Crossing

Crossing paths of time
It’s not a railroad

Looking through broken glass
Under fractured halo

Understanding always last
An expensive payload

And if I ever dared to ask
I wouldn’t have to decode

© Delia Ross. 2021 / @poeeternal

I have a science degree in communication and can’t even fucking talk.

Furthermore, my brain is quickly failing me due to TBI, PTSD, chronic depression, acute anxiety, insomnia, paranoia, nightmares (war vet), and a billion other health problems not related to my mind. Like bone and muscle problems.

Not that you care. 👍

WOO HOO

I AIN’T DYING NAKED IN THE STREET

FYI.

I’m a broken fucking doll.

And just as soon as I come along and repair one tiny piece someone else will come along and break five more.

I’ve been physically abused, I am a survivor.

My doctor is begging me to take my fucking big pharma medication and I do good eating once a day, if at all.

I need to disassociate but everybody wants my time.

Wahhhh

Meanwhile, politics make me suicidal and on edge. My dad dying has taken me to new levels of darkness I’ve never known. I’m having to rip out my own heart, which is basically my muse, because he is I and I is he and all he does it make me bleed. So, I’ve lost my muse. I don’t even know if I have fucking air to breathe because half the time I’m hyperventilating from crying.

I live alone. During a pandemic. My pets are now getting on my nerves daily in this noisy apartment life. I want solitude and silence but apparently that too only belongs to the rich.

WordPress is getting on my nerves.

The air you breathe is getting on my nerves.

I am on edge and suicidal when I am not disassociating.

But there’s never any time to disassociate and I probably won’t even get to do that when I’m dead.

Justice would be coming back as an evil spirit and haunting your every move and breath.

Once again, I dare say Edgar Allan Poe suffered from depression. I am diagnosing Edgar Allan Poe as depressed.

Maybe I should start seeking a locket of his hair.

Since his hair is now a collector’s item.

I feel like having a Britney Spears moment and shaving off all of my hair.

Anything is possible when you are suicidal. 👍

Teddy is about the only thing that doesn’t trigger me. I found him outside one day by the trash bin. Not a speck of dirt on him. No odd smell. He came home with me. He got a second chance at life. He was simply DISPOSED and I know what that feels like. I do. Tossed out like fucking trash. It gave me a mood. But now he’s centerpiece in my studio and I’ve always wanted a large stuffed animal but no one’s ever given me one. I don’t get spoiled and I take shit home with me from the trash. Nobody sends me chocolate and nobody writes me poetry.

Like, you don’t know what struggle is until you’re finding nurturing in a trash bin.

You’d never catch me eating food from a bin though, I’d die first.

Pride. Ya know?

Teddy almost wound up in a landfill. And don’t even get me started on how much we waste resources.

Are you aware of that Stuxnet virus? I’m getting ready to buy some land and go underground. Good luck knowing my addy. Paranoid soldier? You betcha!!!

Seriously tho, I recommend you watching and learning everything about it now.

Also there are two things you need to know in the event of a nuclear attack (I.E. one of those power plants goes boom) :

1. Get out of the city and 2. Get out of the city.

Get out of the cities, get out of the cities….

If you want to watch a scary movie, watch that documentary on Stuxnet.

Enjoy me online while you can because I promise you I’ll be going underground. Unplugging.

Peace and solitude if I have to die for it.

Published by PoeEternal

I'm gone. Maybe it's like I never existed at all.

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