Quarentine at the end of the world

Quarantining. A fancy word for agoraphobia made popular by the pandemic of 2020. My kid is doing classes from a computer screen. Our environment is healing itself. Surrealism. Working from the comfort of your own home. Inflation. Inflation. Currently unavailable. Until further notice. Everyone is in Jack from the Shining mode. Elders and children are at risk. The market is crashing people are fighting people are helping as much as it brings us together as a whole world it destroys us by the crippling fear of catching it. Every sneeze is a red flag. Every nose sniffle and your heart skips a beat. We are officially living in fear. Walking around with face masks so we don’t catch cooties. Welcome to my world. Penned by an introvert. A shut in. A seeker of knowledge and a writer in my bones. This unnecessary public service announcement is brought to you by Beth Toy. Now if we lose the internet we’ll be in full Mad Max getup. Which I love steam punk so I’m down. Be careful stay indoors be mindful use this as time to reflect on yourself and your life and now is the time for gratitude. I think it will blow over by 2021. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but that’s my prediction. Watch out Nostrodomous there’s a new sheriff in town. 🧙‍♀️ If you are paying close attention I’m saying this isn’t the end of the world but a new beginning. It’s just a catchy ass title I couldn’t resist because I’m dark. I never trusted 2020 I knew paladromes were shady characters. Not to mention a presidential campaign. More shady characters.


Wolf in sheeps clothing

My rock was actually sand

Broken shattered glass

His spell is broken

I said I’d wait forever

Hunting bones for sport

Paranormal you

Play the field in Satan’s lair

Succubus you’ll miss

Do you ever feel

That is sad because i do

I’ll feel for you too

October baby

The narsisstic opal

My love tank empty

I believe in love

You believed in yourself more

I blocked you good bye

Revolution #9

Sometimes i feel like I’m floating, hovering about. Sometimes i feel like I’m sailing in the ether as my feet start to lift off the ground.  Sometimes inbetween  the atrophy i dip jerk and grunt. Sometimes there is space in between my gown and the soil as i defy gravity. Sometimes it takes a nightmare to wake up from a dream. My melancholic moods like my martyrdom always conflictingb me. My selfishness and my selflessness are always at war. A martyr i have been. I offered him everything and got the axe again. So now i float toes pointed down, always headed west. The wicked witch of West Seneca they whisper, behind my very back.  for they call me a witch you see, so i levitate when i masturbate and talk in tounges with glee. I dance naked in the woods around a bonfire with the matriarchy. I grow nightshade basked in moonlight and fill mason jars with pee . i shape shift like a skin walker and drink the fountain of youth in my tea. I feel everything so deeply it tends to overpower me. I read  tarot cards,  bones, runes and tea leaves. I  bathe in virgin’s blood as i sip  martinis . I chant in unison with the devil’s sonata when i have an epiphany. Butterflies emit from my toes as i walk with sensitivity. I ride a broom instead of a truck because wheels i do not need. I feel more inclusive in nature than any kind of eulogy. I celebrate every day as if i don’t it’ll hurt.

My next muse will be sorry if thee ever crosses me for words cut deeper than the sharpest blade and i my  pen will bleed. I time travel if i have to unless it doesn’t suite me.  I only wear a pointy hat when it’s Halloween.

Poem 8

I’m flailing I’m sailing into the unknown

I’m drowning but who’s counting i chose the wrong door

I’m craving it’s hailing his touch once more

I’m breaking he’s throwing my love on the floor

I’m concaving the breakage it’s a thousand years old

I’m waiting in vain for a knock on the door

His presence my essence i can’t do it anymore

Sometimes ghosts are better off dead than to keep hurting more


They call me B i live on the streets between the tweakers and the hustlers but they still think I’m chique. He has me beat in a renegade track meet. Regret runs deep in a soul crushing sweep. Lies are the promises you never meant to keep. Close the door on what’s done before as i pray myself to sleep.

Poem 7

I locked my libido in a music box and threw away the key. I hold hands with the sandman in my own purgatory.  The ballerina never springs up or twirls for me but instead lay on her side.  forever in slumber but alert enough to come alive for me to remember. My tiny dancer waits forever impatient and yearning for Springtime, where she may come back to life. March hair. My fair May queen. Teenage dream cotton candy pink with glitter and cobwebs gleeming pristine picket fences coverd in poison ivy and hibiscus trees. But when she comes alive again like nature itself the beauty will be too much to bare. I will cut the cord that binds her and set her free. I will release that little ballerina in the music box with the Skelton key that i hold within my sanctuary. I’ll let her free inside of me. Prisms will emit peacock feathers circulating the air i will be in love again . jasmine and joy will fill the air



Signs of extreme mental illness

Sleeping all day

Minimising loved ones accomplishments

Devaluing other people’s happiness

Not eating/binge eating

Not changing your clothes

Not leaving the house

Not trying new things or visiting old hobbies that brought you joy.

Not seeing friends

Not trying to meet new people

Letting the world pass you by

Frequent crying/breakdowns

Feeling as if you’re better off dead

Poem 666

Sometimes reality catches up with the fantasy. Sometimes a cold of the body or mind intefers from the projection of perfection i try to initiate. Sometimes even the stars don’t shine bright enough for my liking. Sometimes the rainbows bend and morph turning black and blue dripping blood and ink and lose their mystique. Some days you could give me a rose garden and I’d bitch about the thorn that pricked my finger. Sometimes i want to be everything for you but when i see you i crumble. You pick up my broken pieces and perform kintsugi on me like a heart surgeon emitting gold from his fingertips. Sometimes i work so hard on the dream in my mind that by the time i arrive i am spent. Massage my legs, my forehand, massage my mind. Remind me that i am safe. Project your telepathy on self worth.

Forever down, down, down, down, never up, you follow me down the spiral staircase that is my endless big empty. The void swallows me whole. You wear armour. Untouched by the stench of melancholy that surrounds me like a a dirty aura. We plan a night of myth and legends but instead i tremble, makeup runs, i fall into your arms and breathe in your essence as if you are my oxygen. Instead of feeding my fire you hold me tight and watch Doctor sleep.  We morph into each other, bodies and soul collide. You hold me tight, pet my hair. I cry for you. I cry to you. All the bottled up tears are set free. I am reminded i have magic in myself. I am reminded you are the catalyst. Everything turns to gold. I can see myself Better when i see me through your eyes.