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Audio

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I've been hearing that the world is ending.
I've heard it so much these days i can either
completely ignore it or never leave my house again,
that is if I actually left my house for things
that don't directly enable me to keep my house,
see
I've been thinking about driving nowhere.
I've been thinking about becoming a box inside a locked
room inside a dark house at the dark end of the street.
I want to go away until i'm gone
it takes so much less energy to not
exist than it does to exist and get burned.
I've been burned so much i'm not me
anymore, I'm a stupid puppet version of me
I've got strings that lead to nowhere,
nothing is pulling on me
I wish someone would drag my hand out of
hiding and sign my name on a dotted line
There are days that I cannot find the sun
even though its right outside my goddamn window.
when getting out of bed feels like the key in the doomsday machine,
so on those days this is what I tell myself:
Whatever you're feeling right now there is a
mathematical certainty that someone else is feeling that exact thing.
This is not to say you're not special
this is to say thank god you aren't special
I have kissed no one good night
I have launched myself from tall
places and hoped no one would catch me.
I have ended relationships because suddenly I was also exposed
Isolation is not safety, it is death.
If no one knows you're alive, you aren't.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to
hear it, it does make a sound but then that sound is gone.
I'm not saying you will find the meaning of life in other people,
Im saying other people are the life to which you provide the meaning,
see we're wrong when we say
I think therefore I am.
The more we say it the more it sounds like
I think therefore I will be.
You cannot think yourself into a full table
You cannot think and make walls and a roof appear around you
I have thought
and thought myself into corners made of words and nightmares
and what has it gotten me,
but more thoughts.
a currency that only buys more currency,
so please
if you want to continue existing
do something
learn to make clouds using only your breath
build a house even if every wall leans to the left
love it anyway
just like a season
just like a child
love how you hate yourself sometimes because
goddamn at least there's still something to hate
I know how easy it is to think and keep
thinking until you're the last person left on earth
until the entire world becomes no larger than
the space between your bed and the light switch
but
I hear the world is ending soon.
when we go, and we're all going to go
I will be part of it.

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And when your fourth love leaves you

You will want to kill yourself, but you won't

Because you no longer think of suicide

As a house you will build on day.

Your fourth love, who is your first real love,

Who brought you peace when your whole body was a gun.

When she leaves you, ask your roommate to hide the knives

Because you will carve her name into all of the food in your fridge.

Stop showering, warmth will remind you of her.
Masturbate in public, hope someone catches you, Just so you can feel vulnerable in front of anyone else

Try to burn her clothes, try to fall in love with strangers,

Try to fall asleep without her.

Open the windows, she would've wanted them closed.

Turn off the radio, she can't sleep without noise.

You can't fall asleep without noise but noise will sound like her,

Whispering you into the world of lights and breakfast.

Make the rain sound like nothing,

Make the rain sound nothing like her voice.

Don't be alone.

When you are alone you won't do anything you did with her

So you won't do anything.

Marvel at how she, the patient gardener, the bringer of sleep,

She, who draws the bath and lights the candles.

She, who made you someone who could make himself into someone.

She made you want to live more than anything else

And now she makes you want to leave the world

Because you have seen it.

In her you have seen the color and shape of your perfect life,

And now the children, the house, the arguments about tableclothes

Are all fading like things left in sunlight,

Like any dream left too long in the light.

For months, maybe years, everytime you see her

You will want to kiss her.

When you do you will expect pain to come,

Like the old dog you could never quite put down,

But there will be none.

You will remind yourself, she will remind you,

You will remind each other that this is for the best.

That you are physically incapable of loving one another.

And in those moments you will be lying.

Your heart screaming, "I can! I can! I can!"

But you will stay silent

Because of her, because she asked for this,

Because she filled something in you that's still full

Even though she's gone.

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many things
happen in your life that shouldn't

the black spot that grew in the cancer
the subcompact that just could not wait to meet you

maybe things do happen for a
reason but that reason is stupid
maybe your brother fell out of a window only because he's an asshole

I love you
but I can't keep letting you show up
where I am and remind me of what I said to you all those times I was drunk that one time

most of them were just hurtful
nonsense but I am proud of
'you were like a comet every so often you come around to fuck up my shit'

in a perfect world all the

towns in Illinois would be named Blood so I could no longer pick out yours on a map

when you're dumb enough for long

enough you're gonna meet someone too smart to love you
and they're gonna love you anyway and it's gonna go so poorly

it must be odd for our mutual friends who like me more

but think you were right

to say I hate you would imply a world in which I kissed more than your stomach

look we've

established that I'm a jerk so let me

say this
I'm a flat tire and you are a

pothole full of lug nuts I'm a pile of
bricks and you are holding a sledge
hammer

which is to say I would not exist without you
you

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"The best way to get to heaven is to take it with you." - Henry Drummond.

Our headlights snake across the west Texas highway.

Out here, they’ve only got two kinds of music on the radio, country and western.
Her hair touches my shoulder in the wind.

The road signs say “Turn ahead.”

We sing along to songs our parents taught us.
"Turn ahead: Steep cliff."

Her finger is curled around my belt loop.

"Steep cliff: Pay attention."

The road curves away from me

My voices crumples as we clip the guardrail.
Our wheel lift skyward.

The car spins, flips; the sky and riverbed fight for supremacy.
Our headlights kick into space.
All of our clothes float around us.
Her blouse blossoms like a supernova.

Change in the cupholders form constellations glinting in front of your eyes.
We are astronauts coming back to earth.

When the nickel stars settle in the dust, we hang upside down, dangling like marionettes from our seat belts.

We unbuckle them, fall to the ceiling that was never meant to be a floor.

Her collarbone is broken, the same one she fractured at six years old.

The glass is flung around the car in a perfect halo orbit.

We are freezing in our own solar system.

And as I’m blinking in and out of consciousness, she speaks to me in a voice that comes from just behind my ears.

She says, “All that has ever mattered is volume, and if you turn up the speakers past the point of sound, to deafening silence, you will hear me again.

"I will whisper your name through the cracks in the canyon rocks and you will know that this is heaven.

Knowing that someone will always remember your irises and where you hid your love letters and why you could never speak in anything but short sentences.

It is not a golden escalator or a glowing choir conveying you into the sky.

The hand of God down not reach down and pluck you from your earthly shell, no, the way to heaven is here, in your last moments, these last half second before your soul shivers out of your bones.

You will see the candle on your first birthday cake, feel the brush of your mother’s braid, smell your father’s shaving cream on the day he taught you.

There is a tornado in your throat.

You will hear our whispered phone calls, our entwined “I love yous,” and their softness will weigh down on you.

Heaven is an exhausted horse laying down to die.

It is you and your ceiling fans conversing in whispers.

Heaven is floating to earth in this already shattered car.

I will lie here forever and sing to you all the things I stopped myself from saying while we were alive.

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Borderline Magazine and Orange Quarterly

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"OCD"-- slam poetry and mental health awareness | Neil Hilborn | TEDxTeachersCollege

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This talk was given at a local TEDx event, produced independently of the TED Conferences. Can a poem change the way we talk about mental health? Neil Hilborn shares his experience with OCD and what happened after his poem of the same name went viral.

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People from all over the mid-Atlantic region came together in the name of poetry June 21. Youth poetry teams from Philadelphia; Camden, N.J.; Baltimore; Richmond, Va. and Hampton, Va. met in Philadelphia to compete in a poetry scrimmage. These talented young poets are preparing themselves for the international youth poetry slam Brave New Voices, which will take place in Philadelphia starting July 16.

The slam consisted of three rounds. In that time, each team performed three poems, one of which had to be a group poem. The teams all performed their pieces and shared parts of themselves on the stage while telling their stories. The topics varied widely, from the experience of growing up with immigrant parents and racism in college to autism and female circumcision. The scrimmage ended with Team Philly winning, but each team spoke beautifully. Their words were compelling and made audiences excited for what is to come, when the larger competition takes place later this month.

A College National Poetry Slam champion, Neil Hilborn, performed at Drexel during the spring term and captivated his audience with his poignant poetry and warm rapport. Author of the popular "OCD" poem, Hilborn's work has promoted slam poetry to wider audiences while embracing heavy topics like suicide and mental illness. His work, like that of the many young poets who performed earlier this June, inspires audiences to embrace their inner demons and find resolution and healing through poetry.

Eager to spread his message, Hilborn kindly agreed to answer some questions. Ranging from writing tips to music suggestions, he gave unique and fervent responses, proving that he is not only a captivating poet but a captivating person as well.

The Triangle: At what point did poetry become more than a hobby?

Neil Hilborn: I started competing in poetry slams in 2009, and I took it as seriously as I would if it were my job, but there was definitely no money in it. I won $20 at a slam once, and I was ecstatic. In 2012 I went on my first tour with The Good News Poetry Tour, and we made a decent enough living, but only because we left home for a month and stayed in the region we were touring. We did the same thing in early 2013, this time touring the Northeast - and I also coached slam poetry teams and ran workshops, but still, I kept my day job. It wasn't until "OCD" went viral in August of last year that I was contacted by what is now my booking agency, when I began touring in earnest. The whole thing is still super surreal. I'm still a pretty big rookie, and I can't believe that poetry is my job.

TT: What/who has had the greatest impact on your style as a poet?

NH: Oh god. Big question. A couple of my biggest influences in terms of my writing are Paul Guest and Sherman Alexie - Paul Guest because he employs long, contrived sentences that barely mask his extreme emotions, and Sherman Alexie because of the effortless way he mixes humor into his work. Poets who have influenced both my writing and performance are Patricia Smith and Michael Mlekoday. Patricia Smith is one of the most successful slam poets and page poets I can think of, and her work is always impeccable, precise and heart-rending. Michael Mlekoday is a teacher of mine, and he, more than anyone else, taught me how to construct an image and how to speak precisely.

TT: Who are some of your favorite poets/authors?

NH: The poets I mentioned above, as well as Nick Flynn, Sharon Olds, Carrie Fountain, Nick Lantz, Matt Rasmussen, Jason Shinder, Franny Choi and Hieu Minh Nguyen.

TT: When did you first begin to turn to poetry as an outlet?

NH: I first started seriously writing when I was 14. I had always written poems, but only occasionally and never for catharsis or therapy. Pretty much every poem I wrote when I was a teenager was terrible, but everyone is bad at art when they first start out.

TT: What types of music do you most listen to/enjoy - favorite band/bands?

NH: I used to be a punk kid, but now I am an awful hipster, so I'm going to give you a few bands in a few different genres. Cool? Cool. Punk/hardcore: The Gaslight Anthem, Crime in Stereo, Against Me!, Modern Life Is War, The Bouncing Souls, The Menzingers, Streetlight Manifesto; country/folk/bluegrass: Lucero, Possessed by Paul James, Crooked Still, Robert Leather, Trampled by Turtles and some radio country, but don't tell anyone; Motown: Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, James Carr, The Four Tops, Diana effing Ross and the effing Supremes; rock/indie stuff/other stuff: Bruce Springsteen, Neutral Milk Hotel, The Mountain Goats (who also counts as a favorite author because his books are rad), The Horrible Crowes and Jason Anderson. Woof.

TT: Are you interested/involved in any forms of art other than poetry?

NH: I am interested in music, theater and graphic novels, though I have absolutely no skill in any of those genres. I am teaching myself the harmonica. Does that count?

TT: What are some ways in which you feel you've grown as a writer?

NH: Oh god, so many ways. ... I will just say here how I am trying to grow myself now. I am trying to stay current on what is happening in poetry right now, submit my work to more journals and publications, and push myself to write in more than just my style, which I like to think of as snarky with something to say.

TT: What is your best advice for improving as a writer?

NH: Edit. Never stop editing. Edit until your keyboard breaks. Find a writing community that you love and trust and make them look at a poem 20 times. Along with that, let go of your ego; realize that the people editing your work aren't trying to put you down or say you aren't a good writer, they are saying that this particular line right in front of them isn't doing all the work it could be. You're never going to be perfect, and you certainly aren't going to be perfect all the time, so allow yourself to write some crappy poems. Even if you come up with a line that is the corniest line in all the land, let yourself write it because it might lead you to the best line in the poem.

TT: How do you see yourself/hope to see yourself progress as an artist?

NH: I would love to spend more time touring professionally, and long-term I would love to be a professor and also an editor at a poetry press. I also have a goal to be the hands-down funniest poet alive, so tell Jeffrey McDaniel and Tony Hoagland I am coming for them.

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Slam poet Neil Hilborn discusses his work - The Triangle

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People from all over the mid-Atlantic region came together in the name of poetry June 21. Youth poetry teams from Philadelphia; Camden, N.J.; Baltimore; Richmond, Va. and Hampton, Va. met in Philadelphia to compete in a poetry scrimmage.

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I first encountered Neil Hilborn when I came across a viral performance of his original slam piece "OCD" which can be found here. This poem is located in the center of Our Numbered Days making it, what I believe to be, one of the most important pieces in the entire book. "OCD" describes Hilborn's own struggle with mental illness and how it led to the demise of one of his relationships. He wrote: "She told me that she shouldn't/ have let me get so attached to her,/ that this whole thing was a mistake,/ but how could it be a mistake/ that I don't have to wash my hands/ after I touch her? Love is not a mistake." It is this same heart-wrenching language that is weaved throughout each of his sarcastic, melancholy, yet pragmatic poems. Hilborn portrays the painful confines of mental illness with humor, making that which seems unbearable worth fighting through. Hilborn is not shy about heavy topics such as suicide, nor about pressing social issues of our time. The back cover of the collection references Hilborn's unapologetic nature: "Our Numbered Days is like playing mini golf on a first date: it will be embarrassing at first, but, it swears, you're gonna love it."
So why does this collection matter? I think the answer is that Hilborn writes what many of us don't know how to put into words. For example on page 18, Hilborn's poem "Future Tense" is about losing a fourth (and only true) love: "when she leaves you, ask your roommate/ to hide the knives because you will carve/ her name into all the food in your fridge. [...] she made you want/ to live more than anything else, and now/ she makes you want to leave the world/ because you have seen it." The line break at "carve" first led me to believe the speaker would say something like "carve your skin" but Hilborn subverts our expectations, letting us know that the speaker wants his lover's name everywhere because he will find her everywhere. Hilborn creatively dodges saying "she is my world," avoiding overdone cliché. This same raw honesty can be found in "Here and Away" on page 53: "I am not saying that you will find the meaning of life/ in other people./ I am saying that other people/ are the life to which you provide the meaning." This connects with "Future Tense" clarifying that that speaker attached meaning to his fourth love. I believe Hilborn is using his poetry to assert that we, as human beings, create meaning in our own lives.
An integral part of "Our Numbered Days" is the struggle surrounding depression (Hilborn's own, and that of the speakers he personifies). In "Here and Away" the speaker says: "It takes so much/ less energy to not exist than it does to exist" and counters that negativity by later adding: "isolation is not safety,/ it is death. If no one knows you're alive,/ you aren't" (53). While Hilborn is describing the torment of depression, he doesn't solely lament over it. He uses the phrase "If no one knows you're alive,/ you aren't" to give his readers "tough love". Yes, one may be depressed and reading this poetry about being depressed, but nothing is going to change unless one does something about it. Hilborn also focuses on different implications what it means to have a mental illness. In "Joey" the speaker mentions how his friend was unable to get help:
[...] I can pinpoint the session
that brought me back to the world. That session
cost seventy-five dollars. [...]
It took weeks of seventy-five dollars to get to the one
that saved my life. [Joey and I] both had parents that believed
us when we said we weren't ok, but mine could afford
to do something about it. (8)

This raises larger questions about the United States' healthcare system. Why aren't those who need help for a mental illness getting it? Hilborn uses his poetry to make readers think about important questions like these.
Something I particularly enjoy about this collection is the witty humor Hilborn employs to cut some heaviness of the material. In "Ballad of a Bruised Lung" he claims: "... maybe things do/ happen for a reason, but that reason is stupid" (6). In this simple comical phrase, Hilborn asks us to challenge our everyday beliefs; he wants us to question if the way we were raised impedes the way in which we carry ourselves. Humor is utilized to give life to that which is ordinary: "... parallel/ parking is like making love but more difficult/ and in public" (46). Lines as ridiculous as these make readers think about Hilborn's creative process: how is parallel parking like making love? And why did he write "making love" rather than "having sex"? Hilborn wants readers to question his work, to use his pieces as a means of learning not only about oneself, but also about the world around him/her/them.
I find myself reluctant to discuss shortcomings of "Our Numbered Days." The collection is vast in its coverage of what it means to have a mental illness. It also contains several moments that attempt to raise readers up from their struggles. The poems live up to the collection's title, emphasizing how even though we suffer through hardship, we can't spend all of time suffering-our days are limited. If I had to choose one specific qualm I have with this book, it would be that the pages are not numbered. The collection is published by Button Poetry, a renowned organization known for the recording and posting of slam poetry performances on their ever-growing YouTube channel. It seems unprofessional to me that such a distinct organization could leave page numbers out of one of their books. Other than this mistake, I don't believe Hilborn's book is lacking in any specific domain.
To be honest, it was hard to write this review without calling Hilborn by his first name. His poems invite readers into the intimate troubles of his own numbered days. As a writer and someone who struggles with mental illness, I feel like I connect with him in a personal way. For example, he writes: "When I say/ I am in love I am also saying the world/ makes sense to me right now" (21). What makes these lines so special is that I can feel them: I know what it means for the world to make sense, and I know what it means for it not to. Hilborn forces us to admit to our struggles, accept them, and to get out of bed. We don't know if we'll be able to tomorrow.
Reviewed by: Arianna Miller

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I first encountered Neil Hilborn when I came across a viral performance of his original slam piece "OCD" which can be found here. This poem is located in the center of Our Numbered Days making it, what I believe to be, one of the most important pieces in the entire book.