You can wear my hand as a necklace

I'll take it off once you're out of breath

I'll watch your face turn different colors

And watch you struggle to your death.

As most of you know,

I am catastrophic.

And as most of you know,

I feel alone.

I see cobwebs collecting cluelessly in between the lines of your poems.

They age and sit and stay the same,
those poems from forever ago.

But aging is healthy, and time can be good,
what makes me sad is the static.

There are only ever old poems. Never new thoughts or feelings or the same thoughts and feelings strung and wrapped in different words.

It’s just cobwebs.

I used to read your poems religiously, I used to ponder what they meant.

But now I think I have my answers, and now I’m sure I’ve lost a friend.

What used help me cope has now become just a bigger reminder,

That everything I love will leave me in some way or another.

But I still read and I still write and I still think about the past

like a ghost in an old library reading only ancient texts

and I can’t conjure up the courage to say anything face to face

so I put it in a poem and I pray that you will find it.

Even if you do not write I pray that you still read.

Even if we do not talk I still put pieces of you into my words.

Even if we hate each other’s guts I still hope that you are happy

and I guess all I can really do is just keep on writing:

I saw you cry, you told me later you lost a friend to suicide
and when we sat there in that pizza joint,
the whole world was you and I,
you looked at me through mist and told me
"I swear to god this **** gets better,
and every person in this building feels this pain some way or another"
And I saw the funeral and the poems and the piece torn from your heart,
your sadness justified by loss, and that loss tore your soul apart,
and I knew that in that moment you were picturing it with me,
and how you can't afford more heartbreak,
how you can't stand to watch me leave,


You said "I love you"

and it echoed in my mind

My world stopped burning

I'll think of joy from time to time



"So sing for every buried moment that you'd thought would never end.
And sing your fears about the future; and a dirge for faded friends.
For all the love that you had held to, why it somehow failed to keep.
And sing each minute you've been frightened; every hour that you've lost sleep.
And sing for all your friends and family; sing for those who didn't survive.
But sing not for their final outcome; sing a song of how they tried.
We live amidst a violent storm; leaves us unsatisfied at best,
So fill your heart with what's important, and be done with all the rest."

Im sitting here like it was yesterday.
It wasn't.
Duh.
My nails weren't black yesterday
I wasn't as insecure yesterday.
But even though I got new habits.
And new records.
And a new reason to feel sad.
I feel like nothing has changed.
He is still complaining.
She is still annoying.
And I am unamused.
So I ask myself why.
Why is the past so prominent.
Why is the present so dull.
Why can't I change it.
But I give up.
Like I always do.
And I complain about it.
And I call it poetry.

It's been one year since I admitted that missed you.
And I know I ****** up.
And I know it wasn't just me.
And I know so much has changed,
And I want to keep you close.
It's been so perfect with you by my side.
We can do this.
I know we can.

Another way to say I need help is to say “I’m fine.”

Summer slits throats so sit up straight while I sing songs of sadness to suffering souls and saints of speaking minds.


Alliteration is consistency, and I need that in my life right now.

Words of negativity are scraping and clawing against the inside of my skull.
Hoping to leap off my pessimistic tongue and plant seeds of sadness in the minds of others.

But I hold my tongue.
Like I hold onto hope.
Because I know it’s still there.
I just have to repress the haunting thoughts.

My brain is the strongest muscle in my body,
only because it works so hard to repress my tongue.
My heart is in the right place,
but my fists are always balled.

But I hold my punches.
Like I hold onto smiles.
Because I know that people care.
I just have to repress my anger.

Rage and depression go hand in hand.
But i’m fine with that because they help me write.

You reap what you sow into your bloodstained velvet robes,
and you don’t have power just because a crown of thorns sits on your tortured and beaten mind,
You have power because you need control.
You have power because you make me weak.
But one day i’ll strip you of your robes.
I’ll rid you of of your crown.
I’ll stand up to you.
And I won’t be afraid.


I won’t be afraid.

I caved in the drywall because you let me cave in.
And ****** knuckles seem painless when all I can see is red.
I wrote you songs so you would know how I feel.
I think I'm just afraid.
I know I'm just afraid.

don’t you understand that this is bigger than you see.
Now that I know, I’m just as bad as you.
This isn’t about anger or fear of being a snitch.
This is about saving a life and helping a friend out of hell.
You’re clouded by the weightlessness that the world puts on the topic,
but depression is a disease that’s looked over often.
So please stop talking about you getting in trouble.
there are much worse consequences down the path you want to follow.

I'm loosing sleep to runways, and following signs, as my head is split open by bright florescent lights,
and these long linear hallways filled with leather on chairs provide shelter to all of the wolves in suits and ties.

I try to call you but nothing is there
I try to call you because I'm getting scared.

My hands start to shake and strangers start to pass but I act like I'm fine just to make it home,
my feet become more heavy and your texts become shorter while I wait to fly home to feel just as alone.

Airports are lonely, but it's better than home.

The pitter patter of rain fell onto the cracked cement,
as it mockingly aplauded our attempts to mend our selves again.
Outside of the coffee shop where the lovers go to cry,
a strong headed velvet stranger wiped the memories from my eyes.
While puddles formed and dams broke I found saftey in the unknown,
while storms raged and hurricanes sang I saw that I wasn't alone.
The street was a winding river that carried me miles and miles from saftey,
but this rainy coffee shop day dream made me feel a lot less empty.

I can turn a friend into an arch enemy in the timespan of a heartbeat
and I defend this broken promise with the bullets between my teeth,
I can bury all your secrets under lost and frozen ground,
and I will stitch my lips closed while keeping memories safe and sound.
I can strangle all the monsters that hide behind closed doors,
and I can be your demon hunter, I can make your ghosts sore.

I can be what you want, and I don’t care,
Just so long as you like me, so long as you’re there.

We were so focused with ending the world that we forgot how pretty the flowers were

‘till death do us part or the flames of our home, a split or a distance has always been present.
     Dad started sleeping in the basement around 4th grade.
I think.
      I can’t remember when it started but I know it became normal.
      Now he works and complains and he never finds joy
       I wonder how long it will take before I end up like him.
        So I put verbal miles between us and hope that I end up okay.
      I collect records and CDs to distract me from the secrets behind closed doors
    But Kurt and Billie were only distracting to an extent.
     So I saved up all of my money, from pocketing moms dollar bills to mowing the lawn.
      And I bought a blue electric guitar with all two hundred and thirty of my dollars.
           It was storming the day I got it, and I have a fear of thunder, so I named it after my fear because it was loud as hell.
Cheesy, I know.
    I spent hours on end, day after day, cutting my fingers on the six nickle wound strings.
     And I got good.
I could play the **** out of that ******.
        I wrote a song called “he said” and I showed it to all of my friends.
I never liked the title but the song was okay.
       It was about a boy who ran from home because his family was broken.
       The first line was “I can only see out of one eye after I cut myself loose”
      I would change it every time I played it depending on the story I wanted to tell.
       Sometimes I would sing “after YOU cut me loose”
     I followed this with “ I packed my bags, left my ambitions on a noose.
I changed my hair, don’t want to know my reflection,
and you can’t gat lost without having direction.”
     It was edgy and it was catchy and marissa said she liked it.
         That made me happy.
       Since then my songs have been a good distraction from the fighting.
                    But they never helped me cope.
       And my friend daniel told me to never limit my art,
       He told me to branch out my creativity and he showed me his poems
   They were the depictions of a twenty five year old nobody
And I thought they were really good.
        I still read them and try to learn from them because I idolize his art.
      So I began writing poems in November because November makes me sad
     And I wrote consistently because I knew my friends would read them
    My friends wrote too, and they were always better than me
       I loved reading their art because we all struggle with honest expression
                               But lately I have stopped.
The distractions have stopped.
     The flames of my home are catching up and I don’t have the motivation to stop them with my art.
        So I’m sitting In my room listening to a nirvana record that my favorite person gave me.
     And I’m writing the odyssey of the teenage ghost
                         And I’m getting no answers.
                        And I’m getting nowhere far.
     And If you are reading this it means you can help.
       I don’t know how to end this.
I don’t know what to say.
     I'll try to keep writing, but these secrets are catching up.
      I don’t know how to end this, so I guess I just won’t.
    Just remember that I always thought-

I think that coffee helps.
It’s still really hard.
The only thing keeping me going is not letting you down.

******* for calling my art “rants.”
For not being able to see past letters I paint on a canvas.
There is a certain spot where ***** like you will never be allowed,
and that’s between the lines of the words I write.
I’ll write all you ******* off as I write of all your ******* sins,
and I’ll wear another mask just like you want me to.
I build a home and you burn it.
I build a reputation and you stain it.
I’ll be a ******* carpenter of confidence, and you’ll still be my villainous vandal.

So *******.
And your scummy scandals.
And your insidious intentions.
And your daggers of delayed and destructive dialogue.

I’m over you.

Maybe it’s just me.
But our talks feel one sided.
I truly believe that conversation is what keeps bridges strong.
But bridges take two people to hold up.

Put a gun in your mouth and then ask if I’m okay.
It’s hard to speak, isn’t it? When death is in your head
And by the way, no.
I’m not okay.
I’ve had a gun in my mouth ever since my grandfather died.
The gun keeps me from talking and sounding insane, but I still write of death every single ******* day.
And It’s not because I’m suicidal.
It’s not because I’m edgy.
I’m just scared.
I don’t want to leave nothing behind.

I can’t tell you why I’m writing this.
I can tell you that it feels right.
I’m listening to your record to get a feel for you and I’m lighting coffee scented candles to help me miss you more clearly. I’m scared to write.
I miss you so much sometimes.
Even when you’re right next to me.
It’s annoying.
I always doubt myself around you.
I think you think I call you pretty too much.
You are so ******* pretty.
I feel distant, but then you look up at me and I’m reminded that I am an idiot for missing someone so near to me.
Then I think of how ******* lucky I am.
And how perfect you are.
And I go home and light candles and write of how I wish I had the guts to say “I love you.”
And how I wish I had the guts to believe that you would say it back.
You can call me a coward for putting it in writing, but it’s still true.
I love you.