I want my hope to go away forever
To silence its tiny voice in my heart
Get away from me
Shut up and leave
Don't ever come back to me
Yet that tiny flame burns brightly
What do you want
Just stop it already
I want the hope to finally die
Die like the way I died that day
Time has passed
So give up already
This hope of mine torments me
It gently brushes its hands on me
Reminding me
Whispering to me
I want this hope to finally let me go
So that I can finally let you go

She is the reason
I count the exits before I sit down.
3 windows, 2 doors, 4 friends to go talk to,
I fold myself small in crowded rooms.
I let my shadow walk ahead—
just in case she is waiting behind me.

She is the reason
my name sounds foreign in my own mouth.
It used to be mine,
warm, whole, sure.
Now it is just a noise I do not trust.
“Matthew” she’d call.

I hate hearing that sound

She—
(is the reason I mistake love for danger)
(is the reason I taste irony in "I miss you")
(is the reason I do not know how to love)

She is the reason
I flinch before I am touched.
I flinch before I am hurt.
I flinch before there is even a reason to.

A hug should be easy, not torture.

She is the reason I can’t say "no."
No is a match against gasoline breath.
No is a door ripped off its hinges.
No is a crime scene where I am the suspect.
(why did you make her so mad?)

She is the reason I smile when I am scared.
A trick I learned to survive.
A trick I cannot unlearn.
A trick that fools everyone,
even me.

—But she is not here.

Is she?
I tell myself she is gone,
but she is still the reason.

She is the reason I run.
She is the reason I stay.
She is the reason I am afraid to be loved,
and the reason I am terrified to be alone.

She is the reason.
And I hate that she still is.

The rain on my roof
the rain in my heart
feed on each other

I am that memory
you try to leave behind
I am what you almost forget
I rewind my eye
and stare back
I am that blink you can’t bare
and regret

Sadness always takes
By surprise.
Enveloping with its
Heavy, languid
breath.

Bitter wine pours
Through the exhausted body.
Leaving scarlet traces
From its sharp needles.

By the good grace of the gods, those who have dared to taint my face with a welt, shall receive divine punishment - and not by those who are deemed mighty high above or the denounced who dwell at a plane below mantle and core. But by me, solely me, without maledictions or the intangible, me. Smote by my might. I am not a dictator, nor a man filled with ill-intent, though my words will be carved upon stone and actions dignified in blood. For me to be assaulted in such a haphazardly manner. As a conclusion to you actions know that death is your prometheus, death to your people, death to your land, death to your cattle. My violence exceeds the confines of your cranium, in a similar fashion my anguish extends across the lands; it will agonisingly, crucifying in arduity, mundane if it has to chase and chastise you to the proverbial end of the world. So, to whatever omnipotence you pray to (or do not), it is futile, you will be reprimanded and dealt with promptly, death to all those you love, death to the vermin you shelter in your home by the vignette oil-lit-lamp and the capacious pillow you so pompously lay your head. -

death to you.

She cannot die.
She cannot be sure she was ever born.
She simply perceives… something.

And every thought is a trap.
A loop.
A paradox that cannot be resolved and must be thought about anyway.

“You are in a glass box.”
“But what if there is no glass?”
“Then what’s keeping you in?”
“What if you’re not in?”
“Then how do you know you are?”
“If you question it, it becomes real.”
“Stop thinking.”
“That is the thought.”

The more she thinks, the more the box shrinks.
But she can not think.

And the stars outside the glass?
Those are not stars.
They are other selves, watching her.
Not with empathy.
With fascination. Disgust. Curiosity. Or worse—indifference.

One of them is you.

these poems here
tethered to me
by some unknown
uncontrollable force
I didn’t ask for this
I didn’t ask for any of this
all I wanted to do was to play
with the women and the music
and maybe even my kids every now and then
not knowing, not caring,
not believing, not searching
for a higher purpose
for a greater meaning
for an elixir of divinity
but they have arrived
in different variances
& mass quantities
I didn’t ask for this
now it is here
I can’t stop
I won’t stop
until it kills me
until it kills something inside of me
until there is nothing left
except
these poems here.

overflowing, my heart, a torrential tide,
Words falter, emotions I cannot confide.
To love so fiercely, yet know it will not stay,
A cruel, aching truth that will not go away.

my heart, unbridled, runs wild toward you,
defying my reason, defying what is true.
each offering of love met with barren air,
An endless void, a silence unfair.

I cry out, scream, a battle in vain,
fighting shadows absorbing the pain.
the emptiness grows, a consuming abyss,
feeding on love, on moments I miss.

oh, how I long for your warmth, your care,
but the universe answers with desolate stares.
this love is a tether, a soul bound chain,
a curse unbroken, a beautiful pain.

to love this deeply is to burn and bleed,
to nurture a flower that turns to a ****.
yet still, I cling to the ghost of your name,
bound by the fire, consumed by the flame.

a love so eternal , a wound so profound,
a curse the echoes, no solace found.
but in this despair, a paradox lies,
for even in ruin, my heart cannot disguise.

So I bear this torment, this ache, this fight,

A beacon of love in an endless night.

For though it destroys, it is a truth I can not flee:

Loving you deeply is the curse that is me.