Nevermore

if I don’t think about the fact that I’m in solitary
pretend to not see hellfire in the skies
ignore the accusations of heresy

Nevermore

to say otherwise would be blasphemy
‘cuz this is the best day of my life

if i ignore that i feel half as free as before

flipping through several volumes of dictionaries in desperation
to find a way to define the deep down dark icky leaking & splashing about inside
blurring the world upsidedown, spinning the wrong way ’round
feels like a bad case indigestion at the very least.

Nevermore

for i declare

THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

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Behind the 4th Wall: The Psych’o’Desk requests assistance

some of you may know me personally, most of you know me through my posts on here and on Soundcloud and that never ceases to amaze me. I don’t often to do posts like this and I’ve been holding off on creating one for as long as I possibly can but can no longer.

A little background. Due to various mental & physical disabilities, I am completely unable to sustain a “normal” job.

No, it’s not laziness or apathy (ok maybe a hint of apathy but nonetheless), I can not work a traditional job.

Literally every time I leave the house I run the risk of having a debilitating seizure wherever I am, no matter what I’m doing. And thanks to doctors & their infinite wisdom, I’m no closer to figuring out what causes them than I did when I had my first seizure in the fourth grade.

It’s been making my life hell. I even had a pretty bad one earlier this week but refused to go to the hospital b/c I knew it’d only result in a hospital bill I can’t afford.

I’m starting college classes again at the end of August & since I’ll (hopefully) have all of my financial aid paperwork processed in time, it should be smooth sailing.

Except the refund for THAT, won’t hit my bank account the middle of September.

So here we are at the end of June and I have a grand total of ~$50 until the middle of September. I have medications to pay for. I have to eat. Everything you can think of that makes life possible, I need.

which is the hard part of this post.

I wouldn’t be asking for donations unless it was an absolute necessary.
here is the link to my paypal:

fastidiouslyme PayPal

I ask you now
if you are able to donate, even if it’s just one dollar, please share what you can. share the link. spread the word.

I want to do something special for anyone who donates (perhaps a poem or a song, specifically for those who have helped out.)

And if you can’t donate monetarily, please feel free to check out my other hundreds of posts on this site. seeing views on my posts does a lot for my self-esteem and helps in its own way.

Thank you very much.

Piercing Slit

twist & stick the blade in
over & over & over again
as my crimson flows down into the wastebin
I’m sure you’ll mark this down as a win

but as I remember
who I was and who I am
over time I realized
my life force has intensified by getting to know you

No, not you.
YOU
the only One can who can truly rule in this sacred land

so keep twisting if you must
I feel no pain
as long as I side with the truth, I can only gain
the power fantastic
the power to give love one more try

even as my crimson flows
I know because You
I know I can never truly die

via Daily Prompt: Puncture

Sleep, We’ve Been Over This Before…

a neverending nightmare
like a toxic case of a deep down ugly spell
whittling away at my health points in a role playing game

sleep is, once again, becoming less a temporary break from the ridiculous nature of our collective consciousness that we are forced to participate in & becoming more of a continuation of the same, that I have no control over

sleep
oh, how my dreams mock me
broadcasting my failures & teasing me with optimistic subliminal images of what could, should, happen in the future
a remote in my hand that doesn’t work
involuntarily watching what ever happens to be on

like a bird in flight snapping its neck against a squeaky clean window
it’s getting harder to know if I’m going the right way

sleep
please just let me rest
that’s all I have to say

1+1+1=

Walking along a sidewalk, I tossed my empty coffee cup in a random trashcan when something inside caught my attention. Along the rim of the receptacle was a slightly balled up piece of green paper with a thin black sparkling strip bordering the edges. Curiosity got the best of me, not being able to stop my hands from reaching in and opening it up. In fine cursive writing it said:

In that moment, I knew exactly what you meant. Deep down I’ve always felt that machine-like drudgery of the so called day to day. You explained that it because the “so called Right Track of Life” was a futile effort, something about being a cog in a machine… You went on talking for some time.

But I had stopped listening at that point. Because I understood perfectly well what  you meant. And I realized that I wasn’t relating to it in the way you were.

 The rest was mostly illegible, due to the dirt and grime smudging the letters from an indeterminate of amount of time spent inside the can. The very bottom of the page was hastily ripped off, a section surely halfway around the universe by now.

Just above the rip I could just barely make out:

That’s why 1+1+1= 2
a single disillusioned specter with no face
1+1+1= 2, a phantom digit
Meaning you…

And I threw it back in the trash.