Today was one of those days,
Where I woke up
To a phone call from my boss.
“Where are you?
Seriously, c, where are you?”

And as I looked around,
All I could think was,
“where the fuck am I?”
But instead of saying that,
I looked at my grey reflection
In the rearview mirror of my car.
And said, “I’m on my way.”

My pallor was sickly,
The fear of waking up lost.
I should be used to it by now.

My life is a puzzle of pieces
That will never be fully put together.
Some lost to trauma,
And those that are together:
Continuously fall apart.

I sped down the highway,
Thinking, and talking.
Who went off this time?
Why did I end up where I did?
But my insiders were silent.

Now that I was back,
They were resting.
It’s frustrating –
I feel as if they work against me,
But secretly I know we are a team.

When I need to leave,
They come out.
And when I return,
They rest.

Is this the beginning of progress?
Is this how Dissociative Identity Disorder begins to integrate?
Maybe getting lost,
Is the only way
I will find my parts –
And my parts will find me.



what i miss.

from anon:

“I wrote this a while back. things with family are decent now, i wouldn’t say great but they’re decent. all the same, I wrote this in my angsty adulthood, and now I am putting it here to share with you:

I am a nomad. I have jumped from place to place,
settling only for months or years before picking up and starting over.
As a kid, we would drive.
And I remember looking out the mountains and thinking,
they go on forever.

And then I moved to New Jersey.
And the mountains stopped.
And I missed them.
I missed their ever presence in the background of our drives,
seeing the trees
and the fields and the colors.
Instead I had the ocean.
And I would look out on the shore,
and think.
The ocean goes on forever.
You just can’t quite see it like you can see the mountains.

And then I moved again.
But this time, with no geographic anomaly to associate with my home.
Because I didn’t have a home.
College was great,
because I got away from the craziness of 5 children and broken parents.
But college sucked,
because I was forced out of a home and a family that was never close but never quite far.
I missed home cooked meals.
And eating on the ground because there was not enough room at the table.
I missed sitting on couches covered in laundry.
And rooms cluttered with who knows what?!
I missed my bed with springs popping out covered,
only by duct tape to protect me from their points.
I missed my grandpa who was overly critical, but funny and respectable.
I missed my dad who had never before been embarrassed of me until he had a girlfriend.
And I did not miss my mother.
But I will tell you.
I missed my mom.

That wasn’t new.
I have missed my mom since she was ill.
I have missed my mom since she became not even my mother.
But Ellen.

I missed being comfortable to hug and not fear being hit.
I missed laying my head in the lap of someone who cares, and knowing love.
I missed laughing, and crying, and sheer emotion.
I missed her smell and her robe.
I missed comfort.
I missed so much, that I knew I would never get back.
I lost it so many years before.

Because she chose to never grow up, I grew up too fast.
And now I yearn for the time I never had to be carefree and live..
“And now, I have found somebody I trust. And I’m slowly pushing you away
I am afraid to lose you, like I lost my mom and my dad.
Like I have lost my sisters and brothers.
I am afraid of so much.
I don’t want you to give up on me, because I can’t do this alone.”

And I told her all of this twice.
“The thing about you,” she said to me, “is that you tell even the saddest stories
With a smile.” But that was last year.
And now, this year, she states.
“you need help. And I can’t do that for you.”
I want to trust that she is saying this because she cares,
but I secretly fear that she will abandon me,
and I will miss her too.


A Typical Case of Writer’s Block in an Atypical Mind

This poem was submitted anonymously to the site – Thank you friend for sharing your work! Enjoy everybody

If I can’t write,
it must be because I can’t think.
If I can’t think, is it because I can’t feel?
Feel it to think it.
Feel to think.
Feel. Feel….

Maybe I don’t want to feel.
Better to just think.

Think. Think.
Just use your brain!
Behind the eyes.
Brain power.
(More like brain damage).
Try to brainstorm.
Maybe it can happen spontaneously,
like a windstorm.
Desert sand speeding toward my skin,
cutting me open,
bleeding me.
Bleeding cleanses.
Bleeding helps me think.

No no. No. No bleeding.
No more of that.
Don’t need to bleed to focus.
The body has nothing to do with the mind.

A mind of it’s own.
Separate body from mind.
Mind over matter.
The question of the mind,
like a philosophical debate.
Philosophy, which is, of course,
a collection of unproven hypotheses.

Hypothesize reasons why.
Why my own mind is denying me access.
Why it’s shutting me out,
giving me the silent treatment.
Maybe it’s holding a grudge,
punishing me for some past misuse,
some misappropriation.
Yes, maybe it’s afraid of me,
feeling threatened by some past behavior,
questioning my existence (and thus its existence),
my adequacy (and thus its adequacy),
and damaging myself in a thousand little ways.

And maybe it’s afraid FOR me.
“Black holing it” in an effort to protect.
Perhaps, if it allows me access to my thoughts,
to think, and to feel,
it fears I will think something in accordance
with my past self-destructive manifestations,
or I will remember some passed past,
almost none of which is good.
Guiding me away from my thoughts
prevents my Self any further harm.
And perhaps, in doing harm to myself,
I’ve forced it to focus on much more prevalent concerns.
Breathe in and out.
Open your eyes and wake. See.
Heart: beat…And again…And again.
Forcing me to live because,
if given the job myself,
I might end it for us both.
I control its existence,
but it controls mine just the same
because my death
would not serve its purpose.
It uses me for its own ends…
much like everyone else.
At least it has a justified reason:
Basic survival.
You can’t write
when you’re just trying to survive.

And now look…
Maybe I can’t write a poem
because my mind wants to live.
But if it’s part of me,
then why doesn’t it know
that I no longer want to die?



A poem on coming out:

When I came out to them,
I received silence
Which then crawled into my ears
And burrowed a hole in my heart

And there it lived.
Until it hatched its eggs.

Silence’s children:

Silence’s children crawled up from my heart,
And they climbed up to my brain.
There in my brain
Silence’s children were anything but silent

They screamed and hollered.
They sent dread through my spine
They caused goosebumps to inhabit my skin.

Silence’s children are loud

Is loud.

Inspired by his children,
He emerges from his hole in my heart
And silence screams.

He is louder than a car screeching to a halt right before hitting a tree.
Silence is louder than a colic child suffering from gastric reflux.
Silence is louder than a classroom of kindergarteners who have had too much sugar.

He is louder than his children.
He makes my heart fight to beat
Silence tries to kill me.
But I won’t let him.


When Do You Confess?

So this poem, is something I think about a lot. Telling people I have MI is hard, Living with it is harder. In the end, there is only love. I wanted crazy in this poem not to be an identifier rather something we hold; therefore I used ‘your crazy’ rather than ‘you’re crazy.’
Here goes:


When do you confess your crazy to them?
Do you do it on the first date?
As you converse about small topics,
Is that when you drop the bomb?

Or is it when you’re walking down the street with them,
Talking to them…
Only to realize you’re talking to them and not them.
You know, the people in your head?
Not the ones out.

Do you tell them your crazy while you text them?
Over the phone everything seems normal,
But on your side you’re sucking a binky
To soothe the two year-old part,
Who is climbing out of her crib,
Out of her room
Exposing herself, taking you over.
Is that when you tell them?

Do you wait until they confess their love for you?
To let them know that there are 21 others inside of your head?
There are 21 others outside your head.
21 bodies. 22 if you count yourself.

When do you confess your crazy to them?
Do they have to know?
After all, it is YOUR crazy.
You own it. All 21, 22, maybe more.
But if they come out,
Your little crazies, your little heroes, your little savages –
They’ll have to know.

So when do you confess your crazy to them?
Maybe as the sun sets,
And the light beams through the window,
You both sit down to dinner
Only to swallow uncomfortable truths.
Is that when your confess your crazy to them?

Or maybe, just maybe.
You confess your crazy, at an open mic.
You read a poem, and another and another.
Only to say, I want you to know who I am.
Please accept me for me.
Accept me for my crazy.                                                         (cdk)

First Submission!

Hi friends,
A special shout out to the person who submitted this very powerful poem. They said that I could put their name or initials and I am choosing their initials. All the same, I would like to thank them for their submission and I can’t wait to see what more they and others have to offer!

Sadness is an emotion quite separate from depression.
I’ll try to explain it.
That’s what the rest of this is.
I feel sad when I’m not depressed.
I feel depressed when I’m not sad.
That’s when it’s especially bad.
Depression is when I say I just don’t want to leave the house.
Depression is when I can’t get the words to come out of my mouth.
Depression is when I don’t want to do anything at all.
Depression is an excessive need to stall.
Depression doesn’t like it when I cry.
Depression wants me to keep it inside.
Depression is when I can’t even try to sleep.
Depression is not something you can see.
Depression is when I skip every song.
Depression is when my best is gone.
Sadness is when I listen to sad music.
Sadness is when my best is reduced.
Sadness is resting at least with my eyes.
Sadness is something I know will pass by.
Sadness brings with it many tears.
Sadness subsides when the morning appears.
Sadness gets out of bed with puffy eyes, red nose.
Sadness does move, it just moves slow.
Sadness will do what needs to be done.
Sadness can sing.
Sadness loses to fun.


When I was a kid,
I always wanted to be Anne Frank.
considering I did in fact read the entire book.

But it wasn’t really Anne Frank
that I wanted to be.
Rather, I wanted to embody her spirit,
her positivity.

I would write in my diary at thirteen,
hoping that some day,
somebody would one day find my qualms
and think –
“how prophetic was this young girl?”

I would read about Anne and Pim,
and look at my dad,
thinking maybe we could be that close.
Maybe he understands me.

I would read about Anne and her mother,
and a seething rage enveloped my tiny pubescent body
My teenage hormones would rage,
I knew Anne understood.
I questioned just like she,
How can a mother be so rude?

And with all of her relations,
With all of her circumstances
Anne kept a steady heart.
“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are truly good at heart.”
“I don’t think of all the misery, but of all the beauty that still remains.”

Quote after quote,
I read her diary and cherished it as my own.
She lit the annex with her sunshine and positivity.
She lit the lives of many with her bright light.

I wanted to be Anne Frank as a kid,
I still do.
I practice positivity everyday,
trying to embody it.

I imagine how a teenage girl
Could live as she.
And I question myself,
with all that I have,
How can I not appreciate?
How can I ignore what is happy and good?

I want to live like Anne Frank,
I want to take my small world,
and make it big.

I want to find love and appreciation
in intolerable situations.

I want to live like Anne Frank,
and write until my heart’s content.
I want to divulge my secrets on paper,
and trust that the pen is mightier than any sword.

I want to smile,
and laugh.
To cry,
and love.
I want to write,
and write,
and write.

I want to shine my light
For those around me to see.
My annex may not be like hers,
Mine is in my head.
But I can learn to love,
And live.

And live




I dreamt of a miracle,
but as most dreams go,
I have forgotten.

I open my eyes
and am flooded by the sunshine –
the green grass –
the birds flying by.

And my ears,
they perk at the sound of:
birds chirping,
the breeze blowing by.

I feel relief at a new day.
What is this feeling?
My body tingles with excitement,
my face flushed.
I think to myself –
this is content.

Suddenly, emotions flood my being.
I feel like the pool at the bottom of the Niagara Falls,
emotions pounding into me.

I feel it in my chest,
I feel it in my heart.
I feel neurotransmitters firing in my brain.
Or is that just the voices yelling at eachother
I feel my body become restless.
I am feeling fear and anxiety.
I am feeling those feelings.

No one, no part – but me.
Miracles can sometimes only be caught by a keen eye.
I integrate my selves.
We begin to feel as one.
This. Is a miracle.

I keel over and wretch,
Tears fall from my face.
Raindrops fall on my head.
I feel small,
I can feel this emotion in my body.
I can feel sadness.
I escape from disintegration
I respect me, all 22 of me.
My brain is calm.

Some miracles are hard to see.
Some are hard to name.
Progress? is a miracle.
This evolution –
Once detached, uninterested, barely existing:
Now overwhelmed with feeling, and passion, and interest!
This is a miracle.

And I don’t need a dream to prove that to me.


My Morning Walk

Howdy all: this is a poem I wrote with the prompt on my morning walk. And yes I did actually go on a short walk, but I will admit it was midafternoonish. Anyhow, enjoy –


My morning walk felt like a brief moment of freedom,
From burdens and rumination,
from heartache and conflict.
My body separate from my mind,
I began to float.

My carelessness took over me.
I was not careless,
I was carefree.

I floated past the stark realities of life:
Mental illness, sexuality, class, race –
Only to take in the clouds beneath my feet.

Each step cushioned by their cotton ball nature.
There was safety in freedom.
I walked from cloud to cloud,
basking in the mist of the blue sky.
They say blue skies smile at you –
Let me tell you,
it’s true.

Blue skies, clouds, the sun beaming.
They all bring comfort that things will turn out okay.
There is a freedom in the sky.

It is clouded,
but not like a worried mind.
Rather, it is clouded with reassurance.
Reassurance that life is a cycle.

The clouds will form rain,
the rain will puddle.
The puddle will evaporate
and bring back the clouds.

On my morning walk I saw this cycle,
and I accepted the rain in my life.
I had faith it will cycle.
And I knew freedom.



If I Was a Crayon

I thought I’d start with a light post.

A while ago, I was given the prompt: If I was a crayon…
with this in consideration immediately I thought of the color I’d be, and then with further thought I realized there was so much I could do with this prompt in the brief 5-10 minutes we were given to write it. All the same, here is what I came up with:

If I was a crayon, I’d be pissed that I wasn’t a marker. Markers have stability, people don’t break their markers. Also, people don’t give up on markers. Once a crayon is a little dull, people abandon them. People use their markers until death do them part.

If I was a crayon, I’d be sad because little kids stick me up their noses instead of coloring with me.

I want to have purpose – to be understood. If I was a crayon, I wouldn’t be.
Crayons are the misunderstood, emo art supply.

But I guess if I was a crayon, I’d be grateful: for the restaurants who realize my potential for the kids’ menu. I’d be grateful for my fantastic names, and grateful for my large family: Crayola with RoseArt cousins.