If life is a living hell,
And living is a privilege,
Then surviving is a show-and-tell
Of who’s got the most,
And it’s never the ones struggling
To stay afloat.

If this is hell,
Then what can be worse than this?
Who really wins when it’s all
Make-believe and pretend?

The rich get richer,
And we all keep drowning in debt,
Expected to just take it.

the world might end in the afternoon on an average tuesday,
anxiously re-reading a dozen messages without an answer.
when a broken photo frame becomes the last drop
and you find yourself unable to believe that superstitions are stupid
and the familiar ringing of the doorbell sounds like a death sentence.
despite the agony all there is to show is silent acceptance,
because their yesterday's sacrifice bought you another tomorrow
and you can only pray that in that moment they weren't alone.
although this emptiness inside of you feels like a death sentence,
the world ends every single day without anyone knowing.

This fleeting moment with him was so sweet
looking back on this in ten years I could probably name so many
just know it was sweet
and you were understood
and right now you are happy and warm
and the sun looks like the guitar riffs floating through your bedroom
and the dog is sleeping
and your room is messy but it's okay
because we'll take care of it later
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are still alive

Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again

Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness


I am not dying yet, but I am not living         and I am thirsty

For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees


Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me

Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.


Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame

Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed


Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.

I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills


Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over

With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say


I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

Here we go again.

Another poem focused
on the past, focused on
sins.

Another stanza of a
pain so deep inside,
that there’s no way out
from within.

Days go by and it never left,
Depression, obsession, and
a little possession,

It’s demonic,
and not right.

But suffering
never ends.

Breathe. Inhale. Live. Die.

Smoke and mirrors,
all the time.

Here we go again.

Another poem,
another line,

Written and signed

By the artist who lost
the will to live and survive.

I haven’t given up,
But the energy inside me
has dimmed over time.

Life has swallowed me whole,
And I’m caught in the tide of a
never-ending spiral,
Drowning at every word.

Will I make it out of
this storm, or be carried away
by the waters, no sign of life
and screams left unheard?

I’m content with suffering,
but this emptiness inside me,
persists without warning.

I forgot how to feel,
Forgot how to smile,

The last time I felt
something,

I haven’t felt that
way in a while.

And so life
reminds me,

That no matter
what I do, or where
I go,

My problems always
follow me, even when
I’m alone.

I haven’t given up,
And I haven’t broken
down,

But I know my
problems won’t go away
until I’m six feet underground.

I cannot help it.

I hev limitid leeway.


I must bee handy.

a paragraph, written a million times
doesn't remain the same cause the words
are constantly changing themselves,
and you are as well.
a fire that burns through the night
may seem bleak compared to the brightness
of a brand new sunrise,
but at the end of the day
it's not the amount of light that counts
but the strength to survive again.
and people are not some constructs
to be created and disassembled at whim.
they have their own voices
and their own incredible stories to tell,
and you do as well.