At The Gas Station, by Phil Dupp.

Classical Composers, by Ann Dell.

The King's Fool, by Jess Turr.

The Defeatist, by Y. Bother.

Self-Cleansing, by Ike Lean.

Broken Cranium, by Ed Hertz.

Where To Wait, by Stan Dare.

Hurricane, by Gail Force.

Cool Down, by I. C. Bath.

The Coast, by C. Shaw.

I don't even feel like I'm a real thing.

Part of me wanders,

Lost,

Confused,

Around people.

I'm there but I'm not,

Playing hide-n-seek with myself.

Like a ghost.

I may touch things,

But my impression is brief.

Hidden until I'm not.

Terrifying once I'm discovered.

Hiding away,

That's what I do best.

Maybe that's what I'll stick to.

I'm so tired.

I think it's time for my soul to rest for a little while.

Today I took a picture.

It was of the sky.

It smelled like summer,

And the camera perfectly captured the scene

Of purple mountains against a sunset

Painted brilliant oranges, pinks, and yellows.

It was beautiful, after most of my other shots

Turning out in greyscale.

Even when I try to draw the sky,

I mix up my coloured pencils with charcoal.

I wish I could have all of my pictures

Be colourful and bright

All the time.

And I could put them in golden frames

As happy memories

Where it felt like there was a point.

I hid from the end

And

Now

I hide from the beginning

Even as

I read

Like an open book

I hide the most tender parts

You like me

For what you don't see

Just like

Everyone else

No one

Really looks

For the real Mee

Because

Skin deep

Has always been

Good enough

Someday

I hope

I will find the one

Looking for more

Than good enough

there is this messed up part of me that wants to experience something horrible to happen to me

so i can explain and justify the permenant pain that seems to dwell in my heart

not just to everyone but to me

so i don't feel guilty for being crushed by all of this weight

Telling your favourite person what you really think of them can be a terrible thing.

Confirming their worst fears about themselves. Them confirming your own.

Not knowing how you could ever have liked this person. How you could bear to stand being around them for one minute. The sound of their voice in this moment feels like a knife going through you.

All those happy memories you once shared like a distant memory.

"I always knew..", "you were never"..Everything in the extreme.

I'm right and you're wrong. I know I'm right, but I hate it.

Because if I'm right, then we can never be happy together.

If I can't let it go, this can't continue. We can't.

Too much drama.

Life's too short.

There’s something about the firmness of the floor

The soothing consolation I feel when I lay down

Gravity pressing my bones upon the ground

Dis-ease settles from my body

Peace quells my turbulent mind

And all I need is time

My racing heart begins to slow

Fascia eventually softens

As I lay still enough for my coffin

This is the rooting nature of corpse pose

The flattening of my lumpy mound

A puddle of flesh made out of every pound

The mind, nothing but a vacuous pocket

Like space without a sound

Shavasana, I am unwound