Rain drops down on heads,
they look out the balcony at
me, and I am alone.

My own little black box,
four walls, a floor, and a roof.
No water, dried lips and a sore
throat. I'll never escape this,
you'll never hear me play the
violin. I doubt I'll be as good as you expect me to be.

But wouldn't it be pretty to think so?
Guitarist, turned musician, turned
pianist and back, just to reel again onto a new distraction.

Well, I can't distract myself forever,
or can I? I think they'll know it when
they see it. I think they see it now.

I'm a leech, I dig into the skin of the
people around me-     I **** the blood
from the strongest people.

And I'm alone.

In this cabin in the woods,
in this moment in time,
in every heartbeat.
Feeling every heartache.

It's more a forest fire than a candle now, isn't it?

Is it you again?
Outside the bar,
smoking. Your hair *******.

I swear I see you
everywhere. Like
the passing phase of the moon at night.

Are you still cold?
Do you still think I was pretty?
Questions I swear I've asked, but can't remember.

I am the Christopher Marlowe of Illinois,
forever in the shadow of my Shakespeare.
I swear if I could resist it I would,
coincidentally though I cannot.
Over the hedge I see dead mice,
underneath me, or above me in their own labyrinths.
Little hints tell me soon I will be stuck in a maze of my own,
dull and discouraged like the beaten souls of the crayon makers.
Crying won't do me any good though, I'm already hopeless,
at one point I wasn't though. I had confidence.
Really I did, if you could believe it,
rhythm was in my blood.
Yours truly had a girlfriend, some sociality, and life was looking
young and exciting. I had a world in front of me ready to see me.
Or at least I thought the world would want me, out from
under the rubble of the small town I had been born.
Really I thought-      there was a small chance I could've been
loved, and respected and recognized as a person.
Over the feeling was in just a few months however,
vivid depressive episodes followed me through a dark tunnel.
Every corner was a face that I had abandoned, a person who
enveloped me in their love that I had destroyed, that I had lost.
Viciously abandoned like a newspaper after a quick skim,
energy drained from every action, every feeling.
Really, did you know I played the violin,
yes, I still have it in my room. I also played the dulcimer.
Where would I be able to play the dulcimer though, or the
hellishly repaired violin from my Grandfather?
Every string is in tune, it's a sad sight when the musician
refuses to play their instruments. It's always damaged pride.
Except in my case it was depression, anxiety, and scapegoating.
I was a chicken surrounded by foxes who I thought were my
wayward friends and fellow artists.
Overall the point of writing for me was to convey my thoughts,
unlike what I began at first though; I mostly enjoy confusing now.
Liam is my name. I'm also sometimes called Patrick, or William,
did you know that I'm Irish? Wow, you couldn't tell?
Before I was Irish I was an *******,
envious, from two doors down like a snake.
Quaint. I've lost my mind now, I can barely spell, it's
unbelievable how many times I misspelled "Quaint".
I almost think I'm attracted to misery, like it is the
tower at which I can extend my thoughts at the top.
Entry into my creativity is painful, it's
horrible I would say that every morsel of my mind is bored.
At least I'll die nonchalantly? I guess none of us are really worth
poem-ing on about. If you couldn't tell I'm running out the timer.
Poems need a rigid structure, a sound layout, and smart execution.
You should really read this acrostically now. See the irony of
                                                                                 post-modernsim.

Judge me-
we'll dance in the
moonlight until morning.

On your bike,
down the street,
six or seven times.

I wonder if you felt the same pull
to talk. I wonder if I'm just jaded,
or the sign of you coming down the same
little street so many times was a signal.

I wonder if we're both drowning in the same sea.

I guess I would know if I'd just talked to you.

I'm so sorry, if I could've helped you.
I'm so mad at myself for not approaching you.
I'm so scared that I'll never love anyone as beautiful as you.
Most of all though, I'm terrified I was just "that" creepy guy.

I wonder if we'd be good friends.
I wonder if we'd drift apart.
I wonder if I would've been cool enough for you.

Run away Daniel-
through the brush towards the light.
See how far you go.

Trains riding past the sun,
it hurts to be dull-
you never know what day it is.