The Truth About Living On Borrowed Time – Peter Olsen

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide and/or self-injury, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at (800) 273-TALK (8255).


I’m not good right now
I’m not well at all

But here I am!
Right over here
I’m still alive

Beating the odds
As I’m holding on by a thread.
Walking a tight rope 50 feet from the ground wishing the wind would blow me off
Onto some rich douchebag’s BMW.
Fall down go boom.

And yet within this self-destructively suicidal wish….
I hope that a magical safety net would fly from out of nowhere to catch me as I fall.
And I wish someone was there.
Anyone would give a fuck enough about me to hold me as I break the fuck down.

But yet here I am
Me against the world
“Fighting the good fight”
Trying every day to walk away from the darkness toward the light

Functionally suicidal I guess
As I try to live a “normal life.”

I still go to work every day
I pay my bills
I file my taxes
I write these blog posts

I try to remain as hopeful as I can.
But I’m crumbling inside.
I’m drowning
In a sea of self-doubt and regret
I’m sucked into the unrelenting quicksand of my blackened mind

I continue to willingly live with the darkest recesses of my poisoned mind.
The darkness is slowing overtaking the light.
In here everything stays the same
And nothing will ever fucking change.

I can’t fucking take this shit anymore!

So the eternal question still remains:
Should I stay or should I go?

The continually running juxtaposed narrative of wishing I was dead
Yet by finding too much beauty in the world I’ve made at least one excuse to live.

The bitter pill of truth says
I am just as worthless as I was when I was at age 16.
The sweetness of the nectar of lies says
I can survive to fight another day.

This is the co-dependent duality of my fucked up so-called life.

I don’t know how I’ve made it this far.
I don’t know why I’m still alive.

But I am.
I’m still here.

I keep going.
I keep moving.
I keep living.

And I’m still fucking standing.

I’m not sure if I’ll make it to age 65.
I’m not sure if I’ll make it to this summer
I’m not even sure if I’ll make it to tomorrow

Living on borrowed time in this temporary shell of skin and bone and blood.
Functionally suicidal I guess.

But I can try
To stay alive
To live to see another day

I have to try
To stay alive
So I can see another sunset
Or see anther sunrise.

I need to try
To stay alive
So I won’t die.


After graduating from Washington State University with a B.A. in Humanities, Peter M. Olsen found his true passion and became a blogger. He has written for Feminine Collective, Rachel Thompson, and Hasty Dawn Words.

Peter is also a mental health advocate dedicated to helping people with mental illness.

In his free time, Peter is in search for the greatest taco trucks in the Pacific Northwest. Peter is a raver and PLUR warrior, video game junkie, coffee addict, and an all-around pretty cool guy. Trance, house, and techno music keeps Peter a very happy guy.

Peter lives in the greatest city on Planet Earth. The Emerald City…Seattle, Washington

The Weyward Sisters: Hand in Hand – A Collaboration from the Women of Sudden Denouement

There is great power here.

Source: The Weyward Sisters: Hand in Hand – A Collaboration from the Women of Sudden Denouement

You are never alone – Sarah Jean Bowers

Depression and anxiety
Encompass more than sadness,
Fumbling hands,
and racing heartbeats.

It’s missed deadlines,
Canceled plans,
drawn blinds to block the sun,
prayers to make it to dawn.

It’s silence
after breakdowns,
Bruised knees
From praying
for peace.
It’s lying in the fetal position,
drowning in a sea of tears.

It’s succumbing to grief
And the lies it sometimes tells.
It’s heartache
holding you down.
It’s searching for answers
at the bottom of the bottle
when you sometimes hate
the taste of air.

But it doesn’t have to be permanent.
Your strength is stronger
than that which holds
you down.

You know the taste of
resilience and perseverance.
It’s as sweet as
the sun when
You finally step outside
and she kisses
your face.

You have touched hearts
with your bravery,
Unknowingly healing
others’ wounds
when they realize
they are not alone.

The stigma is fear’s best friend.
Don’t let it paralyze you.

This world has
hands to hold,
With journeys and
Similar to your own.

You, beautiful soul, are never alone.

© Sarah Jean Bowers 2017


Sarah Jean Bowers is a poet, old soul, and resilient warrior.

At the age of eight, she lost her mother in a tragic car accident. She self-medicated with poetry and began to put words to the feelings that held her down. Twenty years later her father died in an accident. She attempted to soldier through, but PTSD and anxiety forced her to take a step back, slow down, and start to heal her wounds. She listened to her body and finally took the time she needed to find steady ground and a purpose to live her life to the fullest.

She has turned her tragedy into poetry with the intention of empowering and healing others with her words. You can find her poetry on Facebook and Instagram.

To Summon the Beast – A collaboration Nicole Lyons & SeA

Our shadows danced
the fire like savages
before a kill, unaware
that our souls
were their prey.
without inhibitions or regard
for self-preservation,
we danced on.

The flames licked
our heathen heels, scorching
flesh long into the night.
The way we moved bled
fevers through seared skin
and cast
the smells of our filth
upon the air,
beckoning the scavengers.
And still, we danced on.

The way our demons swayed
together taunted the flames
to burn hotter, and the darker
the dance became, the more
we yearned to feel cracked
and burned flesh
flake from our bodies
as they drew even
more from us.

We disturbed the beat
of blackened hearts pounding.
Grinding with the rhythm
of charged pulses, we howled.
The strange tongues thick
in our mouths, provocation
to summon the monster.

It sat quietly
watching us like
it knew us
well, the beast.
It had sold us
our crowd.
The foreign eyes watched
with red stained hate
and envious jealousy
dripping from their lips;
they did not know
they were wrong.
We would consume
them, these monsters
of pain.

Our shadows swung
wildly off
our hips, lunging
into howling mouths
panting for our taste.
We watched
them, the devils
feasting upon each other,
chasing souls into the flames.
The beast smiled. And still,
we danced on.

© SeA 2017

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Today is my Goddam Birthday – Dori Owen

I received a card stating this a few years ago and found it amusing enough to become my birthday theme. I am not really prone to random profane statements on my own.

Do not even think about asking me how old I am. I would never tell you, anyway. I am young enough to be reckless and take crazy chances―but old enough to make fairly good choices when necessary.

I an quite practiced at creating my own birthday celebrations. Ten days after Christmas is not the most opportune day for people to get into a festive party mood. My family still gives me gifts wrapped in Christmas paper. Most of my friends forget this day is my birthday. I certainly do not blame them. Enough already with the holidays this time of year. I can always picture the thought bubbles above my brothers’ heads, “Oh, gawd, it’s her birthday. We need to do something.” Actually just leaving me by myself to run amuck is a good something to me. I crave the solace of selfish days alone with no responsibilities or obligations. Although I will admit to wishing for a summer birthday when I was a kid.

But I like my birthday now. To me, it represents the start of a new year. A blank canvas effect. A chance to have some do-overs from the previous year and an opportunity to think of lofty goals for the next year. Most years I say I am going to become a prolific writer. There are an infinite amount of stories inside me all waiting for their turn to be told. Some years I ponder a book.

Last year I painted some of my best pieces, this year I’m going to paint even more. I am also going to:

▪Be kinder to others.
▪Nurture my friendships.
▪…and have much more patience with my aging mother.

On this fine birthday I am going to sleep in, take a nap, eat my favorite foods, and buy myself a few presents that I probably cannot afford. This would be the reckless me.

Because today is my godamm birthday.

© Dori Owen 2017


Dori Owen is an infamous artist, writer, zealous activist and admitted Crazy Girl. She is a columnist on Feminine Collective and an editor on the The Lithium Chronicles. All she wants is a pony for her birthday. To read more of Dori’s brilliant words, check out her column on Feminine Collective.

She Is Soul and Stories – A Collaboration

Tiny stories crawl beneath her skin.
Sometimes they breathe love from her heart,
dropping kisses from her soul
and other times they drag sadness
through her core and stay hidden
behind her eyes.

© Michelle Schaper 2016

Until the memories find their way inside,
exploding the tears through the blue,
through the brown, puncturing the disguise
of whatever color her chameleon soul told
her to be; self-preservation comes in many shades,
and hers happens to be beautiful, with or without
a smile, because there are many stories to hold
when the ink is born from your blood.

© Stephanie Bennett-Henry 2016

Bursting tall tales
from ink smeared lips; she holds
her stories close. Suffering
the burn of words left unsaid scorched
into her spirit.
She spills her secrets onto deaf souls
and she aches,
to open her own to eyes
that would finally read her.

© Nicole Lyons 2016

Pretty Poison – N.R. Shepherd




I often ran my hand, down her back,
from her neck, to the tip of her vertebrae.
A smooth perfection, the way the light
glistened off of her scales. I admired
the way she used her tongue; sexy how
it flickered, tasting the air. Constrictive,
how she could disengage her jaws,
and swallow me whole. Docile at times,
basking in the sun, but we both slithered
in darkness. Her blood frigid, she still
needed warmth to survive. I allowed her
to coil up, in my heart, and find refuge
from the elements of the world.
As I knew, nature would eventually
run its’ course………..she struck.
With deep holes in my soul,
and my veins burning,
toxin pumped straight to my heart.
I took the pain, and embraced the burn,
for I too had frosted feelings.
Now all that remains, is crumbs of her skin,
and the scars of a love…….once deadly.

© N.R.Shepherd 2016



You can pray if you want, but God’s not here this evening. ….It’s just you and I under this pale moonlight, dancing… N.R. Shepherd

For more of N.R. Shepherd’s brilliant words, follow him on Instagram and Facebook.

Sin Twister & Amnesia – Nicole on OTV Magazine

I am thrilled to be featured on OTV Magazine again today with two poems. Have a peek at Sin Twister and Amnesia.



Lilacs on Leaving


I am thrilled to be on the gorgeous site, Sudden Denouement today with my new poem Lilacs on Leaving. Have a read, and while you’re there make sure to check out the amazing work of some incredible artists.

Thank you, Jasper.

One of those days – Mariah Yates

I am so pleased to welcome a new face (from our Facebook page) to TLC today.


One of those days.jpg


We all have our days
The days we don’t see coming
Where everything that can go wrong
Seems to go wrong
Or maybe just one really shitty thing
That makes the rest of the day crappy regardless
& we let those days break us
Strip us of all hope
Reconsider all the other little shitty things going on
Let them all add up
Let them weight us down
We help ourselves into a down fall
Open the door for ourselves, to misery
Invite it right in
Yesterday was one of those days for me
& I can still feel some of it lingering with me
Threatening to drag me back down
Wanting my mind to wander to feeling sorry for myself
Wanting me to wallow & cry
Wanting to make me feel bitter & angry
Wanting me to scream that “its not fair”
But ya wanna know what?
I’m still here
Still living, breathing, carrying on with my day
& yeah maybe, that doesn’t really make things better
The emotions are still valid
& its still unfair
But I think we tend to forget
Just how many of these days we’ve had before
That we are here now
At this point in life, cause we made it through them
They will pass
& better days will eventually follow
Great days even
Don’t let a bad day
Make you think its anymore than just that

© Mariah Yates 2016




Mariah is a 25 year old mother of two beautiful boys. She has been writing since elementary. She was diagnosed with depression and anxiety in her teens and uses her writing as an outlet, it helps her cope.

“I love when someone can relate to something I write. It tells me a lot about them & helps me realize I’m not alone in my struggles. I’d like to help end the stigma that surrounds mental illness and to just share some of the chaos in my mind.” – Mariah Yates