"Make a wish," he says,
"you get a wish on your birthday."

"Anything I want?" she asks...

"Anything," he promises,
          not realizing
          he's already made all her dreams
                    come true.

She wishes for simplicity
She wishes for an out
She wishes and she cries
But you'll never ever hear her shout

Cause she loves the way you hold her
So close and so dear
She pulls you in closer, it's just for your ears to hear

She says
"I'm falling quick and I'm falling fast
So don't ever try to pull me back
Let me go
Let me be
Cause I'm an anchor
And I'm falling into the sea"

If I'm the guy who waits,
is there some way?
Cause here I am,
I was, I remain.
The aging clocks face,
ticks out each second passed,

and here I am regardless.

Caught up in fairy tale nostalgia,
forgiven all the wrongs,
hurt endured,
selecting only the best
and cherished
fleeting
flickers of glimpses
at night
just as I fade
to the place where you still come

there too, not always pleasant.
Sometimes I wake and ache so bad
but the cause of that is you
Will I ever turn you out,
face away?
Is this time squandered,
wasted, fruitless?
Or one day are we going to be, again?
Am I okay with no love unless,
unless...
if nothing changes,
distance remains,
who to blame
but my own cowardice.

Some day,
. . . . . . . . . one day,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . maybe,

hearts can change

the full moon taunts me from above
like a frightened cop's flashlight
blinding, ready to pounce
"alone again, are you?" the moon scoffs
"yes," I reply
"by choice?"
"I'm a bit worn down, moon, to tell you the truth. I don't know if I'm capable of going out and pretending to be something I'm not anymore. I'd rather be by myself, honestly"
the moon pauses
and pauses some more
before it speaks
"then you shall become like me. viewed from another world, trapped in plain sight. although some find you beautiful, they'll never be able to touch you, to know you. I was once like you before I ended up here. it gets cold. enjoy being in the light of others. you don't need to be anything you're not. I sometimes wish I was the sun but there are things we can't become"

If I could only sit still, I would write a million words about us, about you, about me at the bottom with my hands on that rock.
Scratching my fingernails against it so that I could go home and complain to you about how much my tiny hands hurt, and how I could not hold them in yours.
If I could hold my train of thought, I would type out a memoir about you and me and the time we decided to make love in a parking garage elevator late at night, my back against the glass. And who might’ve seen us while they walked home.
Their names and their faces, all those people that aren’t us. I would write about how when those doors opened, the world outside had changed and so had we.
If I could keep my fingers steady, I would dial your number on my telephone. I would cry your name into the speaker, and I would wait patiently for you to take me back.
I would be on hold forever.

Open books with black covers containing stories never good enough to be read, words never long enough to contain the fragment of a thought. Maybe that's why I turn to putting my own in the complexity of poems, maybe that's why I'm never satisfied because I can never say what I mean. Sometimes I don't think you know what I mean, so if you haven't been able to read the between the lines; I miss you. I've been looking for so many ways to say it but none of them have been enough to make you come back. The thing about poetry is its never enough to make you feel the way I do. It'll never make you realize that ink seeps out of my pens with the purpose to make you feel something; but it never does. The thing about poetry is that you need to be empty to write it and that's why I learnt how to after you left. The shut door opened a new one which was the will to write about all the broken pieces of myself. The thing about poetry is it requires to see life through the eyes of things unspoken. Little do most know that mirrors and picture frames can speak novels of things forgotten which is me to you. The thing about poetry, is that I'm running out of things to say. I'm running out of words to spray on city walls, or carve in the wood of dying trees. The thing about poetry is that this isn't it. This is the goodbye, good luck. I have nothing more to bleed out for you, my mind is turning to dust. This is the last "I love you" I have left to write about, this is extended hands with empty palms.
This is the apology. It's me trying to feel something more than what I do, and as hard as I try to get there, I can swear that in nights of deafening silence I can still hear the sky screaming out your name.

To my psychiatrist: I sit seated on one of the four chairs in the room…

I want to read you this, because every time I come in here, I can’t describe my dilemma, I feed you thoughts and words and all of it gets messy… so if you can listen to this for two minutes, maybe you can tell me what I need

I find that people enjoy me more when I’m outgoing, the life of the party, and a breath of fresh air
However who I really am is quiet, shy, a girl that pushes herself to go out, and awkwardly makes conversation in order to feel normal

I’ve had this inner challenge of wanting to be happy- however I won’t use the word happy here because I was never truly happy

It’s as though a band aid covered my scars and temporarily blind folded my memories

When your medication suppresses your words… all inner feelings of what we truly feel and what we truly believe in. It’s the medication, the therapy; the faking a smile around a group that I feel never truly gets it

It’s a cardboard box that on Christmas appears special, but every other day of the year isn’t much to look at

It’s the pretending that the action movie the love of your life is interested in, is any bit exciting to you

It’s wanting to be loved but finding that the only times you’ve ever found love are the times you weren’t you

The times that a guitar on it’s stand appears “nice” from far away, but when a brilliant musician comes by it brings it all to life

The book that on a shelf, dusty and not worth any bit of looking at is pages filled with letters. But when read by someone who appreciates it enters a different world, one of his or her own to make that book worth reading

Am I that book?
Only worth understanding if the story means anything to the person reading

I feel as though often times I’m that guitar
Only brought to life when someone strums by chords

Am I that cardboard box?
Only felt special dressed up and looked at on holidays
So what does it take to feel special on your own?

What does it take to be a dusty book and be content, a guitar that sits without someone to play it, and a box to be important sitting in an attic on its own

The medications, the therapy, the pushing yourself to get out, it provides temporary relief.

Yesterday driving home at 9:36 pm, my windows were blurred and I couldn’t see much

Heavy storms were rolling in, and words of a tornado were discussed
I thought about how easy it would be to drive into a medium
“911 we have an emergency… young girl, unconscious, car totaled, in what appears to be a hydroplaned accident"

A perfect escape, no one can be upset with you, it didn’t look like suicide, it was an accident, how could anyone be upset…it was nature, it was “meant to be”

But I didn’t

I want to learn how to live and find those small moments where everything is in place

I can’t explain to a happy person what it feels to never feel anything
I don’t want happy
I don’t want sad
I want both
But this …whatever it is isn’t either

Is it I?
Is it how I’m wired?
Am I the problem or am I making my own problems?

And every psychologist, professional, doctor, & psychiatrist will tell you
“It’s a mix of both…a combination”

Because every educated person in mental health often understands that nothing is often linked to one variable but often two, or three, or more. Given that life is not a controlled environment. One can never fully pinpoint the problem. So it is also impossible to pinpoint the solution?

Yet still I don’t know anything anymore, lost control, not completely yet
Because the 911 call was never made

Yet not recognizing yourself in the mirror any longer is one of the scariest feelings I believe I’ve ever had
Because it’s one thing to be alone, and it’s another to not even have you anymore

We can label this as depression, but I don’t want to fake who I am any longer… I need to know, should I be me…will that ultimately lead me to happiness

Or do I change who I am… in order to fit standards and not live miserably
To not hear, “You’re too emotional, cut yourself a break”,

But not changing who I am is slowly killing me; they say it gets harder before it gets easier. Yet they also tell you to reflect and perhaps change things up if you aren’t happy

I just need to know what path is better

Because - and I think- my hearts telling me to stay who I am, and my brains telling me get help…and if my brain is the one that is supposedly broken …how do I know which one to listen to?

Because even if my brain is the unhealthy part, my heart has taken a few too many bullets as well

And if only any of them knew, if I knew the right answer I would do what needs to be done








And after reading this several times, I feel guilty that I spent two hours sculpting a poem completely about myself.

So from an outside point of view….what do I do?