There are no masks at 4 in the morning,
it is impossible to conceal yourself
under such insomnia, such tire, or such intoxication.

This is why we leave our beds where the demons stay
to go to house parties where the 'normal people' play.
Because the masks begin to suffocate your face
and you'd give anything for anyone to see just a trace
of honesty in your life
built of formalities and lies.

The drinks set in, the feet lose traction,
children groping blindly for meaningless interaction.

Why is it
that only after the bottle is empty
and you won't remember anything
and you won't regret anything,
that the world is worth destroying?

I know that you are my father,
forgive me if I don't sound empathetic.

But I can't wait for the day
when I pick up the phone
and am solemnly informed
that you choked on ***** in your sleep
and finally left your family
alone.

Another day, another bottle.
You've killed your family,
it's time for you to die.

...And so the sun sets again,
the thoughts come creeping in.
Stars, stars... how dim they seem
on nights like these.

When the breaths cloud the air
and my feet step bare
on the cold streets.
I've never felt so weak.
Never felt so bleak.

Out of gas with nowhere to go.
Out of hope on a frigid road.

Perhaps there's another world out there,
where the steps don't seem so futile
and the words are less painful.
Perhaps there's another world out there.

And though these thoughts
are as painful
to me
as a thousand snapping bones
shattering on concrete.

Though these thoughts
are as interminable
to me
as the burning stars
which supersede time itself.

Though these thoughts
are as constant
to me
as the setting of the sun
and the rising of the moon.

Though these thoughts are all of these things
to me.
I can't help but stand in wonder
as to how, why,
and for what reason
I am so sad, always.

Perhaps there is another world out there
where life is worth living.
Perhaps there is another world out there.

Perhaps...

I will gather myself up
from this scrap heap.
I will, with great care, pick up myself
piece by piece.
From the broken remains
of a tired life
will I become new again.
Not whole,
no! never whole again,
but close.

I will gather myself up
and give you
what is left of me.
Even though I don't know
who you are
yet.

You wouldn't want me anymore.
I've changed
much for the worse.
Same old sadness
but much worse.

Same handsome face,
teeth worn down deeper,
eyes grown darker.

I don't laugh as much.
I don't talk as much.
I don't smile as much.
I smoke cigarettes now,
I've seen the inside
of the county jail.

Even if you think you want to see me,
I promise you that you don't.

So cramped in here,
I can barely breathe.
The facade I've given to
the God I abandoned,
to my loving, naive parents,
to the authority we're all forced to pander to.
My facade, it is crashing down.

Oh, how did I get here?
So smart, so handsome,
so handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser.
No more time for poetic formality:
****.

**** **** ****.
This is the kind of ****
that belongs in a ******* Kafka novel.

I remember, even minutes ago
I sat safe and content with the illusion
of freedom.
There is no "home" anymore,
even there is not safe.

These thin wrists were not meant
for handcuffs.
These fingertips were not meant
to be printed in ink.
This mouth is "real pretty,"
or at least that's what I'm told
as I enter the cell.

You,
We do not talk anymore
and I know that you don't want to talk
anymore.
And I understand, I guess.
I can't really blame you,
can I?

After all, I left you with nothing
but unanswerable questions
and seemingly infinite tears.
So I can see why
you do not want to hear my voice
anymore.

But, you, do you remember?
The laughs?
The quiet nights alone
needing nothing but each other?
I was only happy when you were happy,
you could only fall asleep in my arms
or wishing you were in my arms.

What about the parks?
And the late nights?
And the whispers?
The skin, so much skin.
Passion rang through us
and we reverberated a tireless song
of contentment and ease.

And the fights weren't that bad,
the nights alone weren't terrible.
I didn't make you that unhappy
until I made you miserable
as I walked away forever.

You, do you remember those halcyon days?
I wrote you poems,
you made me a crown of flowers
that wilted hanging from my rear-view mirror.

And as the days go by in which you
resent and yet again resent me down to my soul.
I will hold no bitterness towards your name,
and hope that, eventually, you can do me the same.