Do you miss me like I miss you?
Was I at least good some of the time?
Did our time mean anything?
Do you ever think of me?
Did I ever matter?
What did I do wrong?
What could I have done to fix it?
But they can't hear you.
They'll never hear these questions.

But I'm sad man
I remember what I had man
It was pretty rad man
But now I feel so bad man
I want to not be mad man
But it's all coming up sad man
One day it'll be rad man...

I'm floating on a see of stars at night
Haunted by shark fins that carry your name
My oar is half broken but I keep on rowing just to see if I can reach the end
A waterfall to fall off of and splash down into something new
Something without the thought​ of you

She looked so beautiful without me next to her

I have so much to say
But I don't want to tell anyone any of it.
I focus on hating myself so much that I'm sick of me.
I press pen to page in hopes of making some way to cope but the words dont flow like they use to.
Those pipes are rusted shut.
Clogged by to many thoughts of myself that came from my own sick head.
The ones that come from loving lips and caring smiles sit outside and freeze.
I want to write my pain into oblivion but it doesn't go willingly.
I could bleed my hands ripping up the rusted copper pipes and give myself a new outlook but the foundation is too thick too break through and I don't have a hammer strong enough to hit it with.
Steel pressed to concrete spelling out my words with smashing instead of ink on the page I set out to write on.
But the strokes of the hammer are quiet.
Because I'll never say any of it.

This haunting refrain that leaves my mouth
It's your's you know
I've sung it for you a thousand times
The only difference is now it's lost it's soul
The heart behind it, broken in two
Some notes are now soured by sadness
And yet I sing on
I sing in hope for a day I can change back into a major key
An uplifting sound could hit my ears again
If only I knew how to right now

I don't have clarity anymore, it costs more than the 2.25 I have in my bank account.
The job I couldn't keep didn't burn to the ground so I don't have that going for me either.
I spend my nights not knowing how to say these things I'm feeling.
Then I spend my days screaming them at the mirror.
I have make funeral arrangements every time I lay down but I have to refund them because I keep waking up.
Maybe next time will be the time I get up and have the beautiful view of me still laying there.
Still.
Cold.
I'll fade away into the void of night and the corpses legs won't let it get up again.
They'll stay rooted to the ground as everyone weeps and mourns around it.
Mourns another fallen shard of glass fracturing into a miasma of hate and dissonance.
I'll get to watch myself get lowered into the ground as my mother is comforted by her remaining sons.
The corpse will lay still in the coffin.
The payment on the arrangements goes through and I don't get up the next morning.
Instead of all this I open my eyes.
I check the time.
And I try to die again for a few more hours.

Hello, dear self.
You are cold and unwelcoming.
You there, with the void in your chest.
I lay next to you every night wondering how we are together.
Who are you?
How are you?
Questions not to be answered.
Hushed tones tell of hatred for myself.
You spill your feelings to the mirror each night.
Being to afraid to tell others.
You know exactly what you need.
And exactly how you won't get it.
You cry when it's too much.
Saying bittersweet "I'm sorry".
You tell the ceiling you love them.
Your pillow it's your everything.
You ask the wall why she left.
Why you're alone now.
What will be left.
When all this is over.
You again, maybe whole.
It'll all blow over.
Did it matter? I'm not sure.
Will you matter? I don't know.
You tell yourself the answers in two short letters.
N o.
I'll greet you every morning until you get better.
Until we get help.
Or until we both die.
I won't just let go of me.
It won't be a pleasant goodbye.

I've spent a lot of time being told how to live but no one's actually told me HOW to live

I walk at night a lot.
It's still and cool at night.
Everything is vacant in a small town at night.
The buildings are quiet.
The smells of the diners no longer linger in the air.
I relate a lot to the night time.
I'm quiet and unsure about what's in the distance.
I'm vacant and cold.

Two sides that are supposed to be together.
Fighting against a force of pure unbridled frustration and chaos.
Two inseparable sides cut in half by the monotonous buzzing of this horrid swarm of insects.
Home was on the other side of the country but they brought their enemy with them.
Home felt like D-Day storming an unfamiliar beach with familiar people.
Watching them fall away into the reality that this world hates us.
It's all noise and bombshells.
****** fire picking off the last of what I knew and loved.
Home was here when I was where I was.
Now this is a warzone.

It's hard to pinpoint the day it all changed.
I can clearly remember my parents in each other's arms.
Somewhere they started to climb a number of steps before finding the one to settle on.
Stepmom. Stepdad.
New words for the vocabulary.
It isn't a bad thing its just change.
Change hits like a truck.
Before it happens there's a moment of bliss.
A period of years that are unabashedly happy
Then it's there.
What happened before is the past.
The nights spent at friends houses.
Endless hours spent playing stupid video games to get away from school.
What happened before is gone now.
I can hope I'm not too.

I have so many memories triggered by music.
I see everything flashing before my eyes with every note.
I see album covers in desk drawers in a house I haven't seen in years.
I see that one Saturday we grilled out in the front yard.
It all sounds like a different time.
It sounds so sweet.
When the chorus hits I see a different state.
Texas heat and Friday night drives, just to get away for a while.
I see so many things that are so far away now.
It all sounds so close though.
It sounds like it just happened.
Like two other houses.
Like three years of middle School.
It sounds like home.
And it sounds so good.

This feeling I can't describe
It stays only for a moment
In dark rooms
In cold air
Stillness
Silence
Peace perhaps
Or maybe loneliness
My thoughts stewing
Breathing like tides
Not crashing
Just flowing
The feeling leaves

I showed my poems to a friend of mine and she told me it wasn't real poetry.
I asked why?
"It doesn't rhyme, the meaning is too open, you don't have to think to get it."
What is that supposed to mean
I want you to get my poems I use them to cry for help
I can't afford the help I need so I write words instead of crying
I told her if it was too simple she should go read Bradbury or something
I don't need to rhyme to tell you things like
Those who are heartless once cared too much
Or The most broken people smile the most
I know because that's me ******
I don't need your validation if you don't validate me at all.

There's a lot I want to say
Like I feel....
Or how you made me....
My mind overflows but my mouth is dry
I just want to be....
Right now I'm not....
Words don't work like Webster says
They trip me up in a net made of misspoken things
Like how I'm....
Or how I just wish I could say....