i think perhaps one day
i will write poetry
the way happy people do.

no inconstancies, the little blips
and commas in places they shouldn't be,
just so.

does this bring hope?
is joy found in predictability?
is contentment in life a reality?

just so. flowers in rows,
the old woman bending over
plucking weeds between her toes.

a period at the end of every
line i wrote. not literally, for lines
and sentence rhymes do not always coincide.

i must break off my thoughts mid-stride
to conform to this three-lined rhyme
forced melody is no poem to me.

yet see how this flows so innocently.
like the little ribboned pigtails of a girl
who has never seen anything bad on t.v.

she isn't me, but neither is this,
coincidentally. but how coincidental
can we be? another few commas and this is over.

not to me. fitting periods where commas
were meant to be is the only skill that comes
naturally.

that, and ****** poetry.
happy people pen happier words that
fit together intuitively. not me.

Those blue eyes
Had a story to tell
From a million cries
Many words fell

It screamed in pain
Asking someone to listen
But all was in vain
It couldn't reach anyone

When the tears stopped
Everything was frozen
And the eyes lost
All emotion.

I'm tired.
Tired of everything.
I just want to sleep,
And never wake up again.

No, I'm not lazy,
I'm not running away from life.
I'm just tired of the world and myself,
And too tired to change anything.

Maybe that message,
Is the last one we'll ever send,
Maybe them last words,
Are the last we'll ever see.

Because these hours alone,
Thinking more than I should,
Unable to stop,
Will be the end of me

What would you do if you knew,
That when you left,
I stop.

I stop being the confident one you love,
I stop being the happy guy you know,
I stop being a good person.

I guess we'll never know.
Because I'd never admit that,
I'm too proud,
I want to be perfect,
So when I'm alone,
Everything breaks down,
My mask,
My fake smile,
My confidence.
Me.

It's scary,
The more I think about it,
The more it makes sense.
Maybe it is the only way out.
Maybe.

My mind is screaming at me,
As my eyes overflow with tears,
All alone in my dark room,
Music the only sound prevailing.

Maybe it's time I give in,
It isn't about having the strength to do it anymore,
It's about having strength to carry on.

But I've always been weak.