Poems by Jack Odyssey

8 notes on the “are y’all still here” post but zero on my new poem post. Fuck this. This is it, this is was the tipping point of me giving up on social media and trying to get validation from people following me and possibly fueling a career as a writer or entertainer or content creator. Fuck it, fuck all social media.

The black ash circle, my journal. A mark of stress swirling down the drain. The smoke a reminder of my limits that change by the day. It’s all but a back door from boredom and an excuse to escape, the monster of habits tells me it’s too late but the wind whispers as it blows the ash all away.

I'm a spider. Out stretched legs into many, many things, avenues. My body moves as if mechanic, robotic. I've a talent of art, weaving a home from webs in intricate patterns but with every one person that appreciates it there's a hundred, a thousand, with pitchforks and torches. I'm ashamed to say I would march with the majority. I've put a price tag on my voice, my words, my writings, my soul. I could not give you anymore of me without splitting my skin and using my blood as ink but it seems so amount of me is good. I'm a toxin, a poison, awaiting your dose of an antidote but I've grown impatient. One can only carry so much disheartened. A part of me is loud, it screams, you don't deserve my creations. another part is just confused that with all I do, every step is a stumble when I use to be so sure footed. failure is a needle and with one, the first, it stings, the second, stings until eventually it doesn't but it doesn't stop there, no, the more you are poked and prodded and stabbed your veins begin to collapse and you struggle to find where to shot up next. im strung out without the high, the high in my future is a suspension bridge and as much as I'd like to think with all I've created, surely, at least, it will be appreciated when I'm gone but I'm awakening to the realization that not even in death will I be loved, will what I create be useful, will anything Ive done matter. even at what I think I do best I'm trailing off.

It was a friday afternoon. the definition of mundane, normal, ordinary, until it wasn't. it was spontaneous human combustion, no fire but my skin burned, my ears mostly. I was mad and more so, frustrated. at myself, at life, at bad luck, at excuses. I did what I've done a thousand times I grabbed a knife and played thanksgivings. A tense toxic family turkey carving event. I cut fast and pressed down hard and my nerves calmed. I spaced back out to my quiet place but it was like someone yelled clear and shocked my heart back to life. dips. dips turned into pours. bright red blood drained from my wrists, staining my comfy blanket. I realized the cuts were not so superficial. panic clouded my chest like smoke inhalation, I guess in this case this would be arson. I wasn't scared of dying I was scared of calling 911. scared of leaving my house, scared of the stitches, petrified of explaining to my mom. It was about a dozen minutes and the stream didn't seem to let up. I got desperate. I asked the Internet for help. I got mocked, belittled. "those aren't even that bad".."you only want attention"..it was odd but it did make me feel better in the moment. surely if I needed medical attention they wouldn't be so mean, right? a friend, though, wasn't so mean. In fact they were sweet. they got as close to holding my hand as someone who lives a world away could. the bleeding finally stopped and they taught me about butterfly bandages. I liked the idea of being healed by butterflies. It made me think of a butterfly I drew when I first started drawing. I use to post it on instagram when I needed to vent. I told myself after that day I would never feel a blade on my pale skin again. I still don't know why I don't deserve it, why its bad to do, why I shouldn't but its been 8 days and my wrist almost looks human again. all I really have is my word and what hurts worst than cutting my wrists is letting myself down. I won't do it again.

I apologize to mirrors profusely, for not being much more than flesh. crossing my fingers that the echoes find their way to my mothers ears. saying those words face to face is hard for both of us. let downs are never soft, for yourself and especially for your mom.

I haven’t posted on this blog in a very long time, it’s gotten a lot of followers since I’ve been gone. I’m sorry I ditched it, maybe I can try to get back to writing on here but in the mean time I did launch a new site for all of my work poolwatertea.xyz you can find everything I do there, again I’m sorry I abandoned this blog, I love you all