What do I do with all the words that I have left unsaid

The shit I want to say
But cant and wont

As if I was filling a bucket with teardrops

Keep telling myself
That one day Ill say it all
Its just that that day
Will not come

So

Writing is the only way I can
Let go of half of the burden
I set the words free
Even though
They never
Make it
To you

But somehow I feel
That they now
Are closer to you
And therefore
Am I

Be the reason I don't drink;
the oil in the lamp, car, pores.
Help me realize rock-bottom
in your backseat; two lovers
in a car on a cliff, watching
the dark brown sugar shores.

I gave up smoking like
it was my child. I couldn't
hold what was killing me,
no matter how smooth, mild.
And I can't hold this baby;
this burden bruising my bladder.
I told my father I wanted an abortion,
he said, "In this country,
your choice does not matter."

Be my reason, Pre-born;
not yet breathing; not yet
crying; not yet teething;
not yet amorous; not yet alone;
not yet loveless; not yet a stone
sinking far, sinking deep
in an ocean of heavy sleep
where you ignore my decision;
my facial tells; my existence;
where your father is God
and erases all frowns; where
his presence suggests that he
created your hair, your smile,
your sounds; Where he is
responsible for the oil in
your lamp, car, pores; where
my only purpose was in a car
overlooking sugar brown shores.

Rain was falling this morning
on my way into work
harder than it typically does
in the morning.

My office was darker
than it typically is
on a cloudy day
like today.

The rain and darkness
are pairing well with
the interviewees in my ears
as I vacantly stare at the computer

entering letters onto the dull white page.
They discuss their respective crafts
while the fan-girl interviewers
go gaga for their answers.

It's usually days like today
that would make someone
slump into a depression -
eyes glazed over, aimlessly working -

but there's something quite beautiful
in the colorless sky today,
something almost musical
in the falling rain.

dead-eyed mannequins bathed in holiday lights
blur of neon-lit faces in a mad rush
lingering shadows born from grey skies
witnessed, as I stood in the rain
coaxing your name
from every raindrop that fell on tired,
brown skin
on a cold New York December.
I stand in the rain, again
under velvet-black skies
a million miles away
ocean caressing my feet, and a zephyr
weaving shy fingers through my hair
poison competing, with your face
coursing through my veins
this rain now acid-on-soul
trying to erase an eidetic nightmare
burning your memory,
from my rust-infested mind

tonight I am letting you go
I am...
no, I am letting ME go.

©Anon

this is my last week of summer
5 more days
until freedom
also known as college
i am counting down the hours
i have nothing better to do

this is my last week of summer
4 more days
until i start a new life
i am counting down the minutes
i have no one to talk to

this is my last week of summer
4 more days
until i become a better me
i am counting down the seconds
i have no one to hang out with

this is my last week of summer
it is the opposite of last summer
i am alone
i am okay
but these feelings are new
they scare me

Words,
I write these words,
I try to find meaning,
My place among the thorns
My eyes are filled with sadness
Lonliness is my heart's only song
I'll forever be a miser,
Forced to tread this world alone.

I’ve stopped drowning in an empty ocean,
I’ve stopped living in a re-wind contortion...

Because the world looks different when you’re in love.

I hope you know that I’m so proud of you,
For making your way down a steep hill and for everything that you do.
I know what it’s like because I’ve been there too.

But the dark days don’t matter anymore, because the world looks different when you’re in love.

I would take a match to my heart for you,
For you, there’s nothing in this world that I wouldn’t do.
I am stuck in a dream,
And here, you are exactly what I need...

Because the world looks different when you’re in love.

It’s like living in another dimension,
I’ve been in others before, places with sadness and grim intentions.
But this one here with you is the positive exception.

A better place, like the flower in a blessed vase.
I will try my best to tell you how much I love you,
And that speaking for my heart has never felt as easy as this to do.

I know I cannot make you love me,
I cannot create feelings the way I create art that will so easily please.
But I hope that you mean it,
I have a wild exuberance with this.

For me, the world looks different when I’m in love.
And for that, I cannot thank you enough.

I love you.

I get drunk to not think about you,
yet you slip through the cracks,
every night you dance in my thoughts,
just to fade when I open my eyes;

I hold onto the scars that remain
because that's all I can bear to
keep after we were over;
I kept the wounds open just to hurt

Sometimes I touch my heart
where you rested your head
& I cry alone at night when
you aren't here laying down

It doesn't really matter, though,
staying stuck in the past hurts;
looking to the future without you,
that is truly what doesn't matter

This morning,
I walked with god and man

I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy

some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regiman
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
complaining why did they got the cheap seats

so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name

watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe

and here is where man comes in...

as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...

strange...

my Pandora app
back to back
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals

and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:

I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We,  now capital buddies,
now all well color capitalized,
god and man and animal
crooning a chorus of appreciation

let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me
to live happily with anticipation
for just one more day...

June 2014

My back on the ground, I wonder if they are jealous of us
With our limbs, we can move around
With statures fated into static, they can only watch

To stand still and tall – to exhale the air we breathe;
Helpless when cut down,
Screams silent when we take their homes, when we trample their kind –
Are they jealous of us,
that we can speak and walk and protect our own?

Yet is there really something to be jealous of
When voices are used to injure –
to implant thoughts in minds that can spur deadly actions;
When the ability to protect is used only for our own skin –
to turn a blind eye to things that don't affect us directly (and seek comfort in its blissful ignorance);
When havoc is wreaked with every step we take – and be so unaware of it?

Have we gone tired of killing those who are sessile – of those who don't fight back that we have turned to each other?
Are we living in a world where those who aren't human are more humanlike?
Is this what humanity is all reduced to now – so preoccupied with trying to kill one another that we fail to notice the larger picture –
that we don't have to kill him, her, or them,
because when we cut them down all those years ago,
we have already killed ourselves?

In the background, they are silent but laughing. Fools, they think as we swing our swords around like toothpicks — oblivious to the groans the ground is letting.

I think so too.

So I'm sitting here, right?
Thinking of something to write.
It's not going very well, if I'm honest.

Like, I can't really think of something important to say...
Poems are meant to be poignant, though, aren't they?
Something worth time and effort, like a parable, or learning how to drive.

If you're interested, it hasn't been that long,
But I underestimated my own ability to shut down at will,
To run head first into dead-ends.

What is a poem, really?
That's not rhetorical, I am genuinely confused; my default state.
How many feet do I need in a line? I only have two to spare.

And if I give them away, how do I cross the finish line?
So I'm stressing over where to put the stresses
So my head's as blank as the verse in a Shakespeare play.

So I'm losing patience quickly, like a drunk doctor,
Or some similarly silly simile-slash-simulacrum,
Simulating the deepest of sympathies for myself.

Wait...Did I just do it? Did I just write a poem?
I think I did. I mean, I probably wasted your time in the process.
Sorry about that. Really, I am. How do I finish this?

Thanks for listening!
Wait, no...
The end!
No, hold on! I can do this...
Have a nice day!

Ah, whatever. You get the point.

There's an ocean, an ocean of fire in the sky, flowing down,
for the moon stretches down to us. So tonight upon our red rooftop, let's enjoy the slow breeze,  while the moonlight unites the oceans in the sky, and covers the Brazilian seashore,
   For it heals the soul of the woods.

All the old sycamore trees, the owls, the hawks, and snakes,
all these things run for existence, so hold onto my words,
Like your wedding ring, let me hold you close,
  for in the quiet night,
I can feel your heart beat, your emotions that run like water.
Let me hear the rhythm of your desires, and your ambitions that lie

awake in you.  

Let this moment separate what you fear,
as I listen to the drums of your heart.

    here

hold my hand, then let my voice unlock creation,
Echoing and speaking the languages of your dreams and desires,
for how I do love you.  
Now see the moonlight's rule over the stars,
speaking pictures of grace into the quiet night.

In such a way the power of the moonlight stands like a king,
thus I will listen and unlock the waves of your dreams.

Men with difficulty forgive and forget quickly.
Women easily forgive, but never forget.

Sometimes you meet a once
in a life time person,
and your paths will only
cross once,
like an eclipse.
But it will be the most
beautiful moment of your
life.
And the whole world will stop
and look in awe,
like the moon crossing
over the sun for just a quick moment.

Spread love not hate
Spread peace and share faith
For giving is the only form of recieving
Believing is the only way of achieving
We are humans, different in race but one in spirit, let's learn to inherit this love and share it

for Tascha

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting
disillusionment


dear god commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
damn the deity non-responsive,
dare not say out loud lest
deserved fates worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be,
disguiser par excellent, I am the original
deceiver

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark still insists can be
deferred

differed always,
diffidently but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past

May 2015

i imagine him
calling someone else
so pretty
and telling them
how he thinks their hair
is so soft and so silky.
he tells them how he loves their
fair skin and how
he always wants to caress
their velvet rose cheeks,
he says they're so unique.

I am uncomfortable. It feels like the very bones in my body are revolting themselves. My stomach is tied in knots, my head is pounding and my heart feels so heavy that it seems to be collapsing my chest. Oh, what a horrific war it is when your instincts battle your beliefs and you are forced to be the battleground.

I feel a warm, rotting coldness in my gut. It feels like a corpse in a coffin. I feel like a funeral, a morgue, a tragedy.

The problem is, I don’t seem to feel anything. Not anymore. My emotions are numb, like they have been submerged into an ice bath and have not yet been lifted out. I want to feel sad, I want to feel depressed and get over it; but I feel nothing.

I feel nothing. Just this corpse in my chest and this pounding elation in my head and this urge to feel but not feeling.

It has been five years.
It has been five years.
Half a decade. Five out of seventeen years of my life, this addiction has been a part of me.

Because for as long as I have had this addiction I have been haunted by the event, the moment I went from innocence to lust and I regret it.

My body now hungers for something I do not want. I am saying no to myself and myself isn’t listening, my hunger is molesting me.

This is what it does. It excites you, makes you want it before you understand what it is, and then when you do it has cornered you. It has played its game and you are now its pawn and you cannot escape. It twists you around like a puppet on strings, twirling you across its stage and making you intimate with every niche of its addiction. And then the sadness comes. It comes in waves and washes the strings out and for a time you are safe. You are allowed to drown yourself, to float through an abyss that expects nothing of you. But then the tide turns and it retreats again and the addiction makes sure to chomp down any ground its lost, and gains more. You return to your strings and continue to dance in a jiggling dangling fashion and it continues.

Finally, you cut the stings, shorten them a bit and it loses a bit of its grip but overall it just holds you closer to itself with the shorter strings and you are left with a numbness similar to when you are held too tight. Too tight.

That is addiction, you become entangled in a thing that you don’t want. An urge that attaches itself to you like a spider web and softly encroaches on yourself. Makes its way into your hearth and home and shuts out the fire. Smothers it, till the room grows cold and there is nothing left. No heat, no flame, no spark, nothing. Just ash and ash and ash and memories because that is all ash is, memories. The leftovers of the flame, the leftovers of the life you had before it all turned gray and oh what a horrible bitter thing it is. It is forced to be consumed down your throat and coats and coats with its gray coat and you become a gray thing, an ashy flake.

That is all I feel right now.
That is all I am, for a time.
I do not feel anything else.
It’s true that from dust man rose and to dust man returns.
I just never thought I would return to my origins like this.

Suffering from depression is like:

biting your nails
when they're already too short

picking at your wounds,
and not allowing them to heal

living in your past,
because you're afraid of the future

feeling lonely,
yet being afraid
to burden other people
with your presence

wanting to get things done,
but being too unsure of yourself
to even try

you want to be happy,
but being sad is what you're most familiar with

you're afraid to live,
and afraid to die,
but you never know which option is worse

i’ve had very few good moments
you know
those moments where it seems as if the stars have aligned

this moment
your eyes
sewn to mine

your head
rolling back
laughing
as I tugged on the blankets

I remember our first moment
it’d been months

when you had asked my name
as we watched a comedy film
which i didn’t enjoy
but laughed anyway
because i’d begun to
love someone
as if for the first time

and as i had dreamt of this day
staring out a lonely window
as the raindrops attacked my home
and a record spun
i sat
waiting
for a boy that would never come

this moment
came faster than i’d prepared for

my name rolled off your tongue
like a melody created for me
in this moment i was certain you were mine
and i was yours

but i am blind
my eyes do not watch
i am deaf
my ears do not listen

my heart
is the only things that guides me
and i can’t help but wonder
am i his
is he mine
or are we dreamers
searching for something we won’t find
in a heart so different from our own

and as much as my soul begs
for him to be good for me
my pen seems to disagree
because it spills a puddle of words
with questions begging to be answered

is something still yours if you lose it

That gust of wind is blowing tonight
bringing with it the scent of the sea
the sweet soft voices of children
who laugh as they play on the shore
and transform that gust of wind
into a harp that lifts my spirits.
I want to listen to the melodies of the sea
written for me on a moonlit night
under a sky streaked with light.
Gems of summer strewn with joy.

Things that nobody talks about:
The desperation of loving someone who doesn't love you
How the sun feels warmer when you've spent a year being cold
The feeling of weightlessness after crying yourself to sleep
When he stares long and hard at you and smiles softly, making your eyes feel shy even when you are not
How people who used to exist in your orbit still take chunks off of your surface, even when you've taken so many hits you hardly exist.

Things that nobody talks about:
Even when you've moved on, even when you've found someone who loves you more, even when you've discovered better things, your skin remembers things best forgotten.

Fall in love with her;
realise you’re never good enough for her,
watch her through the lens of friendship
and savour the way she says “I love you” –
think things you shouldn’t,
know that she won’t love you in the way you love her,
cry, kill yourself, cry;
this is suicide.

Gunshot wound to the head.
Leave a circus for the people who will find you;
let them understand the empty bottle of whiskey and the high pile of suicide notes to those whom you love,
let them shed TV tears over the fact that you never let them in
because it’s your fault –
you never let them in.

Listen to sad music.
Think of the pills on your desk,
how they wouldn’t be enough for an overdose,
you know,
but maybe they’d be enough to make you vomit and get attention.

Slit your wrists.
Down, not across,
straight razor, steady hand, right wrist first,
like you’ve planned this,
like you had her face in your mind as you bled out,
like you imagined you died saving someone’s life,
like you saved someone’s life.

Learn to hate yourself.
Learn to run your hands over your body and wish it wasn’t there;
learn to fantasize about being an angel without a physical form,
learn to want to watch over the girl you love.
If you learn to hate yourself,
it’ll be easier to finish this poem,
it’ll be easier to read the book of the ‘Methods of Suicide’.

And when you finish it –
your life, the journal-book of your weary travels,
put it all down to experience,
and think that maybe, some people aren’t born to love themselves.
Then put down the book, and pick up the gun,
and let me finish this stanza already.

Don’t forget to write ‘The End’.

Sadness is like sipping sea drops drowning down the trench
Sadness is the stain of rain glazed moonbeams on a bench

Sadness is my soulmate; sadness she's my willing wench
Softly singing spirits sleep when sorrows are all spent

“Some people come into our lives and go quickly,

Some people move our souls to happiness & dance,

They awaken us to a new understanding in life,

As they pass a whisper of their wisdom to us,

Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon,

Those are the ones that stay in our lives, and mind Forevermore!”