Colony of Losers- Fuck Stigma and Mental Illness, I'm like 25

Surviving your Quarter Life Crisis and becoming an adult

Poetry From When I was 20 #2

Posted on | June 15, 2017 | No Comments

When you’re 20, you have to write 1000 word poems or they don’t count. 

The Beach

 The world began with him

He was everything, bright shining innovated art that was a swirling sea of sand

Born with all the possibility of man

The beach was bred beauty which he always wanted to return to

Sharp eyes that forgot the cosmos in his blinking

We lived in the mind of his memory

Then he exhaled

And touched the world

Peeling rainbows out of his skin gave him a corpse white beard and inability to walk without a cane

Finding himself old without miracles he hobbled fearful in the world of shadows that had once been his body

He finds that he is looking for missing pieces of himself in the landscape

Where the country and the city’s handshake has become a mercy fight

In the heartless world that realized it’s stumbling wrecked and passed out fast asleep

Passion woke him from sleeping death where he lived breathe to breathe

It took the angel bathing in sunlight to realize the dark nature of his name Lucifer

He looks for proof  of evil and just saw yellow brick roads leading to destroyed factories

The furnace burns ashes of things that used to matter to me

These fingers held hope and when they touched my own they made this room a home

The design is eccentric and designed by her till she tore it down when a new fad took her fancy

I changed the locks and bought new keys

I’m the only who possesses them and I rarely check the backrooms

Dusty and entombed bitterness imbibed by dead things clash in memory madness

Never mind madness

When the trains leave the tracks to find this sick salvation of never getting back

The heater does not work and the frost makes me curl up in my bed and not want to leave my Teflon covers

But it’s home

Under constant renovation

The movers keep moving and leaving out the front door, bringing in more sweet affection

The window is half burning with light and black with pitch

My eyes bitch of a lack of having their itch scratched

Families play on the lawn and disappear in shade

I am alone in myself and crying in the crowd

As kids we all decided to interlock hands and never let go

I didn’t know that when you hold onto someone so tight that you can’t let go they won’t let you release

It ruins the game if you know that you can quit

Only losers spit on the field, walk to the dug out and yell strike-out

Play tomorrow because that’s when the sun comes out and makes the shadow cringe

When you stand tall, invincible prince at the ball, and for a matter of principle

You’d slay the dragon and defy the nightsky

Cause the damsel in distress lowered her tresses as a test to show you could depend on her

She is balding or just aging so that hope reflects what you see in the mirror and the tower becomes less clear

What a victorious quest

What comes next

In the light is the sight of true dark

When they kiss and worlds lock

Legs bucking, misery and love fucking to create a reason for that madness

Your blood turns to water and ice, rotten mercurial toxin mimicking fire yet producing chill

I breathe in sulfur at will

Killed emotions lying unburied for the funeral they were not real but sketched skin of a skeleton

It’s only skin deep and that’s where I feel wounds, playing on my sensations sensitive swoon

You are only bones yet with holy tones you declare your self a martyr making your emaciated fingers into a cross

Which you have to bear for all your labor’s pains

I walk through this world encasing the furniture in flames

This is what I need, the wind bleeds my kisses like arrows thrown by Cupid

I don’t have a quarrel with you, stupid

Your just in my way

The legs of my chair are creaky though I know it has my back

It’s been playing in oil paint and decided to paint it black

I hate this room and I set it up just how I wanted

Picking vaunted beautiful roses for my mantelpiece

Know they wither as I grasp them tight

Tasting angelic spite as the thorns bite into my palms

Friendship bracelets tattered and torn

I wish I could have worn them for another year and wished for nothing but you my brother

I whisper and quietly step through the drowning darkness that plays in your eyes

Smiling accomplice to your demise because I deny that the sands were leaking

I’ll never say that the rocking chair was creaking from its tiring days of sex, drugs, rock and roll

Or that love was biting a hole in his liver and constant highs made his pupils lie and his soul cry as it was hidden behind boarded windows

His soul was dammed

All of my friends are premature old men and lost boys hiding from rescue ships to take them back home

Inside behind eye lids I hid and think about everything I did in constant rewind

Hoping to find a way of editing the setting and forgetting the blood letting

In tunnels which I thought held light held me in their tight embrace

Kiss me on my face and lips and slip down my neck to have a sip

Wondering what I am without movement

Without passionate angels holding me to their chest

Showing me the best way to touch the clouds above the ground

And feeling the flowers as I fell down

Feeling the night in her winter’s gown

We slow dance hand in hand until the sun hits her face and she becomes base tears

Sliding down my cheeks and hearing my voice speak her melody

It makes me want to click my heels and be back in a home when I was not alone responsible for construction

Encased in my mother’s love and my father’s destruction of obstacles in my path

When mom would laugh at my insomnia and cook me my favourite meal

Tucking me under the covers, assuring me the monsters weren’t real, living inside me, trying to make me decide to drink deeply their kisses of cyanide and listen to them as they cried

When baseball was real life and self knowledge hadn’t shown us the pathways to hell

I remember sugar highs before sugar became snow which became lies which wouldn’t melt with a warm sunrise

Playing with my favourite snow man, decorating him in my clothes, thinking he would have no choice in his wardrobe

Yet my home is a room with a roof collapsing

Corroded by time’s sands elapsing

I live outside my window looking at passers by

Wondering if I am the last to try to direct traffic so the kids can fly to school sucked into pixies dust stares

Climbing the stairs I find my knees buckle and my seatbelt in covered in glass from crashes

It’s great speeding until he crashes

Our port glasses smashes, wishing we could wish him good health next year

No matter how many books I have on my shelves and showers I take to cool my skin

I don’t have the ability to make the right decision

So the sand returns to the beach

And I’ll have a rough time trying to teach myself not to drown today

I’m going to have a seat

And bury myself in this beach

Hoping for the seas to ease my thirst

It just gets worst because I am going to retire here and have my eyes blinded by blowing sand

I wait till I join him in dust to dust dancing, going with the wind, impossibly free, bereft of me

Drifting towards the sea where our thirst might be quenched

In front of families playing in the sun, living in eternal dawn

I am young yet already an old man

Why do I cry your tears?



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    Michael Kimber is a 26-year-old journalist who suffered a nervous breakdown on November 3rd, 2009. On March 28th, 2010 when he recovered from mental illness, he began writing a blog called Colony-of-losers. About falling on your face to figure out who you are and the hilarious antics of a blond jew. What began with a few friends and his mother reading has become a cult phenomenon, averaging 10,000 views a week, receiving praise from Commonwealth Award Winner Shandi Mitchell and many others. On, November 3rd, 2010, the one year anniversary of his mental breakdown he signed with Anne McDermid and Associates, the largest literary agency in Canada. In a year he went from wearing pajamas, making his couch depression HQ to leaving his hometown for the Toronto, where he exclusively wears business suits and the armor of ancient Greeks. Don't worry, he's still choking on the feet he contently sticks in his mouth and making moments awkward just by being part of them. During these struggles he met other talented bastards and drew them into his circle. Peter Diamond became his illustrator. Patrick Campbell his video editor and part time photographer. He recently added the incredibly talented John Packman as Colony of Losers Toronto photographer. Without the support of the Colony of Losers, Michael Kimber would be nothing. Welcome to the losers and the success that comes from utter and complete failure. You aren’t alone. Follow him on If you’d like to hire him for a public speaking engagement for mental health events in Toronto, like to arrange an interview, offer millions to publish his book or for another reason contact Michael please email him. And join his facebook Colony of Losers.

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    I’m not a trained psychologist. Just a fellow traveler. If you need help seek it from the professionals. The Canadian Mental Health Association provides a help locator. You can find crisis resources provided by the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention. If you are in the states check here. It will give you services by zip code. I’d also recommend checking out I think they do great work and have been a help to me personally.

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