the one i write for
is the one --
i write for one,
the one among --
the only one--
one lonely solitude
i write for one.
you are the one;
i write for you --
the one who reads
and knows i write
for just the chance,
that one among
the many, that one
i write for,
that one
that you
who reads and feels --
the one who knows,
the one,
the one i write for
is the one you know
as you.

It's so late again.
That time where thoughts won't lie still.
I won't ask you to tell me.
I'm not sure I'd even know the answer myself.
I think though, that I've waited long enough.
For myself.
Being a spontaneous person that's an achievement.
But I like to think it's worth it.
The waiting.
The patience.
Not sure if it's a lesson yet learned.
But the reason why.
That's what haunts me.
Why.
I'd just like to know.
I can't ask you though.
I'm not sure you could answer if you tried.
Maybe it wouldn't be fair to you.
But what's fair to me?
Keeping distance because you don't want inflict pain.
Or fear maybe.
Pretending was never a skill I excelled with.
I think I'd just like to start on the first page is all.
Take that step forward into new.
Am I asking too much?
I promise you what I have to give would be so much more.
Or should I give up?
Let be and walk away.
Take a chance that you'd come find me when you're ready.
I'm just stuck here.
Stuck with thoughts.
Like thoughts of what could be.
But what do I know?
It's not as if I'd ask you.
Cause it's my heart you could break.


*©NDHK

"An american nightmare, I'd rather be dead."

She was sleeping in her bed, mind
racing with dreams,
thoughts clouding her small mind
her sleep drowning in the beginning of
a nightmare
die,* the voices whispered, waking her her petite ears that are
adorned with the two diamond hearts her
mother bought her for christmas last year
no one wants you here, a spirit shrieks, evading her 2 am distraction, making
her small body jump in fear
you can't live like this, her parents, teachers, new therapists have said to her
seek help, dear, they continued to preach, throughout adolescence
though not realizing she was drowning in her own voice,
her threatening mind
after days, weeks, months, she couldn't
think any more good because it was instantly
covered by her own horrid thoughts
so instead of writing or singing, she
turned to another helper, a monster
of it's own.

...the blade cut her skin, the razor
made the panic disappear and
the voices fade
for just a few moments, that was all she needed
it left her skin with a tingle, a
fiery touch nothing like she
had ever felt before
one Night particularly her father
had sought solace in alcohol that sunday evening
and instead of
keeping quiet to himself, only drown his sorrows of the day
insults, words not of endearment, were spat her way
worthless, *****, suicidal freak, *****
all that were echoes from her weeks at that prestigious, expensive private school
her parents had thrown money at
because she wasn't grotesque or proletariat to even be seen in 'public schools'
and instead of voicing concern over her distraught father
she calmly stepped into her small, cozy bedroom
adorned with every expensive thing she desired
and she grabbed her blade and cut just a touch deeper,
a smidge further,
a small bit sharper than before.
Now she lays sleeping with a gravestone at her head
that reads her name
and no nightmares to cloud her young mind anymore
however, she hadn't realized that her nightmares
did not go away,
rather,
they were left back on earth
with her loved ones as their newly sought homes.

Once again silver meets skin
Cracks a smile,
Missed it's old friend.
A beautiful reunion,
They want everyone to see
The war raging on inside of me.
Breaking off little pieces of my heart

But who am I to keep best friends apart?

hopelessness is a fish gasping in oxygen
I take in the air but I refuse to call this
breathing and I refuse to call it dying.
I call this a desert; an eternity missing
the shoreline, missing the ocean wave
tango before leaving with the moon. I
refuse to call it foolish to hope I can be
more than a carousel ride of mistakes,
a revolving door of regrets. "I am more
I am more" I whisper to the moon.

Hopelessness is losing all your senses
and believing in love, or music, belie-
ving you can dance with the shoreline
one more time even with the saltwater
in your lungs, even with the ocean
waves pulling you back because

"I am more, I am more" the moon whispers, and
you believe him.

Tell me you’re not perfect.
Tell me all the the things you’ve done.
Tell me everything so I can see
how you became what you’ve become.

Tell me all you’re secrets.
Tell me ones you dare not tell.
Tell me all you’re deepest darkest thoughts
how you stumbled, how you fell.

Tell it like it really is.
Not how you thought that it should be.
I’ve lots to tell to you as well.
The truth shall set us free.