Recently I've been having
conversations
with myself, in the dark.
I ask myself questions, like;
"Do you have likes and dislikes?"
"Do you have hopes and dreams?"
"Where do you see yourself in the future?"
I never respond,
I never have an answer to respond with.

I created my brain from all of my pain,
I corrected my thoughts through many tied knots.
I'm still here, existing even though my life is twisting constantly.

And; late at night when I think about
the kids who couldn't live another day,
I often question what I'd give to bring them back.
It's not the fact that I didn't know them that
makes me want them back, but the way they
had to act. Because long ago, this little boy had
to act. This little boy had to act everyday. We all had to act.
We acted as if we were staring in a movie that never finished.

**We were known for the roles we played.

Sometimes we're better off alone,
to feel the pain we've always known.
Struggling with insanity, feeling a sort of vanity
and seeing no humanity.

Our heads pound unboundly,
we don't feel anymore.
We'll never heal anymore,
We can't deal anymore.
We'll never be the same,
we'll always feel shame.

Sometimes we're better off alone,
Sometimes we're better unknown.

He often sat alone.
Known by none, liked by none.
He was shy,
never looked in the eye.
He was falling,
falling from the sky.
But, the sky wasn't.
It was more.
It was the constant fear he got when
others whispered loud enough to barely hear,
it was the 12% he got on a test because he was stressed.
It was life.
He lived like a knife;
always used for the simple things,
but was nothing for the hard.
You used him to butter the bread,
but his was still burnt.
Oh, what a shame.
He should've learnt.

Life is swirling, my mind is twirling and I'm done.
I'm done with the pain from my brain, a constant train.
Chug Chug. But, I want it to stop. I want to drop, skid to a stop and yell that this is hell. I dwell on the smell of the lies and denies, the cries and the sighs. The light in my eyes has started to die.
I'm just a boy learning to fly,
living in a world that money can buy.

They look at me and all they see is a boy.
They don't  see how depression took my emotions and turned them
inside out.
They don't see the tears in my eyes when I see couples and remember that I can never have that because I can't feel love.
They don't see the way I struggle to shove the motivation to get up everyday out of my body like a tornado that's killing everything in it's path.
When I'm older and people see me they will not see a boy,
they will see a corpse.

Sugar cubes
and
Salt cubes.

They look so similar
that they're often
confused with
the other

DRIP, DROP, DRIP, DROP
the rain smashes against the window,
it's beautiful.
BOOM,BOOM,BOOM*
light illuminates the dark sky,
it makes me think.
past,present,future.
flowing like a tidal wave and
it's knocking me down.
i'm falling under the water,
i can't see.
i take my final breath.
darkness.

She wore heavy sweaters and wrote letters to a boy
who called her a bore.
She sent them day after day, night after night hoping
she might hear back from him.
And as she signed the last letter, number 346, she signed with a
small p.s at the bottom;

"Why don't you love me anymore?"

She wrote letters to a boy who didn't care,
he read letters with a hard stained glare.

When I was younger,
I used to think we were all equal.
I guess I was wrong
because now I'm pretty sure this Earth is lethal.

**Don't **** me.
Please.

The sun
can't live
without the moon.
Maybe that's me
without you.

Cars and lightning
don't scare me
anymore.

Dusk met Dawn.
and without one,
the other couldn't exist.
Their lives were like novella's,
short and sweet.

The day Dusk met Dawn,
the day that perpetual love fell.

I spent a long time hating myself.
Thinking that my hands were saws
and to touch anyone would be to **** them.
I thought that my eyes were darts,
drops of poison on the ends.
I aimed my eyes at my feet so I wouldn't **** anyone.
Anyone,
but myself.
I thought that I was like the sun,
I'd burn you if you got close.
I wasn't handsome,
not like everyone else.
I was just me,
a burning pound of flesh.

Lately,
I've realized that I am not flesh.
I am not a poison dart
or a ****** weapon.
I'm a celestial man.
I have stars growing in between my ribs
and crystals pouring from my eyes,
my hands bleed glitter.

I'm not the nothing I once thought,
I'm the everything I never knew.

Things are really ******,
but not all flowers
are pretty

He went to school unnoticed
and often lacked focus.
Not because he didn't care,
but because focus was quite rare.
His life filled with pills.
Trying to **** his ADHD,
but only killing his sanity.

People often said he lacked focus,
but how can you lack something that was never intact?

Don't compliment me, just say you're here.

Dear somebody,

my therapist told me to write to you.
She said it would give me sight,
make me see what's wrong in my life.
But, I can't see.
I'm blinded by the words they throw at me,
I can't hear because the voices keep telling me,
let go.
I'm drifting.
Trying to lift my arms.
But, I can't.
I try to shift,
but I'm frozen.
Is this what it feels like to be chosen by death?
To feel the breath of darkness on my neck.
To look sorrow in the eyes.

Is this how it feels to live?
'Cause I don't feel very **alive.

They told me I could become anything, so I
became dead

When he was four,
he tried to write a poem
and named it "Happy"
because he was happy.
He had a new toy
and new paints.

When he was nine,
he tried to write another
and named it "Confused"
because that's what he was.
He had questions about his body,
but couldn't find the answers.

When he was thirteen,
he wrote another
and named it "Scared"
because that's how he felt.
His body was changing
and he didn't like it.

When he was Fifteen,
he wrote a different poem
and named it "Knowledge"
because that's what he gained.
He knew what was wrong,
so he told them his new name.

When he was eighteen,
he wrote a new one
and named it "Ghost"
because that's what he was.
Nobody respected him,
his pronouns were never heard.

So when he turned twenty,
he wrote his final poem
and named it "Boy"
because that's what he always was.
He taped it to his door
and danced from his ceiling fan.

I wonder,
how many kingdoms
have I blown to dust
to get where I am?

White picket fence,
house of suburban wishes.
Where you graced me with bittersweet kisses.

Static slumber,
electricity cut off.
When you put me in the sink.

Green blades,
two toned sky.
How you pinned me to the washing line.

Held on by my plastic pins,
you watched as I blew in the wind.
Falling to the mud.
You cleaned me, I got *****.
Why did you watch me fall?

Put the feet back on the ground,
the earth has been found a home.
Leave the umbrella alone,
the rain has stopped and the reason is unknown.
Dry the eyes of their tears.
The fears were conquered tonight.
Now, soar through the sky in the light.
The things of secret are within the sights.

In ninth grade, she shined a light in your heart
and you couldn't tell if it was real or not.
You spent life like that for two years.
She was there for all your panic attacks
and depressed nights, but then she broke you.
She took a sledgehammer named "Cheat"
and broke your heart into millions of pieces.
Your depression got worse
and you were breaking down every day,
but you still taped the heart up.
It was broken, but it still worked.
You spent your time planning ways
to avoid going by her classes,
you stopped going to the cafeteria
and ate lunch outside by your lonesome.
You were alone again, but you didn't feel it.
Because, the tape from your heart fell off one by one
every time you see her with her new boyfriend.
So one night when everything got too much,
you ran away into the woods behind your house.
You went back to the tree that you and her carved,
you drew a broken heart on a piece of paper
and signed it "**** Me" with your name.
You didn't want to make a note because
you weren't good at writing and
you didn't know how to explain it.
Then you jumped into the cold river,
watching the moons reflection until your final breath.
You were at peace.

They say
that a house becomes a home
only after you've
lived in it
long enough to learn
it's weak spots.

I've lived in this
body
for years.
I've learned the flaws
weak spots
and abnormalities
yet it doesn't
feel like
home.

My reality is different than yours.
So much more, so much less.
My reality is looking at cars and
wanting to jump in front of them,
my reality is staring at stars and
wishing to be them.

My reality is so much more and so much less.
Not much love, a lot more hate.

My reality is simply to wait.

Brain flickers,
like an almost empty light bulb.
Realization trickles in
and you think to yourself,*
"What am I really doing?"

You'll try to post pins on a map,
trying to contour your life.
Most of the map will be blank.
A large lack of red pins pushed into the paper.
You'll try to understand why,
you'll look back and regret.

Regret the ticket you didn't buy,
the person you didn't talk to.
You'll want to change it.
But, you can't.
You'll crave to remember how it made you feel,
that trip across the world or that concert.
You won't remember.

And when you're dying,
you'll sit.
You'll wonder,
think
and question.

"Did I ever know what I was really doing?"

*No, you couldn't.