Repetitive, Restrictive, Restorative
If your poems rhyme,
they are less refined.
Elementary.
An artistic crime.
But for me,
rhythm is my sedative
turning clatter to clarity
in a brain that loops,
as if to trap me.
Patterns I seek
serve as anchors,
grounding me.
Nonlinear syllables,
like binaural beats:
nervous system nourishment,
phonetic treats.
A creative stim
to get lost in.
This -
is why I became a poet:
to demolish structure
predetermined by others,
construct my own cadence,
even if it’s called
a literary offense.
Primary Pendulum
Again.
Dead End.
Return in six months,
more myths to debunk.
Practicing my patience,
breaking oaths,
cross examination.
Bodies on trial,
a judge
holding the verdict:
Do the symptoms fit the script?
“You’ll be fine”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“It’s normal to feel some buzzing.”
“Don’t be alarmed”
“Insurance warned us not to dig too far.”
“That’s just a trend.”
“We all have bad days now and then.”
“Have you had any stress?”
“Have things changed at home?”
“It’s probably just
premenstrual syndrome.”
“Have you exercised?”
“Have you tried getting high?”
“What about adding fiber?”
“Remember, dear, tomorrow will be brighter.”
“Have you tried more rest?”
“I think you’re depressed.
“Have you had your bloodwork checked?”
“The lab results will guide our next steps.”
Bound by bureaucracy,
weakening autonomy
Practitioner of
Quackery -
he who knows what’s best for me.
Examination
(of motivation)
“Psychosomatic.”
End of conversation.
Return home defeated,
unheard, depleted,
(mis)treated.
I Hit Myself in the Face Today
I hit myself in the face today.
My hand fell numb from waiting to be called on,
so I called out.
But calling out is uncalled for.
But I knew the answer.
And the gap in my tooth felt slimy and sore.
My yellow crayon went missing,
so I couldn’t color the sun.
I hit myself in the face today.
“6-year-olds don’t act this way.”
I hit myself in the face today.
I had to be picked up from the field trip.
The bus seats smelled too leathery,
the layered chatter,
the sudden screams,
even the teacher couldn’t distract me.
I missed out on the science museum
because my own biology was kicking and screaming.
I hit myself in the face today.
“11-year-olds don’t act this way.”
I hit myself in the face today.
My body, too heavy to leave my bed.
Refusal to go to school -
against the rules.
It’s my brain that’s noncompliant,
Catatonic,
can’t push through.
They shame me,
call me lazy,
say it’s manipulation,
that other kids listen -
that other kids have friends.
I hit myself in the face today.
“16-year-olds don’t act this way.”
I hit myself in the face today.
I forgot to pick up coffee.
I replay the to-do list in my head,
but as time passes,
it only grows.
I try hard not to pace,
to not repeat the same phrase,
they find it annoying,
they call me insane.
The makeup covers
the truth I’m hiding,
the truth even I can’t see.
I hit myself in the face today.
“25-year-olds don’t act this way.”
I hit myself in the face today.
Pressure cooker on the counter
and pressure in the air.
The itchy wool around my neck,
the scripts that run through my head.
Analyzing expressions,
matching their energy,
weed to soothe
my crippling anxiety.
Perform, be pleasant, be the perfect host.
I burn the turkey,
I lose track of the time.
I hit myself in the face today.
“31-year-olds don’t act this way.”
I hit myself in the face today.
The pitter patter of paws,
an unexpected email received,
is there anywhere I can go
where I won’t be perceived?
There’s no going back.
The mask is too frayed.
Is there a single,
fucking cell turned on in my brain?
Shame surfaces,
I spiral.
Despite now knowing the reason,
the reflex remains as automatic as breathing.
I hit myself in the face today.
“36-year-olds don’t act this way.”
Casino Cognition
How do I translate these images to words?
Thoughts spin like a slot machine
fast, fuzzy,
rarely any pay lines.
If I press my luck,
if I place just one more bet,
I’ll walk away empty,
but still,
I pull the handle anyway.
No windows.
No concept of time.
Static smoke fills the air,
mirroring the fog in my mind.
Meaning is fleeting
when numbers don’t align.
A continual spin -
my mind a casino,
my words get lost in it.
Unsolvable
There is no (form)ula
only our current form
No procedure to remove the outliers
tucked away beneath our skin (the longitudinal study within)
Our deviations from the mean
equate to degrees of variability
classified as extreme
mathematical anomalies
puzzling even Fibonacci
Operation:
Regulation
I pace,
as if to send
a search party
to recover my hijacked amygdala,
to rescue the me lost in rumination,
to prevent the collapse -
the meltdown that waits
when movement stops.
Psychomotor agitation,
Operation:
regulation.
Out of Order
I wonder—
Did you park
in the garage near the stadium?
Did you regain
your title of air hockey king?
Did the taps
start pouring cider
now that it’s fall?
Did they ever breathe life
into that deflated basketball?
I wonder—
Did they finally repair
the Mario game?
You know,
the one where I could never keep pace,
spinning out,
veering into oncoming lanes.
(How ironic— I’ve crashed… again).
I wish—
to laugh with you
on the arcade floor,
to be present
without panic,
to stim
without shame,
to quiet
the chatter in my brain.
There—
competing conversations,
repeating ringing,
screaming victors,
screens flashing,
pixelated play,
perfume too strong,
floor too sticky,
pizza grease rising,
heart pounding.
Here—
I hibernate
while they celebrate.
My body,
horizontal,
out of tickets,
unplugged.