I wrote this five years ago. Back then I was in a very dark place. It seems like life is dealing me something just as crappy these days. So whenever I’m feeling down and trying to pull myself out of a funk, I read this post

A poem I wrote for my wife on our 1st wedding Anniversary

I’ve been instructed to deal with my anxiety by ‘free writing’. I use to do it in the past, but kinda lost my way in it. Basically when i have that feeling, I need to just start writing… no matter where it takes me.

Thoughts spread out through my mind like an endless sea of particles; Forcing their way out of my throat like a funnel. I can’t express what I feel. I feel too much. I have no explanations for my feelings. They are scrambled and unreadable Like greek to me. I feel my mind has been shattered,

Depression breeds, to where suicide leads. My heart’s crusted over with scabs of pain and sorrow, Emotion, leaving my soul feeling hallow. When the bullet finally claims me, ends me, cures me, Will you follow me? Or will you mourn me, and bury me? and then move on past me? Stop loving me? One shot

I use to be a nobody. I use to think it was wonderful. Existence in the essence of invisibility. Standing there, but not there in the eyes of those around me, nowhere. Just another mediocre man to the masses. Oh the sweet, sweet transparency That use to wash over me. But then came ‘her’ This

Rage is the absence of self control of morality and common sense. Of feelings and caring. No family, friends, No people, places or things. It is the abandonment of social obligation. A moment where humanity is stripped from the human form. It is the pure ecstasy of unaccountability. Any and everything goes, nothing is held

The pain is still there. Has it always been there? I can’t remember a time without it. Like roaches, gnawing away at my stomach… or are they in my stomach? This is where I exist. I want to shed what I am. I want to run away naked, stripped of all existence. Alone… but not free.

I love being alone, but I hate being alone in a crowd of people.

Winds blow through the forest trees of Callaway’s Woods; partially obstructing the view of the town, Adamsville below. Agnes Callaway stands in the darkened attic’s floor-length window of her mansion, looking down at the lights of AdamsVille. She gently fondles an old book in her soft hands. She opens to a book marker and reads her favorite