adhd 3

I’ve never written about my mental disability before.
I’ve never thought about it before
because I’ve hidden it from myself for so long.
I’ve never thought of myself as having a disability before.
But now its becoming apparent
more than ever
that I can’t do what others do.
I want to do what others do.
But I can’t.
So I guess that’s why I have one.
I want to be able to push it aside like I used to.
I used to have the control to suppress anything and everything.
I used to make myself forget.
But I’ve been broken so broken.
By ones I loved but never loved me back.
By the world that I had set my sights on ripped away from me.
I stopped caring about the ones I loved and the passions that drove me.
I stopped caring to control.
And so I have none left.
And now it’s back, it’s all back.


adhd 2

I pick up my phone again I pick up my phone again I pick up my phone again I pick up my phone again
I flip back to the last tab again I flip back tot the last tab again I flip back to the last tab again I flip back to the last tab again I
again again again agin againa agian a haina gain ahia


A stream of consciousness poem about what its like to have adhd

I feel a hollow chaos inside my head.
My brain, my brain my brain
sometimes I think I can feel it
the restlessness of etherealness all around my crown just there and I cant do anything to it and its making me not do anything its just there all the time all the time all the time and I cant do anything
I cant form sentences on a paper anymore
I dont know how I can be so aware but so so helpless at the same time
I feel like I cant ever be anything because of it because its always stopping me from what I know I can do I know I can do better but its always there I cant do anything because its stopping me from doing everything all the time
Nothing numbs this but sleep. I feel normal I can focus I can do things in my literal dreams I can do things better than I could in the real world but they are all in my head they are all what I could be if it wasnt there why is it there
In all my life until this moment that I am writing this I have never contemplated why I have this why I have this why I have this I feel a moment of calm
But its always a moment isnt it
I never get more than a moment from this

The Church of What’s Happening Now

I haven’t written anything for myself since August. Poetry comes from pain. The past nine months have been, as far as I can remember, the shortest amount of time with the highest concentration of highs and lows in my life. Despite this, I have written nothing. I don’t know why. I wish I did. I wish I recorded all of those emotions down. I told myself many times that I should.

I don’t know why I’m writing now. I have so much other work to do, but I can’t do it because I can’t stop overthinking. This is not a new problem. I have had this problem my entire life. I was born with it. But recently I’ve been finding myself slipping into it more and more and I think its because I have stopped caring about whether I slip into it or not. It is so exhausting to care. And recently the final touch has caused me to give up caring all together. Maybe that’s why I’m writing here.

I feel like I have wasted so much time
following your tail in circles
after I realized that all this while
it was just mine.

But then I think back
to everything that that you did
and I find it hard to believe
there wasn’t a little bit of authenticity.

I would have felt better
if you had just said
it was something I did
rather than who I am.

But then I begin to doubt your words
and I doubt my thoughts.
I got these trust problems long ago –
that’s not your fault.

So if I take your words for truth,
then the past is a lie.
If you’re words are false –
then there’s nothing worse you could say.

I Think I Will, Eventually, Forget

I think about what will happen to my paternal grandparents’ house when they die. I always hated that house, not them, not the experiences that I had in it. Just, the house ITSELF. I hated that no matter how many people you filled it with it always seemed empty, no matter when you went into it it existed on another plane of time and space. Lonely. How it always had a crushing quiet, the quiet of an awkward silence, when you heard that a family member has just died, except it is always, always like that.

My maternal grandparents house was similar, but less so, mostly because the only place that was eerie was the basement (I avoided it like the plague). This house felt more familiar, in a subconscious sense. My Mother’s family was larger than my Father’s, and well, it still is, despite how many that have died, and have made that once familiar house more hollow than before. It was also once filled with family members in picture frames that had died, that I had never met, that even my Mom had never met. When my grandmother died the house began on its downward progression to this hollowness, in fact, that was actually the beginning AND the end, because when my grandfather died, his soul had already left him when the love of his life did, six years before.

When I was working the other day, I had a sudden flash – of lightning bugs and of the humid New England evenings that had seemed to never have an end, in my maternal grandparents’ fenced-in back yard… it was the first time I had thought about these memories, that place, since my grandfather passed away, and it came to me, in a sudden realization, that these nights would never happen again, these dark sunsets playing capture the flag with siblings and with cousins (in the end someone would inevitably get hurt), capturing lightning bugs en masse (because dear God they were everywhere) would exist only in my memory; I could relive them as many times as I wanted to, until I replayed them so much they eventually faded and became forgotten, like the jaded photos of family members on walls, like my Dad’s cassette tapes that he claimed to wear out, like the rotting books and dusty vinyls my grandparents gave me, all of those, existing in my memory or not, with someone watching them or not, would fade, would rust, would tire of being the objects they were, becoming nothing, so that no one would even remember them for what they were.


Always one step away
from the waves to your right
and my hand to your left.
Always in the middle
between how I saw you
and the edges of my memory.
And always I keep stepping closer.
I think it’s the getting closer
that makes your feet colder as they move back in the water.
And then I begin to forget what you look like.
As your body disappears between the foam in my mind.
The sound of the current drags your voice away.
Your smile disappears beneath the waves.
I know you can swim.
I know you can find your way without me.


When I turned the telescope upward
the day fell away from me
and I was left with the night.
But just the black expanse –
no stars: were gone.
I was left with the ugliness.
I only saw that imperfectness.
I only believed in that imperfection.
No one ever moved my hand
just a little to the side
so I could see that shining light
That each of them had seen.
I looked down and away
and saw so many others with telescopes
pointed in all the wrong directions.
I saw them give up –
drop their hands,
drop their heads.
Just as I had done
because I hadn’t shifted just a little bit
to see how brightly I had shone.


Saying “used to” has become my past time
because it’s past time to find my inspiration again.
It’s what made me feel more than a useless piece of shit.
I lust for that once great luster I thought I held…
I thought I could have held you:
my muse, my wonder.
Perhaps because I haven’t seen you
I haven’t been able to make use of the time on my hands
anymore than I used to do.
In fact I’m using my time less and less
as I run out of time to use for all the mundane things that I’m doing
instead of writing about you: you my muse, my love…
I have forgotten if I loved you, or the feeling you gave me.

Same Brain/Same Page?

Do you think you are qualified
to be with a man who has never been satisfied?
Or have you overestimated your own talents
and the severity of my intoxication?
You’d think that I’d be easy to invite over.
Ah, but those who believed that have never seen me hungover.
Better think twice about trying to find your way in:
my brain might not be on the same page yours is.


The way he looks
appears to be
as if he is enticing me.
He could, in fact,
be acting completely naturally.

The way the air
begins to flow
between his breath
and every word
could be a sign he’s wanting more.

Or perhaps
it is just the way
he sews his phonemes
into morphemes.
Nothing out of the ordinary.