2am (day 7)

it’s 2am
and I’m sitting on a barstool
pledging insomnia
from days that really try the soul


you’ve made me a night owl,
you’ve made me a vulture,
sucking the life out of my own body


now I drag myself around
kicking paint cans so I don’t recognize my heart


because bleeding at night is easier
than bleeding in the sunlight,
so now it’s 2am
and I’m sitting on a barstool
while the whole world’s asleep
pretending to be not thinking about you.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/12/16

Insomnia, 2am, night owl, barstool, days that really try the soul

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Without You

The days that were before,

O, how have they been lost!

Another tear, the tear,

it will soothe in my love-tossed soul


Decidedly, I chose to not forget,

as if there ever was a chance

at this repair, so hopeful I let

the seen things go, until


But it is clear, oh very clear

that this soul you don't deserve

that this hopefullness doesn't strike

that it is I you don't care to like


for that, I set myself free

from your shackles,

from your tax

upon which you feed,

is there still a chance at this repair?

I stop pondering it,

for my life is to live now,

without this nightmare it's become

without the deceit to overcome

without all the tears you bring into it

Without You

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Dear Michael and Alex:-

Children's Prose:


I am saddened by your sorrow; at the departure of your grandpa.

May he rest a while with doves of peace.

Residing now with his creator amongst the star.

From toil and ill health his eternal spirit lives on; by death's release.

So don't be disheartened by his demise.

Your grandpa will always love you still; and be guiding and guarding your way from afar.

Love never ending and that cannot marr:

Your memories of your loving grandpa.

Keep well, safe and live for life never ceasing:

Your loving grandma, Nan Anita.

By Anita Griffiths

Author's Notes/Comments: 

How to explain to the young the concept of death, ill health and disabilitating quality of life?

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I sit here

Pondering the terrifying 

The loss of breath

The loss of self

The lonely road to oblivion


All we have

Is these moments

Time is unforgiving 

Fate is inevitable 

Love is our legacy



I want you to beat me with a bat.

I want you to break my bones.

You have to take a limb,

A dominant one, obviously.

I want to be hospitalized for months,

And when I'm deemed "healed"

I want it to be obvious

That I struggle daily

With the loss of a part of me

I thought I could always rely on.

I want to go to work

And act like everything is okay,

But lose my job anyway,

Because my performance, just isn't the same.

I want to fall,

And need your hand to get back up.

I want you to see on the outside-

The debilitation I feel inside,

So you can understand

And with heart instead of hand

Help me to my feet again.

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It is the façade that wakes her up and,

Leaves her covered in sweat on a cold night.

This wall of protection,

The consequence of spite.


It is the illusion of freedom, which propels her forward,

Leaving many paths and people upturned in her wake.

This wall of fading protection,

The consequence of what is at stake.


It is her coping mechanisms which hold her back,

The yearning of men to want her, a need to be alluring.

This broken wall of protection,

The consequence of having an esteem which needs reassuring.


It is the distraction from what causes her pain,

That is the real thorn in her side.

The lack of protection,

The consequence of becoming too old to run and hide.


Her act is getting old, already one has not believed it,

One has questioned it, and one has praised it, yet others can still be fooled.

This rebuilds and reforms her protection,

The consequence of moving to many “new” schools.


The long, sleepless nights have returned,

Broken only by the cusp of dawn,

When her questioning and doubt return themselves to their abyss,

In the dark corners of her mind.

This rips and tears her ephemeral protection.

The consequence of being observant, yet wishing to be blind.

The façade is to protect herself and others,

From what she will and could do.

The necessity no longer protection,

The consequence of discovering yourself, and learning a thing or two.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was the very first poem I wrote. It always give me a nostaligic sense of how far (I believe) that I've travelled. 

Need a Dust Pan


Days are long

Dragging on painfully

Like a belt striking your thighs.


Nights are torture

Filled with darkness and demons

Like a movie playing your fears on repeat.


Thoughts are raven black

Thick as smoke

And billows in like fog.


Heart so broken

She needs a broom and dust pan.

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If I could write a letter to my past,
There are so many things I would say


If I could write a letter to my future,
There are so many things I would ask


I would say “it'll get better, stay strong!”

And that would be a lie


I would ask, “does it ever get better?”
And I would hope that it does


I would say “you're strong, you can hold the world on your shoulders!”
And that would be a lie


I would ask, “did you make it through this?”
And I would hope the answer's yes


If I could write a letter to my past,
I would only be able to lie


If I could write a letter to my future,
I don't think I'd want a reply


We endured so much in the past,
Scraping by, clawing through the dust and into what we thought was sunlight


We'll have endured so much in the future,
And hopefully we'll have emerged in the moonlight


We suffered so much pain in the past,
But it feels like nothing but a sliver under our skin compared to now


We'll have suffered so much in the future,
That if we're still around I will truly be shocked


If I could write a letter to my past,
I wouldn't warn them


If I could write a letter to my future,
I wouldn't ask for help


Because this pain is what makes us who we are,
This pain defines us,
It binds us and shackles us to our broken version of reality.


If I could write a letter to my past,
I wouldn't give help
I wouldn't warn them of the dangers to come,
Because that pain, the pain that defines my very reality
Is all I have left.


And if I could write a letter to my future, I wouldn't ask for help,
I wouldn't ask for a heads-up or a warning of everything to come,
Because that pain, the pain that defines my very life,
Will continue to antagonize my every breath,

Leading me to become someone beyond our imaginations.


If I could write a letter across time,
There wouldn't be much in it,
Because if there was,

Those letters wouldn't be addressed to me,
They'd be addressed to someone completely different,
Someone who hasn't suffered the pain that defines me.


I need that pain.
Without that pain, me wouldn't be me.

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I'm Not

I'm not.
The words I would always say to myself as an excuse.

I'm not.
The excuse that removes any sort of responsibility from me.

I'm not.
Not what? Not capable? Not worthy? Of course I am.

I'm not.
I have a soul strong enough to bend the world,
I have imagination to do anything I want,
The world is in my fingertips.
Of course I am.

I'm not.
But when my mind grips a hold and the nightmares of
Memories beyond that imagination of mine wash over me,
And all I can remember is how I felt when I held
Broken bones of the person who had saved me so many times over.

I'm not.
Not young? Not without pain? No.

I'm not.
But I can sure as hell still stand with this sky on my back and
Say to the world with pride “I am!”
Because what I'm not means nothing to me.
What I am not doesn't define me.
What I am is what shapes my soul,
And gives me the strength to move forward.

I'm not.
And at the same time,
I am.