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[Untitled]
The illusion is dissolving
Walls covered in eyes are imaginary
Now what has vanished is the sense of belonging
My vision is blurred as I continue to grow weary

Here lies my inner paranoia
On the edge of seeping from the shadows
Instantaneously casting this reality in a kaleidoscope
Of gray that unravels a looming agitation and annoyance
The highest degree of disarray is parallel
To insanity that lies dormant until revealed at one’s own peril

Shared by the gaps of unfamiliarity
Disorganized and devolving mannerisms gradually
Beg not the question of sincerity growing erratic
Instead, focus on the mechanisms hiding in the upper attic

I’m sorry for the inexplicable panic and uncontrollable breathing
If only these images came with instructions that taught me how to ignore
The fictitious judgments plastered around that only I could see
A discerning manic unable to deliberately forge their own mental redemption


Conversation and a Half

Impending dialogues have sufficed as I proceed in search of solutions, replacements have dictated my remorse as repressed memories,
of the resolve that I was revoked of experiencing -- that’s only a piece of me

I've been struggling with the jar of glass,
pervasive thoughts, cluttered with pedantic observations,
stricken by the hook of pity -- that’s a conversation and a half

Convoluted projections deny me comforting sliver of self-sabotage,
discontented with the serpentine talisman of my eventual spiritual awakening,
subvert the fears that are worse than the snake that constricts -- need a slow of pace

To follow unsolicited advice is to profess a desire that i cannot attain,
requesting for more time gratifies the off-chance that it will detonate,
it’s only a conversation and a half -- and that’s all you need to see all the pieces of me

Feeling Blue

These depressive episodes have become as flux as the restless composed version of me that feels inclined to exaggerate my optimism enough to ring louder than the bitterness of regret and hatred towards my former self.
No longer has school been a distraction of my positives, but a reminder of my negatives, there being no way for me to run away from my problems,

I’ve been handling the symptoms to the point they aren’t noticeable to those that are painfully unobservant or uninformed in regards to the signs, and though i can only presumably use the words anxiety — or even mild depression — as the disorders they are for sake of length than intensity,

I’m feeling blue and words are hard to use, even now I cannot find it any more counterproductive than to write paragraphs explaining how I feel about an intrusive spiral made of incorrigible half-truths forcing me into banal hell.
This sudden urge to cry myself to sleep hinders my coherency, but at least I’ll be able to figure it out by the morning right — ?

i wish i could tell you i used a skill from the dialectical
behavioral therapy, mom, but i picked persimmons to curve my
depression. nearly artificial in their glossiness, the curvature of color
fused from green to deep orange and when i got home i saw the
football sized watery thin-skinned apples my sister had bought
at the grocery store. i checked the sticker but i didn’t have to
to know. i sell apples, but not those. those are an American emblem, the
bigger the better and pumped with artificiality until we grow numb and chew
the edges of our mouths off. of course they were
honeycrisp.
when people at the stand ask me for a variety most like
honeycrisp
i want to kindly but firmly direct them to the exit.
maybe it’s a primal instinct that i dissociate the second i enter a
bed bath and beyond. who else needs a water filter? another dish
towel? a bowl for your
honeycrisp
apples? my brain slams into the metal shelves and my skin
greys under the high ceilings and fluorescent light.
i laugh when i walk on the heated floors of our bathroom,
the irony may kill me
before we may kill us

I’ve been writing for a while now, about 5 years at this point. My style for writing has changed dramatically throughout this time, from discovering other poets, life experience, maturity, and simply the world changing into what it is now. I write what revolves around me and try to give genuine, unfiltered commentary in the form of poetry. Some of my biggest influences in my writing are Arthur Rimbaud, Oscar Wilde, Richard Brautigan, and Charles Bukowski. What I do with my poetry for social media purposes, is I add objects, colors, and edit the photo into what fits the theme of the poem. For example, for the poem “exits” I wrote, which is about the dangers of escapism, I included a deck of cards (gambling and money), a crucifix (religion), and an old ad for cigars (escape with substance).