The Briny Deep of Bandaid Bitters

I'm seven years washed ashore

from the briny deep

of bandaid bitters,

cowering, covering wounds laid open

with no numbing libations

to salve my psyche.

I've learned to comport myself

with field dressings

of Effexor and fear come crawling,

keeping at bay

all that burns

like salt water on a nerve

exposed to the ocean breeze.

Dyslexic Misanthrope

The softest side of empty

is plenty hard to live with;

the quietest despair,

a dissonant dementia.

I am a dyslexic misanthrope,

driven to self destruction,

content with self distraction,

left with self delusion.

I stand in repose

wrapped 'round life's tangle,

with the knowing smile

of a joke played on myself:

The horrific

and the beautiful

are but two sides

of the same straight razor

and Leonard Cohen called

to let you know

you need a shave.