O mistress, your gentle eyes were a warm angel’s song.
Your glazed almond skin was soft like a ******'s touch.
Bound me in chains of desire and sin in your love dungeon.
Your euphonic voice calls out to me like a raven’s tweet.

I licked my lips and pleasured my *******.
My face flushed like a thorny rose.
I reached out to caress her tendril twine of hair.
She whispered sweet nothings that filled the air.

O mistress! Our love is wrong.
In the heat of this forbidden love
we embrace the eternal night,
sharing a kiss in the moonless delight.

My body’s a canvas, craving her touch
I yearn for her sweet *******.
Pain and pleasure whips me to shape.
My love for her will always creep.

O mistress, come close to me.
Print your skin on my pale flesh.
Prepare me for my best nightmare.
Where you invite worship for this time.

You stab me with love like a swordswoman
and make art out of my darkness.
No demon or god can tear us asunder.
There is still beauty in this immoral hunger.

O mistress, I submit every ounce of my soul to you.
For you have your way with me for eternity.
The bellowing echoes of ****** rumors
will never take my love for you away.

I pace around, adoring each flower.
I’m not nervous. I just have bipolar.
I’m tapping my fingers for ten hours.  
I’m not restless. I just have bipolar.

I wake up four times during the nighttime.
My heartbeat flies out of my very chest.
Awake. It’s been hours since watching crime!
Alive. I begin prepping for a test.

My words bounce back around the four drywalls.
Like a child, thoughts scamper through my mind.
Abruptly I laugh. Then I start to bawl.
My emotions begin to intertwine.

I make mindless plans with seven people.
I say something out of pocket to Van.
Now I try to use a tattoo needle.
****! I just tossed and broke my only fan.

What if the voices I hear are from God?
Then I am Satan, and we’ll stay at war.
I’ll strike him so with my ruby rod.
And impale him down into the earth’s core.

What if the voices I hear are from space?
I’m an alien with horns and a spot.
No one believes these voices are my race.
They do comment and understand my thoughts.

What if the voices I hear are man-made?
I shall sail the seas like Columbus–
through the stormy nights where I greet afraid.
I’ll find the land this man encompasses.

And I’ll ask him why he made me this way.
Does this mean I’m special– brought to a curse?
These voices persecute me every day.
They have become the air that I breathe.

My mind is louder than New York City.
I tell it to shut up, and it’ll yell back.
I tell my story. Some say I’m gritty.
How can I be brave? I let them do this.

My mind dominates until I have none.
Some of them complain more than my grandma.
Voices play games with me till it’s no fun.
They nibble parts of my brain, and they gnaw.

Oh, voices, voices, why do you taunt me?
It is amusing. I don’t let others bully.
I let my mind become the enemy.
**** these voices! You have already won, you, see?

I watched “A Beautiful Mind” by John Nash.
How can this mind be beautiful when it’s all gone?
I do draw what I see throughout the day.
I realized these figures took my mind away.

I laugh like a maniac.
Then I burst into tears.
My emotions are corrupt.

As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.

****, it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.

Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.

What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?  
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!

Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.

The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.

They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.

There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.

In the reserved room built with teenage angst
sat a guitar waiting for a dear friend.
My quick fingers were tentative to touch.
I listened to the chords I brought about—
played a tangle labyrinth. I wish to quit.

Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Frustration brews like a furious storm.
I wanted to toss everything away.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that.
Too embarrassed by my ineptitude.

I loathe guitars! I cannot play them right.
That riff was supposed to be heavy metal.
Not math rock, but it’s enough to settle.
That might change if I use guitar pedals.
Cmon, keep your head high. Let it stay bright.

A friendship with my guitar has begun.
There are bounds I’m still trying not to reach.
And one day, I’ll be good enough to teach
or possess an audience at the beach.
Hey, the guitar is becoming quite fun!

****, metal. I’m a stoner rock artist.
I can play bends, solos, and vibrato.
Look, I even came up with a motto:
to thrive, start with anger in a bottle.
With my advice, you will go the farthest.

My fingers’ pink blush irritates my skin.
Still eager to play. I ignore the sore.
It doesn’t feel like a chore anymore.
This instrument? It’s mine. It led to doors.
It helped me find heaven and become kin.

Forgot what I searched for to find heaven.
But I know that at the age of seven
I seized my mother’s phone and found a god.
He led me to an arresting world with strings.

Strings that swept your hair the way the wind does
when your ego would reach the sparkling skies.
They touched your heart no matter how heartless.

I refused to blink because if I did
I would miss a second of his gentle
fingers gliding across the maple fretboard.
And no sane person would want to miss that!

Strings danced back and forth as he played a chord.
Oh, his fingers grew sore, but calluses
helped desensitize them from aches and pain.

The instrument he mastered was waiting
to call him master cause’ guitars love how
he manipulates and makes them his slave.
Strings begged for his touch, for sounds they could make.

My eyes felt heavier than dense gym weights.
I mustn’t stop gazing if I want to
stay lost in heaven. So **** riveting!

“School is tomorrow.” “******, I forgot.”
“Give the phone back. Hmm, what are you watching?”
“Heaven.” “What did you say?” “I said heaven.”
Mom didn’t say anything afterward.

A few hours came, she asked for the phone.
I gave it to her, prepared my backpack.
Maybe in a different universe.
I would have proclaimed, “Don’t take the phone back.”