i need to drive away
i need to get out
i need to explore
i need to experience
i need to scratch a never-ending itch
i need to pop the bubble
i need to be free

but i can’t

i have been tossed into a sea of the thickest honey
i have been stitched into the fabric itself
i have been locked in a cold metal box
i have been thrown into the ocean with a weight
i have been stabbed and cut into pieces
i have been drowning for years
i have been strangled every second of every day

i am suffocating

i don’t belong here

its like a box
slowly growing smaller
and encroaching my mind

its like an entire lifetime of sugar and fast food
waiting to fill my arteries
and suppressing my blood and bones

its like a chaotic muddle of yarn
tangled around me
and suffocating my soul

its killing me
but its also killing you

i keep wishing for the adventure
filling the time with inevitable annoyance
and trying to forget, like they all say

you see my unhappiness
and try to fix it,
try to fill the voids of unhappiness

but it can’t be fixed

because i don’t belong here
because its killing me
because its killing you

Take someone
far away,
take them on a journey
through more than words,
but by their absence.

or at least
that's what we all

wish.


See,
Words put a box,
a name,
on feelings
on emotions
that deserve
to be free.

I know what I need to say
but I don't have the time,
the energy,
or the words
to say it

Why does everyone focus
so intently
on the monetary value
as if nothing else
mattered?

with so much given
comes an unexpected addition -
stress-giving,
anxiety ridden,
pressure inducing -

upholding the expectations
and surpassing them
to make everyone else's efforts
worth it

It's not about you
escaping life.

It's about not letting
life escape
**you.

life is full
of snap decisions
that change the course of history-
most aren't even conscious
just natural alterations-

your future
all depends
on these minuscule verdicts
and everyone around's

all you have to do
is choose the correct
sequence of decisions
in the sea of selections

So much strain
comes from the confinement
children and young adults face
but the only solution people have
are either more boxes
or shame and isolation.
How can there be no solution?
How can there be no life
for those who are tired
of waiting in boxes?
The earth is made
and intended
to be our oyster,
but we have drained all sea
for the oyster to live in.
The world is not an oyster,
it is merely the shell.
It is the lie told
to eat the food you don't like.
It is the diet soda
eatings its way through you.

The feeling, the burning sensation
decomposes my spirit to crumbs
leaving a hard exterior shell,
a parasite taking over my body
and leaving only the remnants
to be discovered too late.

Life;
a box of chocolates, right?
But where did they go?

I, we, spend minutes hours even days
staring at pixels and RGB colors
living life through someone else's journey
gaining a materialistic knowledge
that is rendered useless outside
and sacrificing everything desired
for a compressed, sensible inferiors
in order to save some bucks or years
unintentionally creating a problematic paradox
causing pain and even more confusion
how can the truth, the necessary,
be increasingly stifled?

Cry it out.
It helps.











Sometimes.

I can't move,
I can't breathe,
I can't feel,
I can't be.

The horror
I experienced

The pain
I ached with

The confusion
I faced

The stress
I battled

The uselessness
I adopted

The guilt
I tended to

The horror
I experience

The pain
I ache with

The confusion
I face

The stress
I battle

The uselessness
I adopt

The guilt
I tend to

The memories I
hold on to unwillingly

Dismissed

without

a

single

word.

We cannot begin
to fathom
the hues of life,
painting an image
with only a fraction
of the possibilities
and capabilities.

We settle
for only
the tubes I have
to create something
beautiful in its own light,
but just
not quite

rite.

the vibrations of silent music
an invisible hug
walking barefoot in the grass
your first breath

Schrodinger's cat rehashed
plants in the wrong habitat
ants crawling up and down your flesh
pins and needles writhing in your stomach

the first sign of spring
being encased in bubble wrap
walking on a cloud in the sky
a new life

until they open the door
and the steel shatters

Life -

absolutely everything
but white nothingness

the same word repeating
over with consciousness

a mix of new and old
real and other-worldly

a ticking clock of gold
heading towards eternity

full of empty promises and mistakes
waiting to be made

plump, sweet, moist cake
tempting and searched mad

giving possible anything
and taking everything

the most painful
the most terrifying
the most intense
the most deadly

but why do we continue this trap
if we know the horror it entails?

for the moments of pure happiness
for the thrill of the chase
for creating the unknown
for the endless giggles

everyone has their own reason,
some doesn’t even know that reason exists
and some do it for the wrong reason
yet here we are

until we aren’t.

Every day consists of
seconds and moments stitched together,
letters and ink endlessly connected,
steps and hurdles effortlessly taken,
connections and pathways formed into a web,
decisions and intentions made into actions,
thoughts molded into conversations,
tasks turned into passions.

Many remain unhappy
because of the way the world has
changed, demoralized, mutilated, twisted
how we approach these things that occur in a day;
now turned into a survival of the fittest,
skewed and bribed until there isn’t anyone left.

It all seems pretty silly
until you too are put in the ring
and expected to be torn to shreds;
there is no way you can come out unscathed,
and suddenly you find yourself with all the others.

The song
Echoes
In another land,
In another tongue,
In another life.

The cracks
Ricochet
In the road,
In the wood,
In the skin.

The chains
Shackle
The prisoner,
The lock,
The mind.

The darkness
Disguises
The path,
The crime,
The joy.

The light
Blinds
The moon,
The screen,
The sadness.

The journey
Imprints
The road,
The shoes,
The soul.

The silence
Scars
The concentration,
The room,
The heart.

There's a constant war,
Each day a battle,
Some days I win,
Some days I lose horribly,
But every day,
I have to deal
With the trauma
of yesterday's bloodshed

Life
Is like someone
saying the same word
Over and over again

The art of a mountain climb,
so perfect and humbling
while losing all sense of time

One must **** early to be prime
surrounded by the bees bumbling
The art of a mountain climb.

The start is like eating a lime
Your tummy and mind crumbling
all while losing any sense of time.

Hands and body covered in grime
but there is room for little fumbling
the art of a mountain climb.

The view is worth no dime
after painful stumbling
to lost all sense of time

I will repeat it again like a rhyme
for the experience, life-encompassing
The art of a mountain climb
in order to lost a sense of time.

Today is a good day.
I have to make it decisive
or else it will ****,
and even if I do
there is a good chance it will ****.

I envy those who
are constantly joyful and giddy
because they don't ever know
the pain that accompanies
a cloud of acid rain.

I hate myself
for having to constantly
make that decision.
I hate being so malleable
and molded by the events around me
when I pretend to be unbreakable.

I hate that others don't
get the power
to own their emotions.

Today is a good day.

why even bother

I want to scream
I want to beam

I want to try
I want to cry

I want to seem
I want to dream

I want to fly
I want to sigh

but I lie



because sometimes
I want to die.

Thoughts riddle my head,
infest my soul,
'til insomnia can cohost.

At night

The slam of a dorm door
are those of an angry brother
throwing something at the wall
or slamming the door.

The fast patter of feet
in the hallway
are those of mine
running up the stairs
to hide.

The muttered rambling voices
from outside
are those of parents arguing
until the wee hours of the night
thinking you're asleep.

I don't want to be wanderlust
I want to be wandering.

The scalding water
runs flows off my back,
untouched,
leaving the marks
of an empty incompleteness
long after a corrugated exterior

I sit
in a puddle
of my own tears.

so staticky
in complete
emptiness

I have dipped my toe
in the secret,
most private,
endless
ocean
that will swallow you
in the
blnk
of an i.

I want to be *******
devoured and
unearth mermaids.

I want to get lost
in the moment
and the adventure.

I want to lose everything around me
to find

myself.

What is the point
of everything I have done
when it's not something
I am head over heals in love with?

I want to lose everything around me
to find

myself.

Everything is within grasp
but clenching my fist
and not letting the dream
slip
right through my fingers
is the hardest thing in the world
to do.

I want to lose everything around me
to find

myself.

But how can I lose everything
in the wrong setting,
in the wrong circumstances,
and in the wrong way?

I want to lose everything around me
to find

myself.

It's a taste so mouthwatering
it burns,
which I can't remove
and don't want to.

I need to lose everything around me
to find
**myself.

We try and try and try, we give it our all
Yet things are mostly left undone
We always say “you’ll do better next time”
but we know that is not the case


Although things are mostly left undone
We put in the hours until we are prepared.
We know that is not the case
when we get the grade back.


We put in the hours until we are prepared.
Continually hoping for a better day
until we get the grade back
and tomorrow brings another storm.

Continually hoping for a better day
We say “you’ll do better next time”
Because tomorrow brings another storm
We try and try and try, we give it our all.

I went on a nature walk
with no idea,
no preparation,
only to take some pictures.

At a certain point
I got lost
with no phone
no one but me,
my thoughts,
and the layers of
cold sunken through.

I had no idea where I was,
only faith that I would get out
at some point
if I kept going.

I forgot everything
except this poem, my camera, and my next step.

Winter is going to **** me-
force me to dig my own grave
and shove me in it
before I can catch my breath.

I can't even feel
my legs moving
anymore.

She hasn't
been my mom
for a long time

I yearn for the day
when I can be

free

What is a home?
Where is a home?
What defines a home?
When does a place stop being just a place?

Is it the place with the most friends?
The place with my family?
The place I was raised in?
The place I spend most of my time?
The place I love the most?
Or is the intersection of all these, and more?

Because if that's true
I'm afraid I don't have a home
and therefore homeless,
yet I can't stand that label
because it means I have no place
in this world

The tea
might have steeped
for too long

I stand up
and it goes black.

How can life
be absolutely everything,
yet white nothingness?

I scribble the pen in my hand,
my hand seizing
as it drags the tip across the whiteboard,
forming my name
in perfectly rounded cursive.

Scratching through it,
until I leave it blank
like it never happened.

I can change
the speeds,
but I will always increase
in time and distance.

A seemingly endless
track of rubber
energized by electricity,
worn out by the steps
I and those before me
have already made,

But I can choose
to get off
and stop.


I just haven't decided
how or when
I will get off.

I looked like I would pounce
Over the sidewalks I bounce

Making sure to avoid the cracks
Like they were sticky, hot wax

Or a never ending gaping hole
that would eat my soul

Or, like the rhyme says,
Break my mother's back in a ways

I would come so close
but I froze

I kept jumping
and never touching

Why did I never hit the crack
if I knew it would never attack

Why do I still never touch the crack
Why do I always keep myself back

From just walking without fear
When I can just be clear?

I am dead weight
to everyone around me.

Like coal,
I was a sizzling and crackling inferno,
until the only thing left
was a clump of
Burnt.
Used.
Lifeless.
Coal.

I burden other people
leaving marks
on those
I've barely touched.

I am everyone's coal.
The baggage everyone carries.
The trash thrown away.
The item disregarded, not worthy of living.
Not even given a chance to make a name of itself.
Burnt.
Used.
Lifeless.
Coal.

Recently,
I posted a picture
of my bare feet
walking in the rain
with the hashtag
numb.

The thing is that the picture got a few likes
but no one knew what the real message was
hidden behind my bare feet.

Home
has made me numb
to sadness,
the police,
true care
and generosity,
creating the facade that
blocks me from the world.

Boarding school
has made me numb
to grades,
fear,
anxiety,
slowly stacking the bricks
to complete my facade.

I would like to say
that something broke my facade
or took down some bricks,
but it only continues to build
so I end this poem in hope
that the weight off my chest
lifts at some point.
That the connections I lose to my facade
find their way back together.
That the relationships that drift away
can be replaced.
That the self doubt and self hatred
can be eliminated.
That the need to build a complete facade
has ceased.
But for now, I am stuck
in a constant
numbness.