Signs come in clusters
I thought I moved past this…
I did, but it’s coming up again

When will the delusion of you fade into the blue?
Deep away I wish,
But it’s just deeply around.

Stuck, nagging

I could drop everything for you
But you have only dropped me

You are my muse—
the cause of some of my worst confusion and sharpest pains.
You are at the center,
but you don’t deserve any of me.

My heart beats harder towards you.
My body leans in.
I tear, I yearn, my chest literally aches
From loss? From being away?

I can’t feed these ideas,
or else the delusion of you will be made more real.
I can’t help it though…
Is it an addiction? False love? Obsession?

Something about you is so tasty,
but you are also so poisonous.
I can’t resist.

Why do I think of you in chunks?
Why do I binge in clumps?
Why do I see signs of you?
Maybe if the stars align…
Maybe if I never would have met you…
Maybe if I had more clarity…
Maybe…I could just get you out of me for good.

Is it a sin to think of you when I have someone else?
Is the devil playing me as an avatar?
It feels like nothing less, to both.

Maybe it’d feel less painful if I knew you felt it too…
if you felt the beginnings and middles (and ends).
Then I wouldn’t think I was crazy.

It’s not all in my head
because my chest beats and aches and wants to burst.
But all I can do is pretend like you don’t exist.
I need to change my memories of you so there is a new story I can try to believe.

Maybe one day,
I’ll actually be done and I won’t slip into old hopes.
It’s a black hole.
You are my black hole, sucking the light out of me.
I gravitate towards you and you give nothing back.
Any pull of me to you is just a love event horizon.
You. suck.

It always comes down to:
Is this real?
Or is this just made up from my desires?

I am scum

Deep impression
Deeply pressed in

Being pressed down by…life?

I am weak, but I am heavy.
So, so heavy.
So dense I am made by being crushed so hard.

I am so numb,
maybe as a defense…
because all the emotions are so intense in all directions.

Running away.
Running away.
Sharing the tip of the iceberg.

I am so heavy and sad.
This state always tells me that it’s here to STAY,
that it’s actually my natural state.

Are you here to stay?
Of course you are…but are you who I really am?
You come in…making me feel oh so hopeless.
So hopeless.

I cannot talk myself out of it, because none of me believes that I am anything more than this…all I can do is observe it. Play with it. Write about it. Describe it. That feels distancing, but I’m still in the smog. Thick and nasty and suffocating me. There are no expectations because I am shitty to begin with. I try and try and try but it’s hard when I am dirt and just fall back to the ground. That’s where I reside, always. It’s the wind that picks me up…momentarily until I get to fall back to my natural resting place. The dirt. I am dirt. I am shit. It’s just how it is, I’m not being hard on myself. It’s just how it is. I’m not being mean to myself, I am just politely seeing the truth. It’s relaxing to realize my true state, because I don’t need to wear my masks. I can relax and just be me. A scumbag, worthless, taking from the world and never giving. Ego tries to play me up to more than what I really am. But I can only play myself up so far before I remember: I am worthless. The thought of that makes me feel settled.

I’m not trying to be emo, or dramatic. I’m just trying to understand myself. This is the only thing that makes sense. I AM depression. I am the dirt, the scum. Actually no, scum and dirt implies that it was once something? I was never anything. I am nothing. (But I am still dirt and scum).

I am scum and that is true and simple. Might as well have fun with it? I have nothing to lose because I have nothing. I can only go up from here…maybe, idk, except I am nothing.



Why are you still around?
You don’t want to be here,
and I can’t have you near.

Because you’d wreck me again,
destroy any ounce of faith and desire
that I could give to someone.

It’s been years, and it only lasted months,
if that,
and if it was even real.
I can’t tell if you we you were real.

I know how I felt.
You told me once how you felt,
years after…

But sometimes I think was it was a way to appease me
and maybe keep me dangling.

Nothing makes me more confused than this.
Nothing has me more empty.
Nothing had me more.

You entered me last night from behind,
it was just a hug,
and it was just a dream.
But a part of you has returned into me,
resemblances that took me so long to try to throw away.

None of these words get at what I’m trying to say.
I don’t wanna call you an enigma,
because I don’t want you to know that I think of you,
and put you on a pedestal.

I don’t want you to know that sometimes…
I’m scared I won’t ever get over you.

You think I’m scared of death?
I’ve done it a million times.

GUEST POST: The Killed Conscience – Book Release!

Today I have a special, special guest post (and my first on this site!) from a fellow blogger and author, Jordan Antonacci.
Jordan just released his new book: The Killed Conscience. He has been such an inspiring writer that I’ve been following for some time now and I’m proud to help host him on his virtual book tour!
Without further hestitate, here is Jordan Antonacci:

The Killed Conscience cover-1 (2)

Investigative journalist Emilee Weathers is hungry for the perfect story and not too particular about how she has to get it. Asked to help find new evidence for a convicted serial killer’s appeal, she heads for the mountain town of Pigeon Forge.

When she discovers the body of a recent victim, the questions come thick and fast. Has she happened upon the work of a copycat? Is the real killer still out there? And is there anybody in this neck of the woods she can trust?

The inspiration behind my book

In his book On Writing, Stephen King notes—brilliantly—that there is no magical garden where plump, juicy ideas grow like weeds and where writers can frequent whenever their own soils are experiencing a drought. “There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers,” he writes. Though we’re not always looking for it, inspiration is everywhere. Truthfully, all you need to know is how to look for it, then how to exploit it once found. Mining for ideas is almost like mining for gold. Sometimes, it can be hidden deep; other times, it can be found in the most superficial of interactions, hiding in plain sight. Just remember that there’s meaning in everything, and where there’s meaning, there’s a story.

Where did I find my own idea? I randomly thought it up after watching every single Dateline episode ever released. Then some that weren’t released. Ha-ha, no, not really. Well, kinda…

I got the idea, oddly enough, when I was thinking about the icky, ooey-gooey emotion that is love. I know, right? How does thinking about love result in a 230-page book about an investigative journalist hunting a killer? Good question. Before I start coming off as a sadistic psychopath, let me explain…

Relationships are a major part of everyone’s life. They’re a big part of my life, even if I can’t keep one. I enjoy the good sides of relationships and unconditional love. And who doesn’t? I’ve been in some very passionate relationships, but I’ve also been in some very toxic and destructive ones. While single, I’d hang out at public places, like the mall, and just people watch. I watched a lot of couples and tried to get an image of what true love looks like.

Didn’t work.

I soon came to understand that love isn’t something you can see; it’s only something you can feel.

It’s interesting—though a beautiful thing, love can cause people to do some of the ugliest and most fucked up stuff imaginable. It can push us, make us violate our own conscience, and make us forget who we are entirely. That… that is the madness of love. Ultimately, I began wondering what it would look like for an innocent person to completely lose themselves in this madness. I wondered how much of their own conscience they’d violate and how many rules they’d break if this love was put on the wire.

The result?

The Killed Conscience.



Beneath a starry night’s sky, Emilee and everyone at the cabin all stood around the flickering flames of a fire just in front of the trees. All were wrapped in sweaters, gloves, and scarves. Sebastian stood with his arm around Morgan; she was snuggled up under his arm with her head resting against his chest. Skylar sat in a plastic lawn chair with her legs crossed and her thumbs tapping away on her phone. Emilee and Sebastian were across from each other, on opposite sides of the fire. A bit too far to comfortably carry on a conversation, but not too far to keep them from catching each other’s eyes. James sat in the only other lawn chair, and by his feet, Emilee sat in the dirt and rocks.

After taking a gulp from his beer, Casey grabbed a flashlight, put the beam beneath his chin, and said, “So who wants to have the shit scared out of them with a scary story?” The shadows distorted his face into something wicked as he grinned wide.

“Ooh, I do. Which one?” Skylar asked.

“Good question, Sky. I’m thinking,” he took another sip, “since Emilee is about to interview the psychopath, why don’t we hear about VDK?”

“Okay, maybe now isn’t the best time to be telling this story,” Sebastian said.

“What? We’ve got the location, the night, the cold, a fire… and the potential for the killer to be set free soon. What more could you ask for?”

Sebastian let his head fall back as he groaned.

Casey began before anyone else could interject: “Five years ago, there was a girl by the name of Kayla Lawrence. Twenty years old, bubbly personality, all around beautiful girl. Two nights before Christmas, she went to sleep in her home. The next morning, when her parents stopped by, Kayla was nowhere to be seen. Her family quickly reported her missing, and after investigation, police found no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle, no sign of foul play whatsoever. It was like aliens had just come down and—boop—plucked her straight from the face of the Earth.”

Sebastian tried waving the story away. “Okay, that’s enou—”

“A couple months later, it was Valentine’s Day. The girl’s name was Luna McBeth. That night, she’d gone to a club downtown with some of her friends. It was almost midnightwhen she told her friends goodbye and left by herself. Security cameras showed her leaving the club and walking across the street to the parking lot… but she never reached her car. The next day, it was still sitting in that parking lot, locked. Just like Kayla, Luna had vanished without a single trace.”

“Dun dun dunnn,” Sebastian interrupted loudly, making a few people jump.

“It wasn’t long before police connected the two, based solely on identity,” Casey continued. “Both girls were young, petite, black hair, Caucasian.” Casey looked up at Emilee. “Kind of like Emilee… Anyway, almost two years later, some foreigners were hiking through these mountains when one stepped onto a ‘very soft patch of dirt’ that turned out to be the decaying corpse of Luna McBeth. Not far from her, another body was found that wasn’t ever identified. And just like that, the Valentine’s Day Killer was born.”

“Oh wow,” Morgan said.

Following the story was a quiet that arrived and threatened to stay. No one could seem to find the words to make it leave.

Then, there was a sound. So soft, yet so deafening in that silence. Everyone went stiff—stiff like a group of cadavers. They each exchanged looks with slightly widened eyes.

“What was that?” Morgan’s voice was brittle.

The noise had come from the dark flooding the trees of those woods. Sounded like the subtle snapping of a dry twig. Seemed like everyone was hoping to let the gripping moment pass… until it came back to grab them once more.

The Killed Conscious Purchase Links:

Want more of Jordan Antonacci? (Yes, you do)
Find him online 🙂


Are we flat?

a window hidden by vines

’tis that time again when I feel like a zombie…

One day I am moving forward with my goals,
the next I am stuck in my room
avoiding everything.

I oscillate through all types of states of consciousness and emotions. Why does everything always pretend like life is one simple baseline experience? No highs, no lows. Their facade is “medium.”


Maybe other people will start opening up about their inner worlds when I continue being honest about mine.



Frozen…but not the kind from being too cold. It’s the type that comes from a new intimacy with Truth.

Truth came to my full attention this evening.

Truth came to replace its previous stand-in: distant, shallow stories.

Truth revealed itself through expressed bravery and exposure.

It’s easy to be nonchalantly composed when theory runs my life.

“Those problems are ‘over there…’ Is this even really happening? Is it that big of a deal?”

But then I find out and realize that YES. It is. These problems are simmering in people’s lives who I see weekly, more than my own family and dogs. And now, it’s boiled over for me to see…for me to feel.

When people share their vulnerability it allows us to step up and meet them—to fill that once-distant space between us.

There becomes a new layer of intimacy to explore: humanity.

For now, I’m still processing, digesting, and frozen.

…but what’s gonna happen when I melt?

You ask how I’m doing…

But do you really care?

When I answer truthfully I scare you off.
Is it my honestly?
My dreams?
My pathetic excitement and curiosity in my own life?

You shut me down and criticize me for answering the way I did.
(Whatever that was)
So I am conditioned to not open up.
I close myself off to you.

This pattern cycles around in circles like the seasons.

I begin to think
“What if you are right?”
and I really have palty aspirations
that don’t offer anything to anyone,
that I’m not valuable,
that me being on Earth and me not existing wouldn’t make a difference to you, or anyone.

If anything, it would be less of a hassle if there was less of me..

So why do you ask how I’m doing?

Sorry for the depressing ass shit lately. It’s a phase I’m going through, hopefully. Luckily, I’m remembering how therapeutic writing poetry is for me…you reading this probably understand