There is fear inside of me

The monsters under my bed

Are reality

They are not tangible creatures

They are memories

But make no mistake

They still have the sharpest teeth

I feel sick

When the walls began to speak

I hide from the light

And loathe myself for being weak




The only courage I have is thrust upon me

To defend those I love

Inspires endless bravery

Because somehow I broke that cycle

I will not let someone be hurt like I was

But the devil on my shoulder

Says it will never be enough

And the angel fell silent long ago

I am the patron saint of lost causes

And he knows

This isn’t self-hatred

This isn’t low self esteem

It is the struggle

It is the scream

Because I wear my terror on my sleeve

Perhaps that makes the most courageous of all

A coward at the edge of the cliff

But ready to fall

Because I am not scared today that I feel the horror

And I am aware that there will always be more

And this is war

I can’t accept defeat

The fear can crush and cut

But it will not kill me


A poem entitled Betrayal of Who?

Betrayal of Whom?

I am drowning in your gentle treachery

Even your generosity

Is a Machiavellian means to an end

I sip the poison that you have made so sweet

Until my body and mind become so weak

That I am convinced I am incomplete

No longer equals our eyes never meet

You are a cataclysm in slow motion

A train wreck from which I choose to avert my eyes

Insidious yet obvious

I find that it is all

A clever disguise

That hides

The actions that lead

To a self-induced, inevitable demise

I am the fool who thought I was different

Just another sycophant

Who believed the movement of your lips

And you, with skills that surpass

Even the most brilliant sociopath

You show your predator’s teeth

In that smile of wrath

But now you are the fool

For thinking I would never pull back the curtain

To reveal the egomaniacal wizard behind

But it’s always been such an effective ploy

To deeply underestimate me

To make me doubt myself perpetually

To make me feel that I define failure

Simply by not being what you want me to be

I am no longer willing

To devour the toxin you call devotion

No longer willing

To be dosed with the drug you call love

No more proximity happiness

Because mine is no longer defined

By what you consider success

And your constant judgment

Has been rendered meaningless

I have been down this path before

So I know I can predict

That you will get what you want

You will always achieve

You will always be right

But forever, peace will elude you

The short-lived happiness you find will never be true

And you will spend eternity trapped

Alone with your own twisted point of view

A poem entitled A Silent Thing


A Silent Thing

I am in mourning

But not like a widow standing before a shiny new stone

I am weeping, but not because of my own sadness

I am lamenting for you

Once you had my loyalty

My love and my esteem and my honesty

And now you have a void

Filled with false, almost nonexistent fealty

I would speak to you of all of this

If I thought for a moment you would listen

But really that would be a selfish plea for change

And for those of us who know Ending

We know that when something is truly over

It is a silent thing

I thought that if this ever came to its expiration

Dramatic, deadly harbingers of doom would be seen

I thought it would be an apocalypse

With burning comets falling from the sky

But the end does not come in fire and ice

As so often has been implied

It comes with something that should inspire far more fear

The end comes in cold degrees of apathy

And it is already here

The Process of Grieving

The Process of Grieving

D is for denial, but that was always more your bit than mine.

There is no letter for sleeping but never dreaming and only wasting time.

A is for anger, but I dropped that feeling long ago and yet I was never free.

For my anger burns but for you I have nothing but cold hatred that lives inside of me.

B is for bargaining and if I were to give anything of note

It would be every lesson you ever taught us shoved straight down your throat.

D is for depression and what an irony, long ago that gift was already given to me.

As you lashed out, I slashed myself and learned how to bleed.

A is for acceptance but if I were to tell the truth

It was long ago that I stopped grieving for you.