I heard the darkness was freeing – for in it you cannot see your
mistakes; and would I be wrong to assume that’s where *******
children are made?

I heard the darkness was freeing – that even if you looked at your
ugly reflection, that part of yourself would always seem so far
away…

       The dark, can be uncomfortable – sometimes; but also warming
   in your worst times – all you can do is withstand the slow erosion
of your happier memories; the darkness has seen me bare; it has
cradled my tears, and for a fleeting moment, it made me feel loved,
only to turn its back and betray.

I heard the darkness was freeing – for when you felt like nothing,
you could be a peaceful nothing in this endless nothing place

I heard the darkness was freeing – it grants me a semblance of
acceptance, allowing me to revel in the very things that bring me
shame – oh, how I ought to flee from this place, yet it soothes the
burdens of the day.

To dream of about suicide is a wage to not wake up dead, a struggle
to rise from the depths of despair. In the heart of a collapsing
mansion, I find myself amidst a vast courtyard, pondering if this
opulence will ever be mine. A magnificent tennis court lies before me,
its fragile barrier barely containing the grotesque monsters lurking
beyond. They cling to the fence, their claws poised to strike, yet I can’t
help but grin, for these fiends are but reflections of my own tortured
psyche.

Where shall I find solace in dreams, when each dream is just a false
awakening loop; each threshold leads me further into a deeper
threshold? On the sixth day of my futile escape, I realize my
confinement is not of brick and mortar, but of the haunting messages
buried within the restless slumber I can never fully embrace.

                                     This life is a false narrative!

Lay me to rest with my pen in hand, for the heavens shall serve
as my canvas, where with each stroke of ink, I will inscribe my
aspirations upon their billowing clouds - visible to all who gaze
skyward.

And as the rain descends, may it cleanse not only the tangible
world but also the abstract doubts that linger in the minds of my observers.

Through the permanence of my written legacy in the sky, let the
wisdom I have gathered extend beyond time and space. May it act
as a guiding beacon for the inexperienced, illuminating the path
forward amidst their uncertainty and ambiguity

                 ...my hand shall hold this immortal pen.

Misery demands a body; heartbreak offers up a heart as a
sacrifice— each coffin yearns for a cherished soul to inhabit, while
debt grins at those ensnared by their own habits, and corporations
thrive on the cravings of the addicts. Time adorns you with the
weight of years, branding you as “old fashioned,” we reach out to the
device of compassion via empathy —witnessing another's tears, we
absorb their grief…

To glimpse another's scars ignites our own anxieties, as we hastily
conceal our own cuts—solitary confinement paints a vivid portrait of
physical loneliness. A multitude of contacts on my phone can never
provide real physical contact. In genuine connection, some among
you only seek to uncover something valuable within us—they'll
transform you into Wi-Fi.

Thrusts of passion that follow our parting leave gaping holes in the
heart— a love that finds fulfilment in affliction; is this the tragic
affliction of love? It means nothing to love beauty, comfort, or success
—we all love things that are pleasing; but aren’t so pleased when
those very things abandon us.

Only the courageous dare to love the aged, the ill, the downtrodden;
the impoverished, the scorned, the grotesque; the unappealing, the
foolish, and the faltering— we all navigate the same turbulent waters,
yet we row at varying paces. Still, life can be astonishingly beautiful
at times – if you choose to see it.

Days drift toward oblivion, as existence bears down upon the cosmos,
consuming us whole— we are a titan sculpted from the remnants of
lost souls, thriving in a vineyard of despair. These obsidian cherry
desires, weeping with the rain, and these lips, forged from the same
flesh, cry out in fervent prayers. “Lord, give us this day,” we plead,
yearning for the sustenance of daily bread. In the shadow of poverty,
joy fades into silence; in sorrow, we hear the haunting echoes of our
shared lament among the trees. In the pools of our sorrow, we gaze
upon untainted skin, the glimmering droplets mirrored in the water.

A miracle bestowed is akin to the sweetness of a first kiss; delicate
and fleeting — as we love holding our breath in anticipation of
another, yet failing to voice our true needs. Yet, life wears us down,
gathering us like discarded clothes— material smiles; we have
devoured the richness of our cherry desires, leaving only a handful
of barren stems in our wake—had you not sought instead this Daily
bread?

But what does daily bread signify for you – the clinking of coins, the
allure of wealth, the visage of another, their utterances, or the depths
of their emotions? Could it be that what you seek is not the bread that
nourishes your soul?

I loved you, you loved me – as our hearts danced in unison;
and when we broke up, I broke a piece of myself forever tethered to
you – where I languished in the seat of butterflies caught in the nets
of my being; now, each passing day, I find myself sinking deeper into
the embrace of that couch.

I thought as much, yet no essence of our love could ever truly be
lost – even in the absence of what we once shared, the echoes of our
past fill me with a bittersweet pride. For you rekindled within me the
essence of love, the warmth of trust, the joy of spontaneous laughter,
the blush ignited by a mere text – not merely crafting imaginary
verses, but living the poetry woven into every word exchanged.

I thought as much, like a relentless storm, yet I have emerged
stronger than the facade I wore in my youth. And for that, I owe you
a debt of gratitude, for you have nurtured a part of me that has a
reason to grow up.

            It never was break up, I just had to grow up!

I add music to my thoughts, just to keep them from growing
darker – my cheeks, feel like lead – weighed down by the burden
of unshed tears; as my ears strain to bear the weight of my silent
anguish. At times, my screams clash like thunder, echoing through
the tempest of my doubts, a relentless storm that looms overhead.
Each flicker of hope I grasp is met by lurking shadows, eager to
shroud my path in darkness—insecurities descend like a nightfall,
one among countless others.

The darkness acts as a hairline, as it recedes beneath a vengeful star,
I cling to the flicker of positivity that still resides within me, yet rage
simmers when my existence goes unnoticed. The Heavens bleed
crimson as I search for solace in my dreams, and where the blood
spills, it crashes against the earth with a deafening roar. My thoughts
drift through a luminous haze, yet I remain a harbinger of chaos,
spiralling through destruction—yearning, a restless spirit, my body
evaporating, and ceasing to exist.

In this turmoil, I am drawn into a surreal realm, where the confines
of my mind transform into a grand stage—twisting and contorting,
twisting itself in these performing gymnastic routines. It is a perpetual
struggle, a delicate dance of cognition, as I pray, I do not tear the
fragile threads of my sanity.

Yet, amidst this chaos, my music rises as a refuge, the pen transforming into my conductor's wand, weaving together the symphony of poetic notes that dance upon the page – I am a poet.