MoRpHiNe

I should sleep.  

The more my mind runs around, chasing its tail in circles, the more I cry. 

There isn't Morphine for this kind of pain. 

There isn't Prozac or Zoloft for this kind of sadness.  

There aren't enough hospitals for all those infected. 

This is an epidemic.  

There is a list of the dying, 

and a list of those who want to.  

There is something bleeding internally in each of us, 

but only some choose to act. 

And for some reason, 

Lone Peak reacts a substantial amount. 

What is in the air?

Is it an airborne illness we are 

all going to catch at one point?   

Is it something we get if we eat the 

cafeteria food and like it?  

It must be something, 

because I can't believe that it is nothing.  

For him, 

I can't believe that he was nothing.  

Because he wasn't.  

I roll my tongue around, 

and contemplate the tears that run

and burn into my face. 

I hope they stay there for everyone

to see, because on the 25th, 

we lost someone that I could have made smile.

That I could have joked with at Zupas.  

My mother told me that 

I can't let it affect me.  

That is like telling God 

to stop the rain.

  

And boy did it rain on the day after.

The day after tomorrow, 

everyone will go back to what they were

before he died.  

They forgot the next day.  

I cursed myself for smiling once,

but I know he wouldn't want that. 

But Death is the one being,

I am most scared to face, 

but think of more often then God. 

Does that make you worry for me? 

All of us should have worried for Bryce.

For Hunter. 

For Logan, although we resolved.  

For Terik. 

I talked to someone dear

just last night.  

"Simran, we have to change this

for the future Lone Peak kids."  

No one will survive this disease,

if things remain the same. 

So, for Death's sake.

Alter your state of mind.

Wake up to a stormy day and

see that God is crying too 

because He knows we all are. 

But this isn't about God, and we 

know that.  

This is about the Morphine

and how we need to find

quite the unique supply

for those who come after us.  

Because they will come 

with heavy minds and sterile hearts 

that contract diseases more easily

than we could have ever dreamt.  

Dear Death,

Don't let them die. 

 

 

To the ones who wish for Death to come.

Find your Morphine.

Can't, No, Won't, No, Wait, No, More

"If we wait 

 until we're ready, 

we will be waiting
 for the rest 

of our lives."  

Lemony Snicket

Yellow-Brick-Road

(<---Turn on Yellow Brick Road by Angus and Julia Stone)
They are in the ruin of a city, overcome with the heat of twenty thousands searing hearts and souls.  Battered bodies laid to rest on a street of con and a bed of crete.  Gray blankets of ash encompassing the shells of what used to be. 

 They are in the hands of men, red Swastikas stitched on their cuffs with the blood of a homosexual.  Of a Jew.  They are airborne, from the filthy hand of War into the pane of glass that dear Johann has repaired six times over, only to shatter seventh. 

 They are a town in Missouri known for a black man and a gun.  They are the dialysis, analysis and paralysis of a situation, the kind that calls for riots.  Eyes stinging from a green tinted something-like gas and ears shot and bleeding from a noise that sounds almost like Grief has ripped off his mask and wailed loudly; loud enough even for the policemen to hear.

 They are torn out of my childhood home.  Replaced by stones that were meant to look rustic but instead, making it seem like a cheap, wannabe replica of Roman architecture.  They are in the backyard where my father rose a swing-set and how we evoked one another, as children, to fly.  The kind of flying where you either land, or let your legs buckle under you like they were made of rubber. 

 They are the belief that nothing is constant.  Nothing is solid.  Even though they are their own discontented version of something that people find to be durable, they are never enough.  Stability and durability, apparently and transparently, there are too many aspects of a redbrownyellowgray brick.

They make my dad’s eyesight fade and maneuver objects to see the same way a trombone player plays a tune.  Farther, closer, closer, farther.  They make teenage hearing low and adults perceiving high, hence the reason they ask us to turn down the music all the time.  They are in everything.  In the heart you had when you were Cinderella for Halloween in third grade.  In your sister’s old journals that you found two years ago and read on occasion to feel good about yourself.  They are in the past, because you see, my dear old friend; the past is the only thing that is concrete.  And I lost my mind long ago.

        

shecantbreathe

It glowers slightly on the corner of the table, the sunlight slanting just enough to ignite the bottle of caramel colored liquid.  The liquid tips to the corner as the door opens and shuts.
She had been in her car, her friends laughing about something Jonathan said on Valentine's Day.  She smiled and laughed and if it had been caught on camera, it would have seemed genuine.  The kind of smile that if you would have taken a second, closer look, you would have seen a mirror of inexplicable  sadness.  A facade.
Inside of the door, she stills and lets the door slam shut behind her.  No.  Dear God, not again.  Bottles line the floor and the countertops.  Take one breath.  But she can't.  She can't breathe.  She can't breath.  Shecantbreathshecantbreathshecantbreath.  She rushes too fast to the cabinet on the opposite side of the room, knocking the bottle on the table over in the process.  She slams open the cabinets, the wood cringing and snapping at the hinges as she rummages crazily through the kitchenware.  She finds the water bottle, the coffee canteen.  She finds the prescriptions, almost empty. Shecantbreath.
Outside, she sits on the porch, her head in her hands.  The bottle sits by her, the pills just below.  She debates in her head.  She screams in her mind until the blood boils in her ears and threatens to drain.  In a moment of insanity, she grasps the bottle, kicks the pills away and storms to the center of the street.  The sun is setting on the worst day of her life.
It seems almost slow motion.  She raises the bottle over her head and smashes it to the ground with the force of a broken heart.  The glass shards spin up and slice her shins, one catches her cheek but shecantbreatheshecantbreatheshecantbreathe.
Inside her room she wonders.  She wonders and breathes and cries the cry of only one who has seen life destroyed.  Oh, and not just her own.
She lays on her bed, her dark hair flows behind her like a hurricane.  She tosses and turns and stands.  She grabs something from atop her nightstand and walks furiously to her mirror.  Uncapping the red lipstick she keeps for when she feels the urge to look apart from her mother, she scrawls words madly on the pane of glass and shecantbreatheshecantbreatheshecantbreathe.
"You destroyed me.  Left alone.  Drunk.  Why."
The words look like blood to her, the kind that isn't pulled involuntarily.
She turns to her room and hates it.  Hates her.  Hates me.  She wrenches the pillows and blankets from her already unmade bed and sobs until her chest heaves and shecantbreatheshecantbreatheshecantbreathe.  Sitting in the center of her bed, she can't feel her skin.  She doesn't want it.  She claws and rips at her clothes, her chest, her hair.  She smears her makeup and melts it into tears.  No more.
She jumps into her car and drives without a destination.  She slams her fist against the steering wheel and hopes that the world can see which the opposite of what she usually wants.  The night has grown darker than she is used to but shecantbreathshecantbreatheshecantbreathe.  She winds the slopes to the lights she remembers made her feel better.  The lights look like the world, but only coming from the breath she can see in front of her face.  It looks like happiness, but the kind only some people believe in.  It looks nice, just like she wanted.  But shecantbreatheshecantbreatheshecantbreathe.
Home again.  She doesn't want to be.  Remove the makeup.  Remove the skin.  Remove the emotions.  Sit on the now completely made up bed, the newly washed mirror and smile.  Because that's what they expect you to do.        

O.U.T.B.R.E.A.K

खाली

I am an empty shell.  

I've been used, shut out, broken in two.  

I am a gun, not loaded.  I am a bullet, no powder.  I am a computer, no code.  

I am a church with no chapel, but I am more than just spiritually absent.  I am a school without classrooms, but I am more than mentally misconstrued.  I am a body without a beating heart, but I am more than physically inept.  I am a mind without kind thoughts, but I am more than emotionally explosive.  

I wear something on my face that distorts my features and makes me seem a wholesome, WHOLE being.  I am nothing but an empty casing, nothing but the wish of wanting to be something else.  

(Psycho)somatic Bot

Where does your mind go

when you sleep?  

Does it settle for less-than

spectacular dreams or does

it wander through the colors

of the universe and touch the 

eyelids of God Himself?

Where does your heart fade

when your body becomes strangely

enveloped in a catastrophic fire

with your bones icing into steel and 

your veins into shorted-out circuits? 

When your mistakes become 

too great, too heavy for your own

countenance to bear even for the 

slightest of ticks on the time,

will you let them remove it?

Yes, remove it.  

That thing that resonates a life

inside the lining of your soul,

now hardening over with

crusted, rusted metal.  

Replace it with a monitor 

and replace it with

computer code. 

When your all out of age

and your memory starts to

fade, splintering into tiny

little pieces that remind you of

your father's ashes, 

will you let them switch 

it off?

Yes, switch it off. 

You gave your heart away

years ago to a small girl

that laughed too loud

and cried too quiet,

so why not, when that

is gone already?  

But what choice will you make?

Oh, you want my advice?

Do not let them take

the thoughts that rattle

inside of your head.

The act of remembrance, 

the recollection of your 

collateral mistakes are the only

anchor in gravity, making

you the knotted balloon string 

tied to a mailbox.

The one with no 

complete wish of wanting 

to be blown away.