At some point soon

Everyone will notice

That I stopped liking them

And that I forgot how to talk to them

That they **** me off to no end

That I can't wait to leave them

And I'm afraid, afraid

That I'll never meet people

As good as they were

And that burning these bridges

Is going to **** all of me

Last night at night I had a broken dream

That you were only the shadow of the person

That I couldn't be. And though the sun had set

All those times ago, the shadow seemingly remains

As the night draws longer, forever on

The only hope I have

Is that today's new born sun

Will finally let me go

Withered faces lined in a truthful glee
Line the stools of this flowing bar
calcium etched hands stretch out towards me
specters of the past pulling me back so far
drinking all my sins away
and I really have to go
even though they insist that I stay
and so the drinks will flow
until the evening dawn wanes
and all the past will go
those faces leave those window panes
while me body, my body rises with a vigor much to slow

Too many voices
saying notice me
Individualism
Word of the decade
excuse the majority
because they are the majority
excuse the voice of the unseen minority
because they are the majority
excuse everyone
because they aren't like you
live for each other, everyone is equal, excuse me

In the city
there lies a marble statue
a beautiful piece of art
no two people see the same face
some see their loved ones
only if they are gone
some see themselves
although they don't recognize them
some see their parents
swearing they see heads shaken in disappointment.
What do I see?
A marble statue
head turned towards me

I wish that every time I fell asleep it wasn't because I passed out from exhaustion . One night where I can lie on the dreamscape, turn the lights off, feel the gentle waves of sleep wash over me. But here I am. Everytime I close my eyes, lighting quick images, too many to focus on, in any single frame. Reliving the past in a moment, all the fears from the future. A blink of an eye, a new day. Too tired to function. The way I love it. Another blink, dreaming in the day. Of what is for now. Am I living a waking dream, everytime I blink? Or am I just yawning away my life, one hour of sleep less each time.

Neon dreams reflected in the waves of the hopes we give to the world in the grey artificial ether. The streets lined with the faces of the citizens, wide eyed walking through with hunches shoulders and happy grins. The gutters over flowing with the over whelming stench of failure, failure to achieve those neon dreams advertised right above their heads.  Arguing remnants of the last nights alcohol fueled fighting. Hazy memories dredged up of childhoods past. A forgotten love of the walking of the streets, smoke on the air, the hazy street lights casting an indiscriminate over the wandering paths. Walking this path marveling at the thrills of life. Walking with a smile, the last you remember of it's kind. A hand in yours. A grey mass slowly floating away, becoming another part of the sky around you. Blending all together. Neon signs cast a harsh glare through the fog.

Look at the endless path of mirrors you walk down, stuffing your gluttony with the fabricated dreams you were told would always be achievable. Look in the mirror below you, and see the starving children clasping their hands at you, begging for just a scrap of a dream, so that they might sleep peacefully for once. You look above you, and see golden skinned gods with dreams that are so heavy, so tangible, that you think the mirror will shatter in any moment. You look ahead of you, seeing you, clasped hand in hand with a blurry faced figure, walking away from you, not listening to you shout as you want to know who you are. You don't want to look behind you. You saw something in that mirror staring at you from up front. Your eyes, so completely devoid of color, black pits of onyx that tore a hole through your heart just by seeing what might be. Behind you, a grayer version of you. Thinner. Looking down. He has none of the dreams you do now. Nothing floating above his head, no froth spilling down over his chin, no colors, no noise, nothing to show that he is alive. You turn away and cry out in the pitiful sobs that are the only thing you are capable of producing anymore, the first real emotion you've shown since you were in the mirror. The grey skinned monster that you were but never were, the dead ghost of the futures past, the bland, dry, **** flavor of the image, was wearing the biggest smile that you had ever remembered seeing.

Commodity. Is that all this is to me? Another way to show me that i can do something unique. That's all everything is, isn't it? Some way to say look at me look at me, I can write what people want to read! Whatever happened to being true to me?...me...me...who am I? Maybe that's the problem. I don't know who I want to be. Are you even supposed to want to be anyone? Are you supposed to want to be yourself? How's that possible, wanting to be yourself? You are yourself, only as long as you want to be I suppose.

Climbing those hills, those leviathan heroes from before our generations ancestors ancestors, great trodden clumps of clay and rock seemingly left their by a being greater than himself. Tell me, was it a purposeful throwing? Or was it a careless happenstance that those colossal titans were laid forever into the earth? Did those beings dream? Did they want to become those rolling hills? Were they held back by their own constructions? Were those ageless clusters of earth held back by the thin veils of confidence that plague us today? Are the trapped, as they are? Dreaming in that peaceful slumber right beneath our feet. Are their dreams imprisoned like ours? Do they illustrate the desire of their dreams on the paper thin walls they built? Do they scrawl I love you over and over just to see that someone could? Do those immortal pebbles wish to be human? Those leviathan heroes of old, dead and long forgotten, leaving behind the carcass of wonder and the sense of living through adventure.

Everyone treats January like the baby of the family even though she's older and colder than December

February just wants April and May to fall in love and for everyone to stop screaming at eachother over the dinner table

March usually isn't home, and when he is he isn't gone before to long, off on an adventure

April can't admit she loves May, and tries to not cry anymore on front of the family (they all hear her at night though)

May loves April dearly, and comforts her in those dreary night but can't ever ask her to love him back

June is the the one who doesn't want anything to do with the family, thinking he's to cool for that and would rather be with his friends

July goes with June to make sure June will be okay and to make sure he doesn't forget his family

August and September are twins and August is the louder more sociable one that everyone thinks is the one in charge of the house

While September actually runs everything behind the scenes, with a soft spot for January, his precious daughter

October is the only one concerned with keeping the house from falling to the ground, and everyone really loves him for that and he loves them back

November is the mom of the family and makes sure everyone has had enough to eat, but she dreadfully worries about June whenever he leaves

December stays in the attic usually and doesn't talk much to the others, as she's very old. She's just glad her family remembers her enough to celebrate her every year

Green hates red

Because red never gets sick

At Christmas dinner

Red hates them all for nothing

But would be devastated if he lost any of them  

Purple things she is too good for them all

But has a soft spot for yellow

Yellow is always to busy playing with her plants

To pay any attention to orange  

Blue would love purple if he ever

learned to stop weeping and playing his music

Orange always feels like an

unwelcome guest even though he's the

life of the family  

White has a little bit of everybody in

her, which is why everybody goes to

her for advice

And black was the drunken father who

refused to believe that they were all

part of him

Our family get togethers

Monday is the go getter, and nobody respects him for that

Tuesday is always on the verge of a nervous breakdown because no one likes her

Wednesday looks up to everybody else, and holds them together

Thursday is the responsible one that makes sure everyone is fed

Friday is never home, and is always drunk with Saturday

Saturday just goes with Friday to make sure he's okay

And Sunday dresses in all black, and then all white, becuase she doesn't know who she is

Past present future, what defines you? Do you let all those things you regret never doing, those hours spent asking why does everybody else have what I want even though I'm better then them? Or do you live in the closer past where you hate yourself for thinking that. Or maybe you live in the present, just trying to be happy before the future tears everything apart. Perhaps you live in the future, where you are so focused on the stars you never realize when the earth leaves you behind.

The things we do

For those approving looks

Those things not in books

Something from inside

Always done to hide

We change our appearance  

To leave subtle hints

Slowly killing ourselves

Putting ourselves through the Trials of hell

So that we can lie to our reflection

And tell them without a hint of doubt

I'm happy

Even though behind your eyes

You are screaming

Because you don't recognize the person

I've never fallen in love

Except every time I make eye contact for more than a second

With that girl who looks like the type of girl

That I think would like me

And I don't think they do

I mean I'm just some guy looking a bit to long

Then I get up from my seat

Saying this will be the time I talk to her

As I walk by her and pay for my coffee

And walk out the door

I think she was watching me go

So I've never fallen in love

Do you ever have pathetic dreams? Sound asleep, and you wake up and remember a dream where you were a pathetic creature to who you are now. A fetid little creature, too afraid of being judged to talk to others, but spouts how it isn't fair. A horrid sight, a man wasting away from eating to much, slowly killing himself in temporary relief, becuase the only time he feels safe is when he is eating. A sobbing mess of a man, beating his fist into the pillows that don't deserve the abuse.  A sad excuse for an intellectual, who is to dumb to realize he's addicted to his depression.  I wonder what the pathetic dreams are?

You sit on your back deck, staring out across the frozen lake. The stars slowly move across the sky. It's 12:50 AM. You realize that even though you have friends and family that love you, the only thing you need is someone to care for, someone to love.

So you sit on your deck. You might grab a blanket or two, but you know they won't stop you getting cold. You know it's too late for that. You listen to the ice creack, it's almost spring time so the ice weakened during the day. You listen to the wind play across the field, scared of your life and what's happening.

You might have had a girl in your life once, but you were dumb and things didn't work out. It might have been your fault, but odds are it wasn't. Odds are she just couldn't take being around you anymore, saying you made her depressed. Then you realize that you just lost a great chance to change your life around.

So you sit out on the deck.

You watch the stars glide across the sky.

You might shed a few tears, but this goes beyond any physical depression.

This is a bleak, lifelong, emotional abyss kind of sadness. And you are scared and alone, and all you want is someone to look at you and say:

"Everything will be okay. Come with me."

Instead, you sit on your deck.

You watch the stars move.

And you die inside.

Goodnight.

I try to act like my ideal. That guy I want to be in my head. But no one tells that guy that walking along alone hurts more than anything. That not caring about what people think about me makes me care so much more. That now that I have a perfect person to be like, anything less makes me feel worse. My ideal me, what a concept. I wonder if he agonizes over everything his friends say. Does he agonize over being alone? Seeing all his friends start to get into relationships and be happy? Seeing all his friends leave together leaving him to fight university alone? Does he know that that decision was his fault? Does he even care? Why would he. I'm the shadow of a great man, if only in my head.

The sun will rise across this frozen plane again. This field, that was once elysian, now is still. It's almost a mirage, as it sometimes isn't there. When it is. It is. Undeniably there. A strong presence. Walking along the field, slipping and breathing. The cold makes me feel warmer. An adventure I say. One that I know will end.

What I want more than anything else is for the reaper to allow me to see what could have happened. On the precipice of life changing minutes, I can't help but wander what would happen if I followed my heart instead of my head. I never would have had to say goodbye.

I have to ask how. Walking through the motions of another day. Something not right caught my eye. The death has been creeping along the face of the world. So why would a window be open? It's smaller than nothing out there. Anything left to live is slowly breathing it's last breath. Such is winter. She gives you opportunity. Life is sacred then. So when the frame passed my head, and the shadows flew threw the air, no hope was left in sight, until my past cuaght me up, and I found the ground with both legs this time.

When the world is freezing over, when the gauges stop working, when we approach real zero. That moment is when I remember the last summer I spent. The times luaghing with friends. The times worrying about whether or not she likes me. The times exploring. But the tundra takes that all away. And now there's a blank canvas.

Everyone tries to label what they believe in. Their ideology, its in the books. Everyone reads the book of life but not everyone contributes. Oh how wonderful to read a book without reading it:. A lazy afternoon, hazy remembering of a long dead story. In bits of jealousy I envy those people. The readers. They enjoy for the sake of enjoying. These words, those books, are my own reading my own written story. I just want to put the book down and read. Here I am, sitting in a spot that's comforting. I'm tired, I'm cold. I'm imagining you reading this, the ever present reader I'm so wary of. I'm imagining you as I sit back with a sigh after writing this. Thinking back to my past when I thought I could write to you better. I'm sorry reader, sorry that I'm not a good author. I'm sorry that I ever thought I could be. I'm sorry I feel jealous of you. I'm sorry I had to write this. But more than anything else? I'm sorry I didn't read.

I hate writing. I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate that it makes me sound pretentious. I hate how it is making me pretentious. I hate how it brings back things I want to forget. I hate how I can't write now. I hate how it's the only thing I have. I hate how it makes me feel better. I hate how I write. I hate who I write these too. I hate that I'm writing this. I hate everything about my writing. But it's the only thing I could never live without

Every thing we do has an opposite outcome that we push aside to do what we want. Sometimes we can't do what we want. Sometimes we have to swallow our pride and do things that are expected of us. Sometimes we have to give up our dreams of being free so that others can sleep soundly at night. Sometimes we have to make the best out of bad situations. Sometimes we just have hold pillows over our faces so nobody can hear us scream. Sometimes we get into crazy situations that we can all laugh about. Sometimes we get really angry at happy people. Sometimes we are those happy people. Sometimes we stay up to late so we can't think the next day. Sometimes we sleep to much so we can't be aware. Sometimes we feel more alive than ever. Sometimes we forget how to feel at all. Sometimes we forget that not everything is a choice. Sometimes we just need live.

I guess what bothers me the most is just the waiting
waiting for it all the change.

I certainly have the power to make it all change
I just need the time.

I am leaving soon, and I'll have to say goodbye
to the only ones who acknowledged me.

I find myself dreading the days without them
those ones I call friends

I...I just want to wait a little longer
before I have to go.

Words on a screen

Hard to read

With my eyes straining

Christ it's late

Another night wasted

Browsing horror

Cheap laughs

And staving off

The cold fear

But a beep

A click

And words on a screen

I miss you

It's the long drives

Back to my home

Seems so far

But in a blink

I'm there

But this time

It seems so much longer

Maybe it's because I'm freezing

But I know

It because I'm thinking of you

And what happens next

I never knew you

As you walked away

Where did it go

I never stopped loving you

You never said goodbye

You were never here

My heart is replaced

A mechanically fashioned nightmare

Making up everyday life

Just to see how

Things could turn out

If I knew you

Aren't our memories weird? One minute we are watching and the next, a word or phase reminds us of times long past, and the little jokes she said or little stories that seems wholly insignificant then are the only things you remember now

A man older than himself
looked out and spotted a young man. Quickly catching up to him, "hark, as you must be prepared to listen," and despite the rash claims of being busy and general feelings of offness, once the man older than himself began his tale, all grew soft.

"We always explored the lake in the winter. Any time it froze even the smallest bit, we'd climb out there. There were 6 of us in all, and we all knew each other in some way outside of such old traditions, but alas, we can always put aside petty fights for the sake of continuity. And so we embarked. 3 young man, braver than a man who only dreams good dreams, and three dames, whose reliability had gotten then through many good years."

"This year was no different. The ice stretched before us. The sun almost touching the horizon. The stars calming faces and the moons omnipresent language would soon be our only guides. All 6, paired in two, knew life. Perhaps this drove them together, perhaps apart. But united as 2, then 6, or 6, then 2, it is impossible to say. Three tents were drawn, twice as many dreams, as we knew not of the wisdom brought from the stars."

"5 sleeping lay, but one that is I, lies outside, reflecting on the events that manifested itself into today. Every year is the promise that it's the last, and as 6 was 5 last year, and those 4 didn't change, we knew that our time on the white lake was finishing thawing.

"But five became six, it did, against all odds, as odd number 5, a tortured soul was he, accepted the moral quandary of solitude, and though it saddened him every day, knew that this was the path that he chose. But as is the way of the last summers of young, 5 became 6, and the broken wounds were healed. 6th was the anomaly, the duo of 5, who was regarded as the other anomaly. But this stigma only drove them together and made 2 stronger than 4."

"The barren sheet lie around him, the 4 with no lights, the 5th a shadow approaching. Words of comfort that only hurt more. It's going to be alright isn't it? The young stars asked, as the old remain silent. The conversation became the lake itself, pocked and marked and slowly dying into new life. And as the sheet gave up its boycott on sound and the sun called back in, the anomalies stood on the shore and said goodbye for the first last time."

You know

sometimes when everything is going really well

I like to turn of the computer, shut off my phone, and just look at my ceiling

I mean, these little times of introspection are what they know me for right?

You know that feeling when everything's going good so you do things to either make problems or make yourself sad?

What's that called? Oh yeah, I'm an ******* that's right.

So many problems that aren't real

So many friends that I use

I'm afraid to think, because I don't trust myself to stay on this good path

Maybe it'll all get better at college

I'm counting on it

But I guess what I'm trying to say is

Happiness to me is closer than ever before

But I'm afraid as is the nature of things that with every high comes a low

I'll just try and make people laugh, make music, and read more

I went two weeks with no bad thoughts

All in all I'm pretty happy with that

You know I think we all have crushed dreams. I'm almost done with my small town life, about to head to the city fir college. And in a bout of writing, it occurred to me that I'll never have that young stupid romance that teens have, the ones were you just spend all day talking and laughing with no care in the world. I'll never have her look at me with big smiling eyes as we slowly dance at homecoming. I'll never know what it's like to be one of any of my friends. I really just don't get it. Why does this one thing bother me so ******* much? That I can't find anybody. And now the more I write to some imaginary person I call you just to feel like maybe you will find this, I slowly begin sobbing and realize I'm still just a stupid little kid that had his dreams crushed. Is this feeling, this dry old cough, this stinging crying, is this what it's like to realize your dreams are shattered? This heavy weight on your chest knowing that you can't get back the lost time? That you’re running out of time with your friends and prom is around the corner and you can't live with yourself if you don't find a date. That soon you'll never see anybody that you know again? That now you have to grow up and go be an adult? I just wanted to be a normal high school student and fall in stupid love and experience going to parties and dances but no I sit at home or at night classes to make college better and I'm not even sure if I want to go there anymore but I know my parents would force me. I only have a little time and I can't do it all over again. And I spend my nights writing this ****** book for stupid reasons. Why can't I just turn my mind off and live

To find someone like me. And to grow old with them. Find each other in undergrad, become inseparable in medical school. Both get residences in New York, New York. Work 80 hour work weeks, and on that one day off, walk around the city at night, looking at the stars, whispering into each others ears that we found the one, that it's going to be alright now, we don't have to worry anymore.

I was bad when I was younger

To arrogant with my ways

Spurned those deemed below me

Those kings and queens now hold

My indigo fate

I've always been in the snow

I've always found it fascinating

How something so essential to us

Can freeze and become unique

Only to never be appreciated

For what do we do?

We plow it away

Away from our paths

And drudge on by

Oblivious to the lifetime of stories

We slowly crunch underfoot

I've always wondered why

Why god cries frozen now

And as I stand in the snow

With no protection

Of the mental or physical kind

I can't help but mirror gods actions

And create decrepit copies of my own

So much like my own words

I can never be the original

Only a sham of a copy

Why does it hurt so much to get up?

Oh how I wished I could dream

Some escape from this prison called reality

My head is never my safe haven

I just want a day without worry

No more stress, no more worrying about finding you

I just want to look in your eyes again

As we look up into the stars

I just want to see the reflection of the water on your eyes

I just want to feel you next to me

I feel like I'm looking for someone that doesn't exist. My oculus, my self. Perhaps, my oculus, you are truly my reflection, and every time I look me in the eye, I'm looking at the love of my life. But that can't be, when I can't pull a courages heart out of my magic hat. So you must be real. So please, please be real. Because reflecting nothing hurts like hell.

This is an oppressive cold

The cold that bring the dead memories

Or maybe the memories of the dead

Back to life

The kind of cold kings are afraid of

The ones that **** indiscriminately

The grip of the reaper is absolute

And only in his grasp

Do we find what made us happy