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New Opportunities Available with Good Morning Bedtime Story

Hello Ladies and Gentlemen

Good Morning Bedtime Story, an international online organization dedicated to building an awareness of mental health through writing, poetry, art and music has a number of new prospects that are coming alive in 2014.

The first is the announcement of a forum, where people will be able to discuss issues they are having whilst dealing with their mental illness, talk about their survival stories and offer advice to others who are suffering. We hope it will become an area of the internet where those suffering depression, bipolar, schizophrenia or any other form of mental illness will be able to congregate and safely discuss their lives, challenges and feelings.

Additionally on the forum, emerging artists will be able to showcase aspects of their artistic creations and acquire feedback in order to help become published. This will assist artists with becoming creative contributors in Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS) anthologies.

To help manage the forum, GMBS will require moderators to look at the conversations taking place to ensure that none begin to show racism, hatred, derogatory comments or excessive violence.

Moreover, GMBS still has a number of openings available for volunteers. Jobs will include updating social media pages; posting calls for submissions to anthologies; marketing any new ventures the organization is undertaking, and creating ideas to advantageously benefit the organizational cause.

GMBS is always open for online submissions, which will be posted on the website. Volunteers too are able to contribute with submissions, and those who volunteer their services have the opportunity to receive a recommendation for their resume.

If anyone is interested in becoming involved with GMBS, you can e-mail them at: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com

In the e-mail, explain why mental health matters to you, what ideas you have to help further promote the organization, and also outline whether you are interested in working as a forum moderator. Only successful applicants will be contacted.

If you ever want to submit work to GMBS, you may submit poetry, writing (both fictional and memoir), music and images relating to mental health to: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com

You are able to post under a pseudonym if you wish, and all published work remains copyright of the original creators. Be sure to include the word ‘submission’ in the title of the e-mail.

Thank you for reading and I hope you consider submitting work and contributing to the organization.

When the Darkness Wins

I dream of an infinite darkness
so impenetrable, it is like nothing
I have ever witnessed. I watch
as it sweeps across the surfaces
of my mind, leaving the corroded
charcoal of once good memories
in its wake, the black powder
billowing across all that has been
razed to the ground. I know now
without the need for confirmation
what this agony surely means;
the darkness inside me is winning.

The condition of my internal body
parts has contaminated every inch
of my foundations which can no
longer stand without the assistance
of another. But who alive would dare
commit to such a grievous endeavor?
My confidence was one such victim
of the nuclear haze that blurs the senses
of my fractured mind, belittled by
the pains of life, and where others
may see happiness, all I ever look
upon is a never ending damnation.

If only past lovers could see me
now, would they have ever really
loved me at all? Would they smile,
so graciously, knowing that they
jumped the flooding ocean liner
before it started sinking?
Nothingness has a hold over me,
much like a boa-constrictor, and if
the light does not shine through
before the dusk settles over
the horizon, I fear that when the
morning comes, I will awake no more.

It would be so much easier to end
the savage journey now, than live
with its continuation looming over
my shoulders, which falter as though
the weight of the universe is applied
to my body. I would exit the world
on the same day that I was entered
into it, for could it not be seen
as a mistake if I, a broken soul, am alive
in the first place?

If normality is not indeed my brethren,
do I not deserve to die? If not for me,
then for someone else, to submit a favor
upon the minds of others, because to
gaze upon such a wretched beast is surely
not good for one’s well-being. I would
strike my flesh with a razor, and strip away
my bruised exterior, to reveal unto
the world outside my own how red
the blood of a pained individual can be.

But what of the fingers of a famed heroine,
who gently caresses that which the razor
has not yet touched, and removes the jagged
metal from my fingertips before I can
ruin my body some more? Nobody would want
me if I were mutilated flesh, for many have
a problem with my suit of skin the way it is
already. My hope for invisibility is removed
in the instant that I am touched by gracefulness,
for in the end that is all I ever did want;
to be noticed by an affectionate hand.

The Unchosen Choice in Destiny

I was told ‘I love you’ once,
but now those days
are just an echo in my mind,
for never shall these words
of three, pass over the tongue
and through the moist lips
of another potential paramour
again. In a vain attempt
to avoid the pain that comes
with heartache, I find myself
blessed that I can become
like a robot on occasion,
and walk stiffly like a cyborg
would, rather than move
fluidly like a human,
for if I walk like the majority
of this planet’s population
society will be disgusted.
Never have I been real good
at acting like a human, and
the people I come in contact
with can effortlessly see through
my masquerade, and although
I hate the fact that after
all this trouble, I still feel the dark
emotions of a traumatised
soul flourishing through
my senses, I know not
how to conclude such a feeling.
Unlike a watch in dire need
of repair, with parts that can be
easily switched out for new
features, I cannot be mended,
and shall instead remain forever
broken indefinitely. I cannot foresee
a potential future where
I am destined to be loved
by anyone; on the contrary,
I have been witness to the potential
future, and it is of no surprise.
When the end does come,
and its fruition is unstoppable,
I’ll find myself dying
alone and afraid in the corner
of a rundown establishment,
because such is all I am deserving.
If by some miracle I was to be
reunited with romance once more,
suddenly and without expectation
I would proclaim to the woman
I have fallen for ‘you have saved
my life!’ and she would jump
several feet towards
the stratosphere, yet manage
to retain her usual glare
all the same. But love,
although been strong in feeling
is never really quite enough,
and I would believe
the sensation traveling
across my major senses
to be nothing more
than a facade, and upon reaching
this conclusion, whether
or not it carried the weight
of truthful logic, I will push
my lover away until they leave,
for my destiny will then prevail
and I shall be left alone
again, as I inevitably always will.

Perilous Waters of Pain

It is pointless for I to love thee,
for you could never have feelings
for the person that I am. Never
could you look to me and think
how you wished to experience
a dinner, with I sitting across
the table for two from where
you are seated.

Never do I enter your dreams
as you lie comfortably
in bed, beside a man who,
in comparison to me, has none
of my many features, because
inside and out, we are not
the same, and never will I hold
anything of interest to your
heart and happiness.

Because of this, I will cry myself
to sleep this night I am without you,
and every night that is to come,
until time itself no longer ticks,
for although the realist in me
knows how pointless my pain
surely is, and how it shall go
unnoticed forevermore,
the romantic in me still holds
onto the belief that a destiny
together awaits us on the
other side of tomorrow.

So let it be writ that I can wait no
longer for my wanted paramour
to fall into these arms of mine,
and although the dark clouds
of a mighty depression are
brewing beyond my window,
with the torrential rain of
painted death preparing
to serenade my soul, I will
not allow the plan I had once
considered to become the
fate that shall greet me next
morning.

Once there was an unhappy
time when I would have
contemplated shoving a blade
through my jugular and
expelling the water from within;
such would have been excruciating,
but afterwards, all I would have felt
is shock before falling into a deep,
dark coma, from which I would
never awake nor see daylight
again.

I live by myself, and I realise,
that no one would have
found my body, until I was
nothing more than a fleshy
heap of compost gathering
flies upon the surface of what
was once clean carpet.

But I know that this fate would
never lead to the woman that I
love the most, and although you
may not love me tomorrow,
nor any day that comes
thereafter, I will love thee until
I find another amazing woman
who steals my heart away, who
I hope will not already have
her love belonging to another.
Until that day does arrive, I will
love you, and that for me is
good enough at this very moment.

Insufferable Decay

This poem is so dark, you’ll need a torch
to read it; a flicker of fire in
a lightning strike to illuminate the
dark passageways that branch forth from the page.
In a country of fertile happiness,
where the spoils of luck and understanding
are the undying wealth of the people,
who am I to take such an emotion
away from them and replace it with my
own? If the destiny of the many
is to live a life filled with purpose and
solidarity, I for one do not
represent the purveyance of peace and
equality, but of emotional
disdain and decadence from which there is
no escape available to be found.
Although I have discussed these feelings with
those of a ‘professional’ nature
who are supposed to help thee in times of
turmoil and distress, never was a cure
granted to me on a silver platter.
I was given as much acknowledgement
as a pariah, and thus my pain has
grown and grown until it is all I have
become. Lessons are not what are learned for
actions speak much louder, and I have heard
the words of interlopers, and they sound
the same as me. The system is fraught with
problems, but none are able to be solved.
There are no noble heroes in the world
I reside in, there is only me, and
when a man is imprisoned with nothing
else but himself for company, he is
left as empty as a desert wasteland,
and believe me when I say I am a
prisoner – and the loneliness is my
jail cell. Although this prison is without
bars, freedom is not necessarily
granted just by walking out, for where is
one to turn, when dead ends are everywhere?
I have never felt more alone than I
do right now in this very moment as
I write these many words, for I’m forced to
suffer the insufferable decay
of my own humanity keeping me
company until I die. Everyone
has someone it would seem; someone to hug,
to kiss, to love; everyone but me. I
made peace with my many demons a long
time ago, and I became quite content
with the knowledge that I would never find
myself romantic companionship, and
then she happened to walk into my life,
and all of a sudden everything changed.
I came to hope that perhaps I was not
doomed to spend my life alone, but as great
as that hope was, it was nothing more than
a lie of omission, false like Santa
Claus, for she left me, just like everyone
else, and so I was inevitably
dragged back, all the way into the doldrums
depths. With these words written, there is nothing
else for me to do but dry the liquid
that streams forth from my eyes with a tissue
and hope for better days. Have you ever
felt so lonely, that even loneliness
didn’t dare associate with you? Have
you ever felt so lonely you wanted
to kill yourself just to end it all; just
so you could have company, even if
that companion was your own blood lying
beside you rather than inside you? My
musings are that of a broken man, cursed
by loneliness and grief, and because of
this reason I am going to murder
myself today, and I’ll gladly serve my
prison sentence for this crime. This prison
is unlike the one I lived within for
so long now, and is instead alternate
in nature; hypothetical to be
exact, for the dead do not grieve over
the crimes of the living, even if that
is all I care for right now. I cannot
think of another option to erase
the loneliness from my heart. I’m sorry
for my lack of strength, but I cannot stand
the pain, and so must permanently leave.

There Were No More Roses

On the day I do pass away, no one
shall dress in black. There will be
no funeral procession; there will
be no obituary; there will be but
a wren on my windowsill, chirping
happily where I never did. Find
comfort in this if you can, for
there is no comfort to be had
here. These words have no
rhyme; no syllable; no purpose;
they are as dead as the dried
blood I left for you; the only
thing I ever left for you; the only
thing I ever did right; left a perfect
puddle where I concluded my
effortless journey. Like my mouth
my wrists are open, like my lips my
wrists are red. I have never seen so
much red before, and it almost brings
a smile. It reminds me of the roses
I once had and in my bodily liquid I
see them again, their petals eagerly
awaiting the opportunity to lick my
wounds.  Washed away are my
troubles in the blood in the
shadow of one last ‘good-bye.’ No
note, no reason, there’s none to give.
If you still don’t know why, like you
didn’t know then, I ain’t gonna bother
letting you inside to admire my cuts
and bruises. I’m broken; I’m defeated;
my life source is all but waning. I don’t
have the will to carry on, so I cut down
deep like taking an axe to a tree, my
wrists are felling and I suddenly feel
again. Maybe this ain’t right, maybe I
am wrong, but who’s going to say such
things as my insides flow out around
me onto my navy blue tiles? My life
flashes before me, twilight’s upon me
and as always, you’re not here. The
arterial red draining from my body fills
my heart with so much glee. I’m glad to
be rid of the pain; of me; of you. There
was never a better time to say goodbye
like the present, but the words still fail to
come. Like ‘help’ the vowels and
adjectives become stuck in my throat,
such alien terms gurgling down deep,
frustrating me as always with their
symbolism. I am glad it is over, do you feel
the same? For the record, I ain’t apologising,
I always knew it had to be this way. I
wonder if mommy will be impressed right
now, she never was before. Death is the
cure I’ve been looking for, has it been
the same for you all this time? I’d ask you
to join me in Purgatory, but I’ve been
there already half my life and know it
better than I know myself. I ain’t going to
no better place; I ain’t going to no happy
ending. I’m just going, and this time
I promise you, I will not be coming home.