You can call it my high horse, but know it's contained upon the carousel of chaos where each of us shares in our concern for the highs and lows of the addict ahead and behind us, too blinded to be reminded that each of us is seated in the center of a chase with no concrete way of knowing who's off next or how. 

Mine's a medicated merry-go-round, spun round and round by the medicine man. However, unlike my first rides leaving me dizzy, having gone round once too many, I've grown increasingly too afraid to jump off.

To take that leap of faith and find myself spinning on solid ground.

I'd rather stay 'merry' and medicated than find myself coming to terms with staggering through a world standing standing still.

Surreal as it sometimes seems, the earth does turn, stuck in an eternal spin and yet you remain standing still - what if it's just self will, control, or strength that I lack? Or worse, what if it's those early roots I lack that now ground you?

What if getting off is to succumb to the end spun out of control.

Inhibit.

That's the life I've lived for a very long time, to limit- albeit in limitation in and of itself; impulsivity runs deep within my veins.

To hold back a tremor when I'm far too stimulated.

To fight off hunger when my insides

collapse.

To quiet the abundance of

anxieties.

To quell the thoughts that say too far beyond unwell.

To conceal the dissatisfaction with

healthy.

The disgust and the lust to just indulge

in all that remains from keeping me

entirely insane.

Was it ever mine-

Has it ever been mine?

I remember. I remember anxiety.

I recount summer

I reminisce of discomfort.

I re-visit a visitor, traveling 

Homeless, from home to home. 

I remember oblivion

I forget to black out, sweet oblivion

Anxiety.

I remember extacy, I remember exactly it's excruciation.

The execution of my enthusiasm.

Has it ever been mine?

No. Not for quite, quite some time.

I catch glimpses of her

And in an instant my heart swells 

Extacy, excitement, thrill, oblivion

All is well here, where familiar spaces 

Form way for a stolen meeting ground 

From where I will eventually be

Dragged back that distinguishing distance 

I want to meet her,

perhaps only for a moment 

To watch her ways, to ask her

To say my goodbyes or maybe 

I get to stay and just be her 

But then I find us separated by my own skin 

My breath brings me back into my own body 

Where I remain lonely and longing 

Yearning to call back out for her 

If only I'd gotten her first name

Borderline. Borderline means that I am so pervasively empty that I become hyper sensitive to the world around me. Borderline means that the emptiness within me leaves me to feed off any and all changes in my surroundings to let me know what's going on, to comfort me, to torment me, to please me, to concern me. To me borderline means I'm constantly on the border of coming to terms with a sense of being before the next little change. To all the people in my life that have stuck with me this far it means that I thank you for being sensitive to those changes and loving and supporting me anyways. I'm really grateful for a lot of really great people.

A heart beat flutters by fast 

Almost skipping a beat 

Breaking the rhythm shaped by your feet 

Boom now vs tap - you trip and fall fast 

Fasting further towards freedom 

For forgiveness forces you to 

remain hidden behind hunger 

Until safe to emaciate into an escape 

Metamorphosis and I manifest 

Heightened emphasis on the emptiness 

What a sight, the skyline at dusk 

As one by one lights flicker on to 

fight off growing despair 

Ears ringing and 

a prayer 

whispers of anger 

as faint sirens sing 

seemingly echoing my name 

Laughter thunders and I'm left to wander about

Wondering through crowds of traffic, voices warning of danger

Back home, fresh laundry lingers in the

backdrop of stale beer and fresh betrayal 

vomited vodka lays low in 

the smog of cigarettes near

Touched by isolating compassion in the stretched arm of dawn, 

A one iced over land of masses begins to yawn, 

inspired now by the beating hearts of natives hung 

Still learning to savor indulgence in the metallic taste of sweet yet sour air

Which you swear you don't care through your still burnt tongue

We'll say you've one, but, you're still stuck yearning for when you were young. 

You can call it my high horse, but consider its confinement upon the carousel of chaos, where each mind is combined in concern for those behind as well as those ahead, too blinded to be reminded that each of us is seated in the center of a continuous chase with no concrete way of knowing who goes next. 

Mines a medicated merry-go-round spun round and round by the medicine man.

But just like a kid growing dizzy knows to leap off, I grow increasingly too afraid to jump off and find myself stuck spinning on solid ground. I'd much rather stay 'merry' and medicated than have to come to terms with staggering through a world standing still. 

Surreal as it may seem sometimes, the earth does turn, stuck in an eternal spin you stay standing still - what if its just self will. control, or strength that I lack, what if its all me having missed those early roots that now ground you what if getting off is to succumb to the end spun out of control.