Society has us all drugged on the idea, that if we have money, we have happiness.

I'd inhale it wishing it would **** me.


sincerely , dad.

there’s a gun in my hand
(metaphorically speaking)
and i wrote this for u,
every last tear and laugh
and droplet of blood that
you drew out of my flesh,
blades for kisses while
the drugs reached your
veins-down the rabbit
hole you went once
again; and maybe i
should be sorry about
it, perhaps loving you
was just as mad as the
pills you swallowed,
because all i seemed
to be was a game
that you made, but
there’s a gun in my
hand, and it won’t
go away

I'm not okay.
Not even close.

I'm falling to pieces,
While you can't even see.

Or won't see, for that matter.

All my cracks,
Coating my skin,
Letting the blood flow.

I don't know where it all went wrong.

But now, I'm hiding
On the other side
Of my bedroom door.

And I won't let you in.

I am not
A happy person,
Not even close.

Seems to be a fitting name.

You only saw
The surface.

Where "darkness"
Was fun.

But you didn't see the real depths of my soul.

Would
It
Scare
You?

The things I see,
The visions at night
Are all too real to me.

The slashes on my arms,
The blood on my skin,
They are there too.

And even now, it still hurts.

Because I am still
"That goth kid",
Only much older.

Forgotten wishes
When we turn
Four

Forgotten dreams
When we turn
Six

Forgotten friendships
When we turn
Eight

Forgotten imagination
When we turn
Ten

Forgotten smiles
When we turn
Twelve

Forgotten crushes
When we turn
Fourteen

Forgotten love
When we turn
Sixteen

Forgotten stories
When we turn
Eighteen

Forgotten family
When we turn
Twenty

We forget
And we remember

Every new memory comes at a cost
For every memory gained
A memory is lost

Please...
           just...
                 come...
                          back...