I dream of stability

“I am surprised you are still here.”

“Why?”

“Because all good dreams die young.”

“…and?”

“Wells it’s been ten years now now…and yet here you are no matter how hard I tried to get you to go away. I wonder what that means.”

“Probably that you will never be rid of me?”

“Yea…I guess so…”

My mind hurts

This is a drug. Sculpted by a set of hand cuffs made of plaster.  Not my finest creation, but this is not my finest hour. It sits and bakes in the wake off the addict. Hidden somewhere among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only another who suffers could understand it’s power. How it grows and holds. Expanding from the molds which housed it. A plant in the mind of those who know where to look. Where to find such meaningless things in wish filled dreams. Only they can understand. This drug. Sculpted by a set of plasterd handcuffs. This isn’t my finest creation but it only took an hour. I can choose to give it power or I can choose to throw it away. I am the addict who hides. Among the tree and and weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by wish filled dreams. Only I can understand it. This is a drug.

A/N I can’t sleep again. I can feel the cycle starting. How empty i feel. I am sharing this one ahead of schedule because…well because it makes no sense. And I need to empty my mind right now before everything starts fading again.

So I’ve gathered

I dream of wicked things.

Spliced together with feathers of woe

I am told that this is not normal

But I gather clouded screams like candy

And wave them in my head

I know I am far from sane but

I doubt I am better off dead

I dream of such wicked things

Spilled with feathers of old

I am told I am nowhere near normal

But I gather clouded being that matter

And keep them in my head

I know that I am far from sane but

Such things only matter when you are dead

A different kind of update

I haven’t felt like writing lately. Mainly because I have a job that keeps me tired on top of going to school. Neither of these task are things I am enjoying completely. I like work but I don’t at the same time. I love school but I am failing because I can’t seem to care. I lack motivation to do more then attend classes. But I am starting to not even want to do that anymore. People are kind there. Same with work, people are so very kind at times.

So I wonder why I am having so many problems.

Sure “Duh Jessi, you have depression and BPD”

Yea I get that but that doesn’t mean I like it ya know. Those explain fairly well why I can’t do some things but I enjoy my job. I enjoy going to school so why can’t these aspects just pick something else to make me less motivated to do. Like reading? I can deal with not being up to reading. I mean I am not up to reading now but that is something it can prevent me from doing just fine. Or hey, what about talking to people. I can go forever without talking to a single person outside of school and work (because I have to not because I want to). I can delete social media and my phone service and be as happy as clam chowder. But no

Nope

Nada

You choose school and work to be the things that make me want to self harm over.

Great thinking brain.

You think good.

I called myself an assassin

I wanted you to fight for me…but I can see that I will never be enough. Between the blood and the lust there is a gun just out of reach. I thought that you would need me yet here you are. Lying at my feet with wounds I don’t think will ever heal. I am almost certain that this isn’t even real but I see it. I feel and still breath and can smell the fact that I am not…I am not enough. I was never meant to be. I figured you would fight for me. Figured you would try just a little more. But between the blood and the lust I think I can see. I think I can truly see just how much of it wasn’t meant to be.

A/N a little dirty ditty for the ladies. Honestly this makes no sense. I may edit it soon.

Another Update cause I can

Welcome to the musing of an extremely petty poet.

I have had a lot of new followers and am actually starting to get a lot of repeats as well. Still not a lot of comments but I am ok with that. Just wanted to let everyone know, if you all haven’t noticed already, I am a terrible speller. And *spoiler alert* my grammar is even worse. So feel free to judge to your hearts content lol. I have had some people tell me that it is ok but it is something I struggle with and want to work on. I do not do it before I post my work but when I go back I like to edit a few things here and there. Change up a line or two to help it flow better. But if you see some mistake that doesn’t look intentional just comment and let me know. I will not get upset…ok I will get upset if said person only commenter just to tell me what I am doing wrong.

I am a single mom who struggles with BPD. I made this blog first to hone my writing skills but later on I wanted to show what it was like to live with a mental disorder. My poems and little story tell about my life and that of my daughter. Sometimes I can be angry, happy, sad, depression, excited and even, you guessed it, petty. I enjoy each and every person who takes the time to like and read my work. There is not a lot of information out there that paints people with BPD in a neutral light. Most information seeks to vilify us. Well I am here to tell ya that we are just as human as you are. We make mistakes and successes. My poems go a long way into proving that. Because some of my pieces are downright holy while others sound like the musing of a very edgy teen going through puberty. You get no in between with me really 🤣.

So I thank you and say welcome to all the new faces. I am sorry for the mess and look forward to learning from you all.

A Brown Girl with a White Man’s Name

“Negative” I wonder outloud to a foreign crowd of my forgotten brethren
They speak some vows and turn my way
Noticing the privilege I proclaim
The twist of my hips
The turn of my lips
The graceless way I speak out of turn
I know that I am not one of them
With my too brown skin and my too black hair
Kinked up readily to face the wind
“Negative” I proclaim with a sneer
For deep down inside
I know that I am not welcomed here
But I hide it with a haughty stance
One hand on my lip and the other on my chest
My blood was never going to be enough
My twisted tongue can’t speak those vows
Spoken outloud by a foreign crowd
But I am going to go on pretending
That my black will matter here