Regress

Diluted and going

Sliding through

Gravity yanking down

Grabbing with cold hands

Into the dark

Under their footfalls

Beneath the boards

Dwelling in filth

Crawling with insects

Consuming the flesh

From within

Careless walkers

Blinded by normalcy

Uninterrupted by pain

Churning forward like machines

Gripping the real and falling free

Mashing into the ground

As the worth is draining away

Choking on turbid air

Dying on an un-watered limb

Crinkling into sand

Blown away on the wind

And gone

40 Days And Struggling HARD

We Haven’t gone below the normal line, but we’re headed that way in a big god damn hurry. I’m holding on, restless, perturbed, and seemingly hated by the general public. I’m an unreasonably retarded asshole most of the time, which is why I have no friends, no social life, and only one brave soul on my team who gives a shit.

40

Rude

I must look like the kind of person who can be openly disregarded or abused without fear of reprisal. I have the face of a sucker. Someone who could and should be exploited. I must be an idiot, because I let people treat me like shit, step on my throat and coke me out. And I lay there all the while not doing anything. I just get the shit kicked out of me. And I’ll never do anything about it. I’m a gutless motherfucker. Come one come all, I’m ready and willing to be your bitch. Thieves run free, taking whatever they want from anyone with no regard to how I cried in my car and had to go back to work right then and felt like everyone was ganging up on me. No one cares. Not even the people who make as much as I do could give a shit if i have a problem… I mean, I only WORK here, why the fuck should I do anything for you?  No one wants to do anything nice for anyone, they are just looking for a way to fuck you in the ass and run away with your stuff.

Soul-Crushing Nightmares And Meaningless Tears

When I dream, and my deepest fears come to realization, I sob in my sleep. I  cry, because the pain is so real and deep that I feel dead inside  I was under a house, being smothered underneath forever, bugs crawling on me, stabbing pain from their biting me and things on the ground grinding into my flesh, dirt in my eyes, crying, sad. Buried alive in my pain. She was choosing another, in the final seconds of our union, at the height of my love. I was left, alone, realized as inferior, not wanted, cold, abandoned. I can’t tell you how hard it hurts to feel the deepest love in my life ripped away as a matter of casual circumstance. Desperate to dream, I tried, and received heinous nightmares until I surrendered my attempts to rest for the night. I will have a harder time today, because somewhere in me, I have toe poison of deep aching sadness.

I’m tired of crying over something that never happened.

AND FOR ABSOLUTELY NO LOGICAL OR REAL REASON. IT’S JUST A FUCKED SITUATION IN MY HEAD OF WHICH THERE IS NO ESCAPE. ONLY SUFFERING.

I have the realness of my love to lean on. And reassurances.

Countdown Again

Hunting Girl – Jethro Tull

One day I walked the road
And crossed a field to go
By where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced:
Behind the hunters chased
To where the path was barred.
One fine young lady’s horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate
But she did wait
Until the pack had disappeared.

Crop handle carved in bone;
Sat high upon a throne
Of finest English leather.
The queen of all the pack,
This joker raised his hat
And talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man’s downfall in hand;
I raised the flag that she unfurled.

Boot leather flashing and spur-necks the size of my thumb.
This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come.

Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth.
Her standing over — me on my knees underneath.

My lady, be discrete.
I must get to my feet
And go back to the farm.
Whilst I appreciate
You are no deviate,
I might come to some harm.
I’m not inclined to act refined–
If that’s how it goes.
Oh, high born Hunting Girl,
I’m just–
A normal low born so and so.

Even On Christmas, I’m Still Mentally Ill

Merry Christmas Blog. Jesus wasn’t born today, and there is no Santa Claus.

On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 = serious problem, 10 = not a problem), rate the following:

Emotional Health:    7

Physical Depression Symptoms:     9

Physical Anxiety Symptoms:    4

Racing Thoughts:     9

Depressed Thoughts:     10

Self-Esteem:     9

Concentration:     8

Enthusiasm:     9

Charisma:     10

Motivation:    9

Paranoia / Fear / Anxiety:     7

Outlook / Hope:   10

OVERALL:     9/10