A touch, her hand. I’m trapped.
I need out, room to breathe.
But all hope is lost.
Don’t ask me why, its just my nature.
And its hell.

She’s miserable, I’m her high.
But the feeling isn't mutual. The search for escape isn't equal.
Its a one-way mirror between us.
She see’s me, and I, well I see me.
Yet we both see someone completely different.

I’m not who she believes, not anymore at least.
Every stumble she lives through, the cuffs squeeze tighter.
Every fear she gains, the sentence becomes longer.
The cell slams shut. I’m stuck.
All signs are clear, well to me.

Freedom will bring pain,
yet the wait does the same.
Me?
Her?
That’s all that remains.

Q: How can one lose home -
but live in a house?

A: She tells me after class when she’s almost home.
Yet later it gets... and I find she’s still not here.

*Moral: To be homeless but live in a house,
Is to live in a house without her.

As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,

And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.

Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.

For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.

And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.

Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.

As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.

And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.

As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.

From fingers to mouth
To fingers on toes.
I'm removing dead cells
With teeth made of bones.

Here I stand.

A sheet of ice cracked with age beneath my feet.
Temperature plays no affect
For I've always been here.

I scream out in hopes of being heard,
But imagine the echoes of distance
Dissect any understanding by the time it reaches a willing ear.

I've been shuffling along for as long as I know
Only to freeze when I hear another crack form.
And I’m stuck again.

Only able to decipher the feelings of fear, frustration, and panic.
Equate time into the equation-
The emotions only grow.

Why doesn't anyone help me?
Where is she?

I have hands worth reaching for
And legs that can climb.
So saving me would come at half the cost that it may seem.

Frustration becomes my crown of thorns
As I cry out to feel more but in conclusion: I’m too numb.
Fresh trails of blood begin to show me where I've been and how I tend circle back to the beginning.

The Crown only digs in deeper,
Where is she?

Off in the distance I see etches in the ice.
Scribbles or scratches that feel familiar.
The closer I get reveals the messages or poetry in the ground,
Words I haven’t seen in over a year but know so well.

They are mine and they are not.
Some written long before me by figures only one could admire.
Regardless of the author,
With each word read after another contributes a feeling I can feel.

I graze the carvings with my fingertips as memories rush back inside me.
Emotions I can see expressed in something no echo can interrupt.
Words thousands of years old and words only a year old,
Yet the meaning has always stayed the same- Solidarity.

Why hasn't anyone come looking for me?
Where am I?

Tearing away the crown I scream,
The pain and realization overwhelming my vision with tears of indescribable emotion.
And vigorously my hands begin.

Scratching away at the ice I write.
Pieces of ice, nails, skin, and blood surround where I’m now.
Falling to my knees crushing the crown,
I’m too focused to notice the frustration subside.

Words growing on top of others,
Encompassing my position with far little structure.
I’m too transfixed on finishing.
Any pain is masked by the feelings I can finally describe.

I can see the words of anger to my left,
Metaphors of sadness in front of me,
Loneliness flows from my finger tips as I’m painting the emptiness to my right,
And love- 180 degrees behind me- I feel her in the letters that I write.

As each emotion surges through me to words in the ice,
A smile that has formed within me refuses to fade.
Clarity of the frustration I held onto has enlightened me,
I can never stop writing if I want to feel.

There she is.
Here I am.

I know why she isn't here,
And in the haste of my writing I see words that aren't mine accompanied by a pen-
"…Go all the way".
What’s written before is covered by my own mess, but I feel the meaning and walk away.

No longer fearing the cracks that form,
I know where I’m going.
Hands throbbing, I must never stop writing.
Pen in hand, I can never stop moving.

Here I come.

Because of me you have been knocked to the dirt.
And where am I?
Well the self guilt has placed me beneath you;
covered in the **** and mud that still seems to hold you up.

Every tear and every cry of pain from that lovely face,
Is just another twisting stab to the heart with a dull blade.
Every comment and every reminder to what I speak,
Is more soil beneath your feet, dirt that grips my throat as I try to breathe.

I am already down; so please, please don’t send me further.
Each word: a new blow, new bruise upon the mind as I sink deep,
So place a noose around my neck to keep from loosing me.
I can’t slip through the fingers like the mud between your fists.

I’d rather give my last breathe to your saving grasp,
Than to the handfuls of dirt shoved behind each thought.
Either way I’m suffocating in time for one last word;
Sorry…

What are we doing?
We don’t get to have control.
A simple flutter, and our life’s work is gone.

The dominoes have begun and stand too close together.
We are last in line on the edge of a cliff.
Immovable in a world that will leave us behind.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why do we believe such childish lies?

Who do we think we are?
We don’t get to create the rules.
A small spark, and our lives become ashes.

Right corner pocket and its over for everyone.
We watch the ball that’s rolling and headed to the end.
Wishing to be but only a passerby.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why in the hell do we even try?

I can see the waters in your eyes,
The ocean of sadness that keeps you afloat.

I can hear the air in your voice,
The winds of weakness stretching til it snaps.

I can taste the fire on your lips,
The flames of desire quickly fading overnight.

I can feel the earth in your heart,
The soil of life turning to stone under the weight.

And I can smell the salt in your tears,
That fall from the ocean within you+

My senses notice the elements that cause this sedimentary heart to feel hope++
Sacrifice to stay alive- don’t let your waters run dry.

_____________
+Passing through the broken wind, putting out your fire; only to water the soil before it’s gone.
++Hope that your ending will be better.

My lizard died today.
With sunken eyes,
He's relaxed.

Now I conceptualize:
His perception,
If one-

Of me.

Right. I said.

But how does it feel?* She begged once more.

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶p̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶a̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶a̶n̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶o̶l̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶r̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶m̶o̶r̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶r̶o̶w̶d̶ ̶u̶n̶k̶n̶o̶w̶n̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶m̶,̶ ̶q̶u̶i̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶b̶b̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶c̶a̶r̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶
T̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶x̶a̶c̶t̶ ̶p̶o̶i̶n̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶i̶v̶e̶.̶

Those were the thoughts of feelings that could compare,
But I kept them to myself because in summary, or simplicity rather, it truly is;

*Right.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
This was supposed to be for those who needed it.
But the voice in my head reminds me the eyes will never find these words,
It screams out they wouldn't care even if they did.

I wish to trade the hallow people,
Give my shoes for theirs.
But when I see the feet are bare,
I use words to cut off mine.

The nerves surface,
the ideas pour out,
and I am fascinated by you,
as though I am not one of you.

So I write in order to reach out,
I write in order to connect.
These words are created to express,
Screaming ironies I do not see myself.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
Except now it's a message to me.
My lines are crossed now that I've moved on,
And so I pretend that this end sets me free

Breathe in.
Reflect. Relive.
Let go.

Dive into the unconscious,
Unlatch the hidden secrets,
Climb the weak walls laid built,
Fight to see the other side.

Break through the shattered glass,
Crawl careless across the shards,
Tear the stitched seams,
Depressed emotions, together hide.

Tense up.
Choke. Remember.
Drown in it all.

Fears that rip through even our best dreams,
Helpless, Alone; The stories peak,
Brick by brick the memories fall,
A life caught up in all our screams.

Cause we can live it fully blind,
Or at quick glance fully see,
It’s the Broken Past that makes us,
The pieces our puzzled future needs to breathe.

Breathe out.
Vent. Relax.
Move on.

At what point does declaring your fear make it any less of what it is?
Because I know what I'm afraid of
And for the night it's still here.

Patience;
Like the answer within a lucky eight ball,
the word submerges to the surface.
Upon meditating the previously proposed question.

Is it foolish to be afraid when you know all will be well?
Or more foolish to fall under such a notion?

We forget how powerful fear can be,
how quickly it becomes the thief of will.

Her perfect world I aimed to create,
Problems she held onto I wanted to lock away,
That’s all I ever wanted for her.
All I ever tried to do.

But I can remember the sound,
A small whimper.
As if the past inside had caught up with her,
I was the problem. I was the cause.
I could see me reflection in every drop of water,
Image by image absorbed by my shirt.

Why was the search for safety still in me?
I was the reason.
Why did escape still rest on my shoulder?
I was what provoked.

What I want is not what I deserve.
I am given too much but never put out enough back.
Who gave me that right? To be such an ***;
So blind, and so Ignorant.
Yet she sticks around and stays,
It kills me to see that it kills her.

The perfect world I aimed to build
shattered in the frozen wind.
The loss of feeling in my bones
of escaped problems in the cold.

But I hold her.
Because I fear if I let go I’ll never feel her body again,
I fear I’d never hear that laugh I love once more,
Fear never to see that smile that brings good tears,
Or those eyes that tell a story:
A story no longer of her own.

Its fear.
Fear that makes me worry as the world moves on without me,
And nothing is left with me but an echo
Of those same words smeared across the walls of my skull.

I was on my way just seeking a purpose,
When I saw a young boy ‘bout the age of three.
With short brown hair and eyes that seemed to glow,
He was playing innocent with only love to show.

I'm no longer able to see that brown-hair boy of three,
But in the reflection of my mind I see a three-year-old me.
With no problems, and no worries; just my head in the clouds,
I ran around happy because i knew i was free.

Look at me now, all those years gone to waste,
With these problems, and these worries, clouds darkened with haste.
The three-year-old me is inside me somewhere,
But he is lost and confused and i do not know where.

I've made a new friend and she’s never gonna leave,
As listen to her sing, I am off flying free.
Cause when I listen to music, I can again see,
Oh, It frees my three-year-old me…

All that's happened up to this point
it has not been easy.
It has come with equal discomfort
as comfortable as I truly I am.

And although its not very sturdy,
this is the table in which it lays.
It's not easy but I am happy,
And I know it'll get easier in time.

How can you show that you care?
How do you show that your there?
By how can friendship be what we share-
When its from a distance that which we sit and stare?

But it is of that distance which my feet will choose to walk,
Until that day comes we just continue to talk.

That through both our care we will see,
For I'll help you back when you fall to your knee’s.
Because this friendship we share, it must be,
Its not “from a distance” that tears at what you mean to me.

I’m a shell of a man,
In this shell of a world,
Surrounded by nothingness.

And it is this shelled life we live in,
In such a vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

But our shells are not the one which lives inside,
The five senses know not of who that shell can hide.

For some of us fill the shell to the brim with alcohol,
Til they drown the one within.

While others mutilate the shell in fiery destruction,
Finding not what is lacking beneath.

Some starve the shell down to a much thinner lining,
Suffocating the air for the internal.

Some shells are altered in design and decoration,
Rendering what feels as difference.

While the others that have kept original and the same,
Slowly grow in independence.

When we fall -crack- and our true selves leak out,
Some run and hide the broken; faking in disguise til repair.

When we can’t escape judgement for the innate shell and/or the cracks we bear,
Some leave the shells found hanging in closets or simply lying warm gun in hand.

Forgetting our gift of common sense we lack as a whole,
We define each other with what only our five senses show.

For I've found I’m a man in a shell,
In this awful illusion of a shell,
Surrounded by ignorance.

And it is this shelled world we create,
In this vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

It was a Monday afternoon.
I decided,
after months of putting off,
to finally give blood.

Red Cross had only been
emailing me for months now.
They were in bad need for blood,
desperate need for mine: O-

The man who took my information
was  furrowed, leathery, and tired.
The opportunity time provided was conversation,
and the benefit of meeting Jesus.

Now the woman who took my blood,
was not only the unanimously decided tired,
but also sad.
The eyes gave it away.

The entire time I gave blood I listened,
and somehow made sure I didn't open up.
She sat there quietly counting the minutes,
While I denied her a chance to meet Jesus.

I treated her well.
I'm genuinely kind
as I know anyone can tell.
But is that enough?

And I'm questioning now with her memory in mind,
"What if that was Jesus?"
"What if He gave me the chance to better His day?"
And that's where I know I'm wrong-

For I know she was Jesus.

I am not afraid of the dark.
Nor do I fear the thoughts in my head.

But the bugs.
Aye.
The ******* critters in my brain.

My fear, I’m afraid, is they power they have mustered-
Controlling such thoughts; destroying slumbers when days-light dims.

Like solar paneled viruses that attack at the core of emotion,
Ripping through the Limbic system.
Erasing Memory; Re-circuiting Anxiety.

Taking the wiring from retinal output and re-coding each message.
Hacking the server until ants become Godzilla
And “hello’s” read as “goodbye”.

Twitching fingers and feet that scratch at the skin.
It’s these ******* leeches in my skull that **** my nerves dry
Til I’m hot- **** no, cold.

And the extermination comes:
Sunrise.Coffee.Interaction.

It’s like they live to die by the hour of midnight,
Only to do their time through rummage and destruction.
Hatching eggs in my nails, Chewed away by discomfort.
Growing to new forms by lights out.

Rehearse.
React.
Repeat.

It’s these bugs that I fear;

Fearing the darkness.
Fearing the thoughts inside.

It’s these bugs that I even doubt this ****** piece of work.

Yet these bugs are what created what you now have read,
The over exaggeration now etched on paper.
And it is the small bit of me still left alive at night behind them,
Refusing to see this truth when the extermination has come.

It’s no plead for help; No cry for sympathy.

I am me as you are me-
So please take me as I come.

I write.
Well wrote my own story at hand.
I’m not finished with what I’ve hardly started,
Just placing the pen to rest in my pocket.

Fold up the floor, Tear down the tents,
Throw out my key, Stick out my thumb,
It’s time to put this show on the road.

I’m gone. Content.
Life in slideshow form shown through my dash.

I’m done. Unchanged.
With troubles nothing but rumble and dust.

Crack me open, Read what you may,
Wait for the break, A mid-sentence halt.
”Gone fishing, be back later.”

A toss of the pen, the key to this code,
A rise and a fall, no idea how to go.
Will it be caught, wrote down in new ink,
Or will it be waiting, for my absence to sink.

Love, for what I had yet fear.
The sound I still long to be near.
Can a kiss tell or can it ****.
The thought which makes my heart stand still.

To keep the world smiling, a job too big for one.
Yet a job not impossible to get done.
But I was that only one, or so it seemed.
So the pressure built, if you know what I mean.

A breaks what I need, yet she sits in my head.
A silhouette of a girl keeps me up in my bed.
I need to fill this blank canvas alone.
Yet I’m turning to everyone to help me see what is shown.

I listen for those drums, to show me the rhythm.
And feel for those footsteps, to guide me along.
I search for those songs, that speak a thousand words.
And write what I find, what comes out of this mind.

So the three roads ahead are now what I face.
I sit and I wait not knowing what to chase.
For I find no drums, nor footsteps, still long for a song.
Understanding for answers to what choice is not wrong.

In through the nose.
And out through the mouth.
The lungs stay the same, but the air-
The air is thinning.

If we knew we could use up all the oxygen,
would we breathe any faster?
If we knew you wouldn't wake up tomorrow,
would we go to bed sooner?

We want to tell the world yes,
but we we’d be lying to ourselves.
So why do we lie? Why can’t we just realize we want help,
And not the end.
For ending the misery is not the proper trade.

Once more through the nose.
Again out the mouth.
We mustn't plan our goodbyes.
Fill the lungs, lower the chest.

Inhale… The End.

People in life want to have peace and freedom,
But no one in life can make things full of glee.
There are people in life with eyes of coal,
All sad and depressed, all just lost in a pit.
In these deep dark moments, all down in the dumps,
You make brand new friends with every lost soul.

When you’re down in the dumps you got to be smart,
Even though you make friends, things still fall apart.
I never fall in; I just seem to jump,
I play cards, listen to songs, and think about life’s flaws,
Write music, play songs, sleep, eat, and sleep.
And everyone believes that I’m the King of the Dumps.

I’ve been here so long that there’s no longer a way out,
I write so many songs that I’m beginning to lose count.
People I know talk to me about there good news and bad,
I’m a good listener but got no one to talk to,
When it comes to my problems I’m stuck in a slump.
Even though I didn’t ask to be, I’m the King of the Dumps

Removing the mask you bear,
The one painted in sadness and doubt.
Removing this cover we find another.

This middle layer (the second lie)
is the mask of fake smiles most people wear.
No one can really smile that long,
So we must lift once more and cinch our eyes.

Beneath this second film cover we find the human you are.
The person you have only let a total of two people see.
I, being one of the few, have only been graced on the rarest occasions.

Most people only wear one mask,to hide the pain.
But you, you wear two: for hiding the pain then hiding the fake joy.
Its clever, believable, unique, and a mistake.

For only you would need two extra layers to hide how extraordinary you really are.

You can have an opinion long enough
you lose grip of the fact that's all it is.
The same principle can be applied to beliefs and morals,
And that realization can be terrifying.

My ex had an abortion while we were together,
to a child come to find never existed at all.
Yet that experience still weighs one me,
and it is scary that I'll never know:

Whether the guilt I felt is one I hide within a changed opinion,
or if my opinion is changed in order to find a justification?

Close one eye.


                                                          ­                        L


                               What do you see?


O


                                        Now switch.


                                                       ­                 O


             Close both;
             And- open.


                                         K


Each perspective, giving light to new way.
Each angle showing its very own and personal meaning.
Every piece forming the large view of it all.

We can do this now with our thoughts,
Some might call it-
"Taking a walk in their pair of shoes".

I prefer “art”.

Simply put, you start with nothing.
From there we add stories;
Be it experience, imagination, fictional, or realistic.

The best part is each story has meaning
Ranging from deep to no meaning at all.
And from there we see coincidence, similarities, and difference.

Regardless of any one story-
Its relation (or major lack there of) to another,
Makes a picture.

Like forming the Mona Lisa from pieces of toast,
Or 9/11 from individual pictures of victims,
Every minor part has a purpose,
And every purpose give larger meaning.


      Close one eye:


W


View the items you can see without peripherals.


                                                  ­                                   I


                                    Now both:

                          T


                           Seeing not with eyes but all else that is handed to you.


                                                          ­           H


                                                             ­                                     And open:


                                                         ­                                I


Yet do not immediately place it all together.


                           N


We are not all lucky enough to be born blind, def, or dumb.
But we all have the capability to see words from letters, weeks from days, buildings from bricks.

Just because a brick is left over or a painting of a shoe sits next to a photo of an ore,
Does not give reason that it is a mistake, or unimportant
Without it, Such words would never exist.

Get It?

One lucky day I met a special girl,
If had only known she would patch me up inside.
I could tell by the way she looked at me,
She thought i was the one, but life often lies.

I had only just met her,
Wasn’t sure what to think.
I said not to worry, it would be okay,
I only had to stop and reconsider.

I now know the question,
That floated through her head…

What exactly is ‘okay’,
And what in life makes the world go round, What exactly is ‘okay’,
I am Lost and waiting to be Found.

A year went by and life seemed okay
I never forgot the girl I saw that day.
Those glowing eyes seeked me out once again,
So I gladly agreed not knowing the price id pay.

You waited for me so I thought it would last, But now Im just another guy in your past. I regret not doing the things I should’ve done, And now Im alone not having any fun.

They all say not to worry it will be okay,
But I still have that question,
that floats through my head…

What exactly is ‘okay’,
And what in life makes the world go round,
What exactly is ‘okay’,
I am Lost and waiting to be Found…(repeat)

I am Lost and waiting to be Found….

A majority of the struggle for Art,
is simply becoming a reality.

Remember the day when you told me you loved me?
Do you?
-I do-
The icy shiver as the cuffs bound my ankles.
It hadn't been that long and yet, I liked it.
I remember within all that fear,
Deep down (like waaaayyyy down): relief.
Love.
A word and emotion;
But to what does it hold value?
Because in this economy it doesn't feel like much.
Do you remember when I told you I loved you?
Truly?
That was my favorite day,
Right before your birthday.
It wasn't a gift to you though, no.
It was a burst of meaning and feeling I had mustered up over weeks passing til it exploded into ****** up confusion in your parents bed that night.
You overlooked the imperfection with a smile.
Too giddy to care;
Perhaps even your ears heard it perfectly as I meant it.
P̶e̶r̶h̶a̶p̶s̶.
Then that word, love, slowly faded away remember?
The daily panic of as though you were slipping in my hand,
And the over-compensated measures that would push you away.
So. far. away.
Commitment- Check.
Love- Check.
And a future? We were so ready to skip ahead to the settling down it sickened us.
Remember that?
-I do-
And yet its gone and I can’t remember why?
I can’t place were it fell out,
I've retraced my steps but someone cleaned the mess before I could investigate.
And so its gone, as I’m left stumbling through this fog trying to rebuild a scattered puzzle.
Piece - by - piece.
It is as though our kite strings snapped and now I’m holding them both as the separate winds tear me in two.
I’m breaking.
And so now I’m just here,
Alone.
Watching replays of us in my room until I realize whats missing:

*I've lost all my teeth and yet now your smile seems twice as big.

I remember my moms cups of coffee as a child.
A hazelnut aroma rising out of her travel mug --
a gift she got as an underpaid teacher who had to get her boost on-the-go
--filling the car like steam from a hot shower fills a bathroom.
I remember that smell ironically always headed to school.

I remember the first time I was offered a sip of coffee.
Not nearly as sweet as it smelled.
Bitter liquid that terminated taste buds like water extinguishes flame as it billowed across the tongue and  down the hatch.
I remember that taste vowing never to have to again.

I remember when my sister started working at a "coffee shop".
The one that competes with itself across street-ways,
and still has lines filled with downward looking drones despite being in Paris.
I wouldn't even eat the pastries she brought home
knowing the aroma entwined around them long enough for osmosis.

And sitting now, in the office of my retail store at 23,
Staring into my travel mug,
which looks like an above ground pool version of the black lagoon,
These are the memories that come to mind
as caffeine blocks adenosine from their receptors in my brain.

I listen to the sounds the leaves make as they fall to the ground,
Look at the way the water moves as the breeze blows,
Smell the crisp air as the sun beams,
And I wonder if they notice all the same things about me.

It's never appealed to me,
The smell of cigarettes.
Whether it was my upbringing or the Asthma,
I couldn't say.

2-3 days later and it's peaked.
Headache √
Anxiety √
Nausea √

Here I am.
All the symptoms are there.
What these lips have touched.
What these lungs have tasted.

They crave for more.

When I’m bored and confused and have no where to go,
I sit down and think til my emotions just flow,
Seems that I wonder to places even God doesn’t know.

And when I listen to music I am up in the sky,
Music to me is like drugs to some guy.
It takes me to where I can be me,
I am wondering in this place where I am set free.

Although I am gone in this place with no cost,
Not all people who wonder are lost.

There’s things in this world that seem a little too real,
Life is boring and fast, no time for you to feel,
Love comes and goes like a well-broken deal.

But as I listen to music I am up in the sky,
Music to me is like drugs to some guy.
It takes me to where I can be me,
I am wondering in this place where I am set free.

Although I am gone in this place with no cost,
Not all people who wonder are lost.

O’ gracious mind, that stores the monster within,
The ill of soul feels that in life one can’t win,
O’ beaten heart, that does not tell praise from sin,
The lord would not have placed ‘insane’ in such men.

Thy inner head does burn with this gift inside of me,
The mental suffocation does help me feel so high,
They call me crazy?! Oh they know not what sets me free,
Its belief we grow to live, sadly we grow to die.

The sounds become outstanding, bringing leaks unto these ears.
The ink becomes overwhelming, hovering off the page.
The people become too much, making life a last resort.
And fire in my skull burns bright! I can’t stand this anymore!

Silence,
The lack of fight.
Peace,
The dim of light:

For I love all insanity that comes my way,
Because it makes life worth living each and everyday…

O’ Bountiful Mind,
Such a beautiful delight is the memory we store,
From childhood to now, fears to joyfulness,
Such a glorious creation, Gods masterpiece and more.

Yet I seem to – I mean – I stumble on the spot,
And – Ummm – Memory is something that can’t be bought.

O’ Internal Shrine,
We never fill up; instead our head stays an open door,
From that one first crush to that one first kiss,
Its wonder is a mystery down to the very core.

I have – I guess – I must have lost my train of thought,
For what I had in mind I seem to have forgot…

O’ Shakespeare and your beauty of sonnets,
Thou’s glorious works of art that **** thee.
Its strength grasp thy soul, shatter it to bits,
I just love how you try and ****** me.
Your words, they flow in such wonderful ways,
From you to the people, they ever flow.
Where doth thou run when seen the light of day?
Back to the cauldron from where thy once grew?
O’ thou’s attempts to be but such a bird
Yet stuck an ugly duck, ******* great awe.
You bring sight to the blind; to deaf, sounds are heard,
Death to the living; mutes left to gagging.
Thus I must credit your will and your time,
For like you, my life’s lost in this strict rhyme.

I found our unfinished puzzle today,
The progress preserved through all these years.
On several occasions I've attempted to finish it with no prevail,
And yet today when I found it, it had been destroyed.

-Time-
Such an Underestimated element.
Setting People into place,
And placing no gaps in any life.

-The Fun-
It comes in waves, and as it pulls away,
You only wish you could ride with it.
Giving emotions that are expressed and held.

-The Mockingbird-
It landed on a window sill of mine,
Brought hope as I opened the glass to let it rest.
Leaving an open exit if it plans to fly away.

The time gets the better,
Bringing fun things to come.
But it seems only to dissipate,
When the mockingbird tries to rest again…

The fear comes in me,
The worry stays,
”What if I come home to an open window,
Empty sill?”

- Now I guess I know.

Lying under a leaking roof,
Just counting the drops til it caves.
Been walking on a rotten bridge,
Counting the steps to the fall.

Just a ticking bomb of worry,
As my hopes just waste away.
The longer time holds on,
The more I want to let go of it all.

They say home is where the heart is,
Well I gave my heart to you.
Thus there is nothing more true in saying:
"Home is wherever I’m with You".

And it may take hours, days, or years,
But “I’ll never care how long it takes,
-as long as you come home to me”.

What if I slept?
Not for those regular reasons,
But the irregular.
For the admiration of leaving reality
Only to wake up in my own world.
A world at peace, Never to wake again.
Would you care?

What if I lied?
Not to hurt or cause sorrow,
But the irrational.
For the acceptance of making reality
Only to hide what is really inside.
A man full of hurt, loneliness.
Would you see?

What is reality?
Not a world of the irregular or irrational,
But the contrary.
What is truth?
Not a word of what is right,
But a slip of what is needed.

For reality can be left,
Truths can hurt.
We can teach ourselves,
Break the happiness, Fake our way.
Its all a weapon, A way of life.
Whats not taught to us in the books.

Would you gladly care to tell me who I am?
The me you have become to know, have known to become.
Would you please show me where I should flee?
A place where the world no longer fades where I stand.
Would you?

Feel free to wake me when our existence is no more.
The reality is a lie,
A lie we have dreamed up.
Does that make it Tangible? Authentic? Or Exceptional?
Does that make us concrete?

So I’m stuck waiting,
Waiting on what others entitle life.
To me its a waste,
For I need something to call mine.
But this reality is all lies and back to dreams I fall.
The wait is over.
This is where I am secluded.

Would you even want to join me?
Like I said,
Do you even care?

I want to see the rough drafts of your life,
the ones that reside on the floor after missing our casket of waste.
I want to see the erasing, the changed proportions, the skeletal grid.
Cause the resulting finish is beautiful; you’ve mastered a technique.

Maybe I want to feel closer,
with a secret for thine only.
Or maybe I just want that importance,
with trust I would truly come to believe.

It’s only a peak I am viewing.
All else is six feet deep.
But it’s that peak of the iceberg that I love
over the entirety of any other.

I do not know what lies in heaven,
nor what our deaths may bring.
All questions may be revealed,
or grow unanswered in fresh new trees.
But disregarding my faith; despite all your beliefs:

This one I want from you, not omniscient Him

It's hard to tell the difference in what is actually poetic
and what is simply me viewing something as a poet.
With that in mind- I've been thinking about scars lately,
and I've realized there's a metaphor to be found in there.

Appearing when injured in ways our body can't heal.
Despite any effort, the wound is never the same.
The new design etched in the skin as a memory,
With any physical pain now masked with an emotional connection.

The thing about scars is that they do go away- eventually-
And by the time you are healed, the area is 100% new.
No longer marked by anything more than fresh cells,
A creation or rebirth formed through one painful moment.

Some change our appearance, while others only affect our actions.
Some change what makes us laugh, and others change what we fear.
Some bring tears even after their gone, others hardly force a second thought.
Regardless in the end there is nothing left but what we remember.

We endure pain to a degree of being marked,
But that doesn't mean we won't heal.
It just takes a lot of time and understanding-
that we'll never be the same- but we'll be new.

Buddha: 'Nothing is forever, except change'-
Scars: There's a poem to found there.

I've tried therapy once;
Weekly: Mondays, 3 PM.
But like interruptions end thoughts,
Broken glass ended sessions.

So call for help cause I've done it again,
Killed the advice as soon as he chimed in.
Conversations left to brewing inside I just ask
“If I can’t help myself, what other ******* ***** can?”

Blood stained fists are what sealed these lips,
Closing my eyes on the broken bathroom mirror.