I’m sick of poems
I’m sick of feeling like I’m whining
I’m sick of fear
I’m sick of caring
I’m sick to death of me and all my bullshit
Something’s gotta change
So let’s change
February 20, 2025
Voice can’t be found as
Imaginary eyes see
All my unknown faults
(Anxiety is omniscient.)
The other night as I drifted off to sleep
With tiny quiet dread, my heart whispered to me
A wicked truth newly discovered:
Late night mind wanderings on how I’m a mistake, written late last night, forgotten, then found in the morning.
My existence
Is incorrect
Is a mistake
Is impossible to fix
Is a thorn in many sides
Is not supposed to be
Is not supposed to be
Is not
I’m not supposed to be here
I’m not supposed to be
I’m not supposed to
I’m not
February 12, 2025, apx. 11 p.m.
People say that doing the right thing is the most difficult
They also tell me I should stay
Near starless midnight
Acceptance of wicked truths
Closer than morning
Emboldened by past success,
I stand firm but unfrozen when I see it.
If it wakes, will it give chase?
Will it toy with me, or pursue to kill?
The quiet peace brings forth
The familiar forest sounds that soothe:
The wind that makes it to the branches,
The birds chirping for each other,
The rustling of hungry deer in the brush.
…
“I know you aren’t thinking clearly”, I say
“Not thinking at all, even.”
Somehow, they don’t seem offended
They just continue that hard-edged stare
…
Some nights after twilight settles
Evening fears creep into view
Rolling into the night under that cold moon
Usually to fade with the sunrise
But only after they haunt
…
I saw something on a TV show today
That sparked something in me
I felt like I recognized an old friend
That I’ve recently been trying to avoid
And I don’t mean that I’ve seen this show before
…