A mother isn't always a mother.

If I called.

A poem about despair.

You already feel sad, but you also know you'll never be truly better.

I never actually added it all up.

I spread the mortar and placed the bricks just as I was told to do. With a mold made of anger and hatred I built each individual bar.

Let it rain. Let it pour.

Pain too great. Hope long lost.

When no one cares. When everyone blames me.

Trigger warning. Detailed self harm and suicidal ideation.

We are not weak, us who are mentally ill, though some think so.

tucked away on saturday

I never saw her before. But he told me she was there, and then I did.

Asleep. Awake. I am neither and both.

My muscles are tense and coiled, like a snake ready to strike.

It is there, within the blackness.

A poem about riding out rage.

No scars to hide. It's nice not to have to tell my wife, that I did it again.

Overwhelming sadness.

My walls are under assault by the emotions of the world.