Sometimes, I find it difficult to care for them, but I somehow remain sensitive to their plights. Emotionally, this drains me. I am relied on and turned to quite often for this or that, even when I never said I could be there for someone. I manage to remain strong, and hold myself together even as they pry me apart. I feel myself growing weak and weary of these tidal forces pulling and pushing upon me like tectonic plates. I fear an eruption, a meltdown, somewhere on the horizon but I cannot see where.

My hope dwindles the longer I live. I feel more and more like there isn’t really anything more, nothing worth. I thought finding that I wasn’t alone would help that, and it did for a time. But alas, the scars of a life misplaced and thoughts lost seem to still keep me here, with the weight of things crushing me like too many stones upon my chest.