The healing process is hard as hell.

Autobiographical narrative nonfiction written as an exercise.

The trial of an alcoholic

1000 or so words about a lesson I'm still learning

One perspective on being in the city during the recent smoke.

What do you do when someone shoves you into hell? Inspired by the Barbara Corcoran episode of the podcast How I Built This with Guy Raz.

I reflect on (and regret) many life choices while at a coffee shop with a friend.

The self-mocking tale of an egotistical 18-year-old girl who develops a fondness for narcotics. Unlike 'proper' junkies, however, she only listens to the Velvet Underground when sober. Also, she tends to avoid needles and she's never stolen anything. Well, save for all of those pills. Though it's not like they even count... right? (Please Read and Review!)

I don't know what this could be. I might never finish it. Didn't seem to be a downside to posting it here. TW so far: suicide mention

Did an exercise in therapy. Liked how it came out. TW: self-harm

That ever-present feeling of inadequacy, the shadow of greater authors always looming on my writings. I wanted to put it into better words, but yeah I obviously am not very good at writing, so I keep trying, yearning for those sounds that will move my soul one day. Oxymoron, because it's a published poem about not wanting to post poems.

The terror in America...

America is deep in a nightmare right now

You take the bus when you want to punish yourself for being alive. That's the reason I'm on this Fullington bus on Easter Sunday, hurdling back to the ironically named Happy Valley. I want to be dead. I want to be dead as much as I hate the bus. But I'm still alive, and I'm still on the bus, and that's pretty much on par with how well my life is going right now.

The other night, America wrote a love letter to too many of the men we've all known.

"Between the inadequacy of words/ and my inability to use them/the prison I am in is one/ of my own making." Free-verse poem, rated T to be safe.

"missed": a euphemism for ignored.

she is the dresden rose of delicate porcelain blooming from the banisters in the staircase of your ribcage

A poem on the experience of the LGBT community

There is a soul consumed in every cup of morning tea. Brevity, a short poem.

Vodka can't change the way your memory tastes.

Hiding in the closet was the first time that I ever remember finding myself.

If the suicide doesn't kill, then the aftermath does.

City skylines always have a way of bringing me back to you. A short poem (brevity) written for a contest on allpoetry.

For those who died.

A little poem I wrote when I was addicted to sleeping pills.

A starving child cannot understand the Lord's Prayer, because it was written by some well-fed person overseas. But things we don't or can't understand are still passed down, for tradition's sake.

"Doesn't it rot your teeth? Doesn't it just rot your fucking teeth? Behind the eyes and the walls and the skies, under the plantations thick with umber wheat and over wetlands alive with lumber and peat is that sugar pill of possibility: onward and outward and downward where it suits you, you and your brain can do anything anywhere." except the MC, he's a wanker.

Am I at home or just a shelter? He hasn't decided yet.

My friend had a poster hanging in his room once of all the constellations he knew.

Or "Yohoho and a bottle of..." Teenagers getting drunk and being philosophical.

his name is angel

I wanted to map the city with my fingertips, trace my thumb along each now familiar tram line.

sometimes, these late nights.

Inadequacy and insecurity.

And never waking-ups.

It was late at night / early in the morning and I couldn't think of anything better to do than ramble on a page. Unrefined.

Life

I took two pills...it said no more than one.

Are you that lonely?

A haiku.

what a waste

Gwen got drunk, then woke up and had an existential crisis.

This is a short poem about trying not to overdose on love.

the softness of sex

my knees to the cold bathroom floor. /trigger/

THIS SITE SUCKS A DICK

all these excuses / did I mention that you have no new emails?

Musings of my time in Nevada working at the Flamingo Las Vegas.

Musings on a shitty job.

A LGBT poem about prom.

When I get email...

that's the real goal, right?

too far.

poets starved for age

Or rather, one of those souvenir shops where the nylon Straus hisses.

i missed you.

Wasted life, painfully drunk.

Everything seems better on a full stomach.

Sleep is for the weak.

Dreaming nightmares that burden my every step.....

I need to get out of this place.

Flight, a gift unfortunately reserved for other beings.

vague slash. one-shot // Just stoned and missing you.

Seen through the eyes of youth and alcohol.

family."

Better in the morning

when things get fucked up.

I walked about 4 miles home while nursing a bottle of vodka. R&R - M for mature themes

You never think about things that you use every day.

Inadequacies and angst. What a lovely combination.

they ring without an end

it was on the lawn this morning.

The weeping woman drowns herself in vodka.

maybe it'll be better in the morning

I traded my hopes and dreams for a bottle of vodka and some cigarettes. Hi, My name's Dave and I'm Destructive.

nightmares

It's been a while since I've thrown up because of pills, so long in fact that it was oddly nostalgic, in a fucked up sense.

My second attempt at Sapphic verse- unrequited love and one more bitter encounter in a bathroom stall.

Brevity is the soul of wit, right?

. . .

After a certain point, it's embarrassing to keep blooming.

the pride in alcohol. please review .

for every black hole i find, there is an equal and opposite pill i will not be able to swallow.

I was thinking about this one night when I had a headache. baha... all it takes is one to many pills.. : R&R

The eyeliner's cheap, and he says the right things, but they're still so wrong. Pop another pill and it will be alright though.

blind saints on the walls of sinners.

Was the glass cooler then?

...

cheap vodka tastes like nail polish. that's the truth, but you've never been fond of the truth, have you?

---

A deadly, but sweet release....

Sitting alone in a church pew...

About not moving forward.

ff The vodka in my glass tastes a lot like l o v e in a place like this, rr

easter is supposed to be a new start...

And nobody really cares about her.

..

that's all i can think about diet coke it's just sitting there between my lamp and my knife

You take twelve. T for references to suicide

A late night with angels and memories

I went to Italy a few summers ago...

Selling the rain for something disposable.

train station.

...and drunk. laughter is just so tempting.

the kisses are apple flavored...

your hand on my arm was squeezing me much too tight

Icky. Gross. But oh so healing.

Remember the [good old days]?

The thing about a suicide hotline is you can get bored of people droaning on about their problems... RR

Viennese coffeehouses are just like Parisian ones, though brainier. You go to think and remember the past while drinking your cup of java. Who knows? Maybe he'll return ...

The game that certain people know quite well

Pop five pills.

remember citrus yellow days and vodka

A look at how my life has been treating me lately.

A girl contemplates returning home...

Alcohol is not the only inebriator.

if this is what it feels like to be drunk, i swear i'll never drink again. & if this is what it feels like to be in love, i'll never look at you again.

A poem based on the photo "American Girl In Italy" by Ruth Orkin. Written as a sonnet.

Ahh... a little bit of patriotism with a twist...

i'll send a postcard...

i've gone and locked myself in the bathroom again...

Fear as a gift, neglect as a cake...

...ill humor

Short thought

"Her mornings began much the same way every day..."

Basically the things I want, more or less. I promise, no references to "the perfect man" or "lots of babies".

My heart shatters everytime...

Twelve white carnations on the coffee table, in the green vase from the Santa Fe thrift store

When you overdosed on life.

I am afraid of everything.

A cigarette to end all cigarettes

Ever feel like you parents are disappointed?

yay alcoholism

A late night conversation with an old friend

Somebody's dead in the bathroom.

Overdosing.

Too short to summarize. It'll only take two seconds to read, I promise.

Unrequited Love ... [Complete]

America, America, oh where have you gone? Perhaps to hibernate?

wandering the streets of my mind (05 oct 04)

A journey through a girl's life, in short scenes

A semi-rambling, semi-coherent conversation

it is

I hate my job, so what else is new?

Family troubles lead to a feeling of numbness

Tired

This is America, in its glory-and sadness.

The solitary refuge is the bathroom stall...where I can wash my sins away...

I'm drunk on dreams...

This is about paranoia, alcohol and taking friends for granted.

a cynic's view

Thinking back upon old memories while riding a bike

The dangers of keeping in touch, in a sense.

I can feel the heat from San Diego. (kinda a poem, I think,)

Sometimes you just can't escape.

an athem to everyone who feels that they disappoint their parents

And it's nights like this when the city closes in and it all seems so hopeless that yes, Freud, I do believe I'm crazy.

A young man discusses his father's death

Allegory of the current world and love, the mimicry of love and faces most everywhere you look, unless your heart is truly dedicated. Contains references to “Le Petit Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

A pill for every problem

Breaking the habit

Family, it doesn't really matters.

Short conversation between two people

a girl who plays solitaire upstairs is all alone but for herself.

Menthol mints and cigarettes/and hooker boots and id do anythings

Just someone spending their day in California...

my morning. sometimes loneliness is better.

Faceless travelers wander through our lives withough acknowledgement.

It will all be better in the morning...

you know you're in california when.

The wrapping you despised.

Overdose on these colorful tablets...

It was a beautiful lie...

Invisibility is not necessarily a gift...

Dreams are being washed away - just like cocaine in water

Death by drug overdose.

Loneliness is cold.

where we go to confess our sins when we have abandoned religion.

about my visit to california...amazing neh?

escaping

I wish I had two pennies to offer you, one for your thoughts, another to be ungrateful for...

Sympathy is your drug. Go ahead and overdose.

Absract look at a fading friendship

Because you'll feel better in the morning.

Compares love and gambling. Ooo, that's original.

A poem about disappointments and parents

In Love With California, But Not Really. Who Loves Golden Death?

Nightmares

"Land of the free/Home of the brave" Yeah... Sure...

Going to the store is like letting a child loose in the toy store. Blades and pills and lighters are what appeal.

[bitterness] 95 bottles of beer on the wall...

Kinda dark, pretty intense. "His first sip stung his throat and he tried not to look as though it had effected him. The drinks gradually became easier. By his third, it didn't sting anymore."

A long poem about my horrible school life in the "gifted program". PG for language.

What is silence anyway?

Maybe you vanished in the metro stations, the night I thought I saw you there...

A girl stands in her bathroom, looking into a bathroom mirror pondering the weight of a pregnancy test...

city sounds can bring dreamless nights, or can revive nightmares

According to superstion, if wishes are made before playing solitaire, it will come true if the game is won...

Memory...a precious gift we take for granted.

A poem about frustration and failing. That pretty much sums it up. Review and enjoy.

A vignette on the definition of pain. Because I get morbid late at night.

see for yourself.

I wrote this late at night, when the idea just suddenly popped into my head. Please review.

The sacred slumber...

This is something that I wrote a few months ago. It's about my experiences as a "gifted" student. Rating for extreme cynicism.

going to california

A little poem about self harm.

none

Everyone belongs in California!

Forwarded email that I got......this is SO sad....feel free to copy and paste and forward it around yourself.....please read

A poem about being alone

In the taxi... you have a conversation and never see the person again...

about the terrorist attack yesterday

A result of one of those spontaneous late night (early morning?) writing sprees.

Will I survive

A poem in the form of an email. Eh...I dunno. Please read it and tell me how good my half-brained idea is.

Life on the street