blackfeathersfall

I'm afraid to be a parent. I mean, it's not like I don't like kids; I really do . It's not that I know I'll never have them biologically; I always wanted to adopt. It's not that I don't feel I'd be a capable parent; I know I would. It's days like this. Days where my frustration slices into me like the cold, hard steel of five hundred blades. Days where my head refuses to stop pounding on the drums of war, the echoes reverberating back fast enough that I hear double. Days where my stamina is low, but my self esteem lower, and my smile's corners swing in hell. My body is a traitor. It decided long ago that torment was the only path for me. It b

Dear Past Me,      It's gonna be okay. Things get so much better than where they are now. It's a little rough getting there, but I promise it's worth it.

   A lady, who I later got to know very well as Katrina, came in the room I was in and asked me how I was.    "I'm okay. I-I just want to see my mom."    "Zakaree, I'm very sorry but you can't see her."    "T-Then where's my dad? Can I see him?" I remember her looking down and she was quiet.    "Where's Emilie? I wanna see Emilie!"    "I'm sorry, but you can't see any of them." For some reason she started tearing up. I only knew that I was crying when I touched my face. I guess that's what did it for her.    "Please! Please! I want my mommy!! I want my daddy!! I wanna see my little sister," I sobbed. She came over and hugged me. S

   I was perfectly fine until I met that guy. I was content. I was happy, even!    Well, perhaps happy is stretching it just a bit far. No, I wasn't happy. I was miserable. I was torn apart inside and had nobody to talk to, nobody who would really listen to me. But, instead of saying anything to anybody about what I was feeling, I pushed it down. I crammed it so far into the back of my head that I was seeming to forget more and more each day. So, maybe that's why I blame him. Because he helped me, but he made me think about all of the things I had put aside.    You're probably wondering what the hell is going on. My name is Zak. Zakaree J

It's funny Such tiny words Almost lost in it all They mean so much to me Why you may ask Because I am not a "she" It's so very funny such ity bity things So small in such a picture Yet how badly they do spur But why do they sting Because I am not a "her" It's really rather funny How for some it's totally forgotten just slipped some of their minds But when I hear the "her"s I want to die inside but under my breath I just curse It's not even funny it hurts more than you know I yell and scream but you don't hear me You refuse to listen to the cries Of HE.

Yeah, that's what it is To not know where you are To not know how you feel There's a certain ring to the word It tells you there's no hope Like an ice cold blade of steel Or the tight grip of a rope And I can't tell you how I've searched Checked every map I know I've killed myself to get down to the bone It's like empty chairs where we used to sit It's like bare walls where we used to live How can it be so hard to say the words that I'm screaming inside Well I feel like there's still shit that I gotta hide There's a song that I keep singin' to myself Trying to put this feeling away up on the shelf But I can't No, I can't say what I need

It's sinking in again...     Crawling into every corner of my mind, every crack in my broken heart.          Fear, hatred, hurt, darkness.               It's shifting and forming into what I fear the most.          It's shaping into my greatest worried.     It molds into my biggest desires, and vanishes, toying with my emotions and ripping my hope into confetti. It's clawing into me.     I've got no way to stop it.          There's the "reverse-me" on the dark side of this mirror...               All I see are the shadows creeping closer.          Am I becoming what I want the least?     Am I turning into the monster I to

Black. No sugar, no cream. Just a warm tingling and a bitter sense that dances on my nose. It's 3:20 and I can't sleep. I pour another cup. This should keep me awake. The pot has gone cold. My little cup no longer lingering with that warm touch. I still drink it, not wanting to turn on the microwave for risk of waking anyone. Sip after sip, cup after cup. My head begins to hurt. Is it from the drink, or from the rest of the world? Another cup. The pot is empty now. I'll make another for later. Google and YouTube and Facebook and Pinterest. My eyelids are starting to droop. One more cup. I may as well put this in an IV. Sh

I'm not Pinocchio. Strings don't hold me back, And I'm not made of wood, But my desire's the same. I want to be a real boy. I don't want these bandages Or all these girly frills. Where's my fairy? Where's that magic wand? Oh...that's right: I'm not Pinocchio. So, can I ever be a real boy?

I am bound. Not by chains, Nor whips, Nor the bandages I wear. Not by the names, Or length, Or the color of my hair. But, I am bound. By the very things That have grown and grown, I am bound, Though, it is not shown.