I never took the lens cap off.
But there was a girl here once,
in this room; this quiet space in time.

It is a feeling, a happening.
Just as only once like Holiday I had an April in Paris.
This is a feeling.

Anaphoric, destined to be repeated.
Anaphoric, like scissors chopping; redoing.
Resculpting structures in my mind.

There was a girl here once, unlike some others.
But still, alike so many in a sense,
the strangest sculpture I've ever seen.

The small of her back, aviators on the floor.
God, like her spine was hand-made.
Like her existence was improbable.

Oh, now I know why junkies want heroine.
Once you feel it once you need it again,
and again, and again, and the girls after her
were all my relapse; my sickly coping mechanism.

But not because I couldn't help it.
Because there was a girl here once,
with thick rimmed glasses and a smile.
And most importantly, a heart.

There was a girl here once. Anaphoric, like scissors. Repeating.
And when she left I was searching for her, longing for my closure.

You take off your shirt.
Lie down on my bed.
You're very pretty.
I hate you.

I hate you for being prettier than me.
You tell me to come closer,
you light a candle.
Burn the impatience in my heart.

You turn down the radio, the skin of your
chest in the calm light shining, reflecting almost
my face with it's smoothness and clarity.
I hate you.

But you pull me down, 60 feet beneath the surface,
and I can feel your breath along my face. Warm
and loud, and peacefully provocative.
Tear my soul out because I know you will leave.

They say in college I will be free,
they say in high school I will experience,
they say in faded sighs that elementary was long ago,
they say middle school should be a passing trip.
Get in, get out.

And repeat; like a revolver cycling the cylinder,
like a car rounding a hill.
Like a sun spinning for years, of the millions of years it follows.
Like the pointed stare of a disappointed mother, never ceasing.
But alas; always seizing my attention.

That is the grand mystery of life, besides love.
It is the gaze of a stern and bitter wind upon my face,
the rough click of my fingers tapping the keyboard,
and the culling of a feeling that I know I could've felt.

It is the wonder that brings me to tears on the mountain's peak.
It is the feeling of never being able to hike high enough,
to never swim far enough; to never be enough.
And mostly, it is the misery and my affiliation with fame.

Like talent is an old forgotten friend, or technique that flew from
the window like a blue bird released from it's cage.

I am deranged,
scarily deformed mentally.
Horribly scarred along my back.
Reminisce of liars I dare do business with.

The devil himself must have given me these hands,
and these friends,
and these sponsors,
and these slowly closing feelings.

Well, all that is left is the imitator, not the imitated.
Never the imitated would last in a field of growing orchid.
Trace the same scars as the hotel here now,
as I stand on the roof, where one half is missing.

The breeze almost shakes me, and I can see myself fall.

Half Life 2,
I remember you.
Gordon Freeman in all your glory,
shining down so effortlessly, so sorely.

It breaks my heart Gordon,
that I remember you, but you don't remember me.

Well, sometimes I remember things you wouldn't believe.

Where did you go Trevor?
I miss you, and every endeavor.
It breaks my heart to see you lost,
or rather, I guess, less than betrothed.

I hope you know I'll miss you man,
as I often missed you when I was young.

I hope you realize your impact while you're out having fun.

Does love ever die? That's a question I would've asked a year ago.
The feeling sticks after I receive the answer.
Like a faulty receiver, the trigger bent and twisted; or a node for an AI that doesn't have a behavior tree to attach to, it sticks but nothing becomes. There is no takeaway.

Have you ever ridden your bike without it's training wheels?
I mean really felt it; the wind in your hair rushing down to your face. The warm breeze that makes you so comfortable lapsing over your every breath and pause, waiting to whip your shirt around again and again?

What am I?
A thinker, or a faker?
Are my words ever thought out?
Am I ever not doubting myself?

I feel like an imbecile, as all the people around me say; yet
at the same time, there are a few who see an intelligence beneath the parachute blanket wave.

So who is right? The teachers who believe in me or
the people who look down on me?

I wonder if they would be surprised if one day they found that I, the town's idiot; the teenager all the other's were told to stay away from, made something of myself.

I wonder if their opinions of me will have an impact at all.

I think I take them too seriously sometimes.
It's like they forget where they are;
conditioned to sit and wait for death.
Is it my fault I can't be alarmed?

I think it's my fault I pay little attention.
I think it's my fault they are confused,
but is it my fault they hate me?
I think that's up to them; to you.

But don't look for a pattern, because there isn't one.
Don't look for a rhyme scheme, or iambic pentameter,
or any of that nonsense.

Just as the people who judge me look, and then look away, I've written this poem to convey;  literally nothing. Besides the point. Literally nothing.

If you could ever use your brains, little town somewhere North, you would've realized long ago that you were the monument to weirdness, to solitude and idiocy; you were all a part of the plan.

As painful as it sounds to be left behind, now you'll know how it feels.

To the rich who blindly ignore, to the poor who blindly trust, I bid you farewell.

Thank God, in the movement of my feet I trust.

I am not like my Mother.
A liar, a cheat, who steals from my Father.

Yet I am not like my Father.
A manipulator, an angry man who enables my Mother.

But still I catch myself doing the same little things they do.
The lying, the anger, it all builds up. And now I can't come clean.

I love the thought of being selfless, but my every motive no matter what screams "what may I receive?"

I love the thought of being loved, especially.
But who would love a liar? A cheat? An angry man?

Well, I would.
I love myself and all my flaws because I know
one day I will drain them from me and I will
be at peace with the world and all these words; like forgotten
notes on a sheet of paper stuffed far out of reach.

I've realized in the last year:
My problems are nothing compared to the world's.
My heartache is nothing compared to the world's.
And lastly, my kindness and sincerity is what makes me feel complete. I couldn't bear to live in a world where everyone was as big an ******* as me.

Or rather, the ******* I used to be.

You all liked my friend
more than me.

How do I put ugly into words?

It is not flowers, for flowers are beautiful!
It is not the reflections of memories,
across the open pond;
along the orange skies,
the fine lines where thought begins
and insanity reigns.
This mentality is a dictatorship; where
the groves of sand sharply contrast the
dense green brush of the forest around
the beach.
No, it is not.

How do I put ugly into words?

Is ugly a condition temporary, or is it
self created-  molded and shaped by the silent
ones, the loners and freaks?
Life would be so much easier born pretty, with a
perfect hairline; what beautiful conversations.
If I was pretty I would never be called bud, or kid.
Although I know those are only things said to wear
me down-   like the rocks beneath a stream, until I
am too exhausted to fight it, until I succumb to it.

Like the worn mattresses, the cavalcade of them carried down
the street by the flooding water; I'll be worn like this until I die.
It's never me, I'm never chosen to go on those fun looking adventures-  where the water is so blue it hurts your eyes.
I'll never know what the prettiest of them do, or did to get where they are. But I assume because they are pretty it is what carries them far.
I have a new scar, not unlike the one along my back that stings and hurts so badly.
These aren't physical scars, just places I remember being harmed from. Like my small frame, my weak arms, or my hair.
Or my inability to make my words stick,
or my steadily grinding bones, that will
one day fade to **** a few molecules on their way down to Earth.

Maturity loves those who preach it.
Maturity is just knowing when to give up.
Maturity is just knowing when to quit.
And on that note, goodnight. I loved the world until I was old enough to understand that the world-   it hated me.




Or am I just a *******? That's what I fear the most.
I've watched myself lash out at my friends, my family, my girlfriends. Even people I meet by chance along the internet I seem to eventually shove away, as if I can't help myself. As if I was destined to be feared, and for people to run away from.

There is no sound greater than the horns,
that shake the very ground of our earth.
As once again a slight crown of thorns
has uprooted the Christian world in mirth.

I can't believe I'm stuck in the mud.
The bipolar death throw is renewed.
The pastor's words fall like rain; a thud
again, like last year, I am construed.

what's the point in writing anymore?
All my voice will do is slowly fall,
to a whisper, a feather to the floor,
my speechless soul is lashing out a call.

I point my gaze unto upper saints:
"What life is it where the cell paints?"

I scour over the memories- pictures on the floor.
Some 35mm, some 600, a few digital printed on paper;
all languages I have known.

I take my time writing them out for myself,
the dates, as I rip them and throw them away. I think I used
to be someone else.

Like, the kind of person that would laugh at other's struggles
with humanity. Saying all the while, "Your problems are nothing compared to mine!" while I became increasingly bitter.

I don't like riding this blurred line,
I hope you never cried.
But I would never say it out loud.

No, I'll keep that to myself.
And all these moments afterwards,
where I see the speckled clouds behind my
screen; reflections of a time I remember a year ago.

So loud is the thundering,
though the clouds are white.

I go on walks, not for myself but in spite of others.
I lay in the basement for hours, reading and lifting not for myself,
but for the fame that I am delusioned by.
I go on walks,
I lay in the basement for hours.

I would never hit a woman, but I'll surely creep one or a few out.
I would never ****-
I would never hit a woman.
I would never **** anything other than myself.

Tis the one act I shall do for myself, and in death let it be known
the birds and flowers that blossom in Spring are Christopher Marlowe, and I am Shakespeare.

Sometimes it's hard to walk.
Like I've tied both laces together,
with my shuffling steps echoing
down the hall.

There was a time-   the echo
was in four, not two. Bravely
together, I remember fighting
back the feeling.

Then the preacher came,
told us words; shoved them
down our throats. Dragged
you into fake lights.

I resisted, I knew what they
could do to us; would do to
us. But you never listened
to me. You were a loner-  a
rebel like your Mother.

It's a weird, weird world; passion
means nothing in the mire. When you
think you've flown out, into auburn lit
skies and towards better days; the rope
reaches as far as it can extend, and you must watch
yourself hang above the streetlights, and below the stars.

You can scream, "But I love her" as loud
as lungs can carry. You could give a final
death throw, like a horse that has been shot
twitching in the dirt. But it would be so much
easier, so much better to numb the pain.

You can scream, "And I love her" as loud
as a semi barreling past; but you know, like
fire it comes to flicker until it burns low. It
would be so much easier, so much less chaotic to
extinguish the candle.

But then you wouldn't be a rebel, like your Mother.

My face did not smile today,
as I looked at it in the mirror.
Something is always wrong.
And my lips can never summon the courage.
My face did not smile today,
as I took a shower; could not bring
myself to tears.
Stuck in the middle; claustrophobic,
like my skull was an oakwood box.

I did not eat today,
as I prepared for the day.
I couldn't believe my gray,
withered eyes would see
all across the table and it's
countless useless objects.
Signs of folded clothes, and
cups abandoned from the night
before; all evidence weighs down on me.

I am the beast that I run from.
Like a sharp knife rapping in my chest, I feel
plants tangle my ankles, trip me as I scream.
I smell their acid breath as they crunch through
bone. Just like books of old; the young die in
pointless wars of self. The young are caught in the
self perpetuating stream of grief and anger.

So I am mad, so very mad.
And to the people I love I unleash it,
like the plants inside covering the skyscrapers
and industrial highways of my mind, or a dog broken free
of it's chains; I destroy everything I touch.

My job
kills people.
Like a bee
that has stung.
One day I
will die.
And what?
Lock the door, and never ever look at my face.
The torment of seeing you, seeing me is insane.
But what if I loved them, the things you hate?
Like sneaking beer from my parents,
and pretending to feel great.
What if I, in your eyes,
was a ship without a captain?

I think I am
a
ship
without
a captain.

lost.

The summer sky;
it breathes tonight.
And if there was one highlight,
it was you.

But tonight I'll grab a rope,
and if you've figured it out by now,
this is my suicide note.

No place likes perforce feeling,
no analogue solution could keep me reeling;
no amount of love could ever keep me from peeling.
I am insane and I have become the beast I worship.

So tonight I'll grab a rope,
swing from the branches till' morning.
Swing until you come into the yard mourning.

This is my apology,
for being someone
that always leaves.

This is my final number,
a jazz tap finish to a life
of blunders.

Do I need to remind you again?
No place likes perforce feelings,
not now; not ever in a millenium.

Light the highest fires, or
burn the tallest trees,
I would never **** myself,
there's far too much to see.

Does that make it worse?
Not being able to "do it" but
thinking all the time that
surely "today will be the day"
and I will one day be forgotten, erased?

Oh, you've forgotten already,
no place likes perforce feelings,
everything you do; it's beautiful.
You should really be in a magazine,
as for me; I belong where the ocean screams.

I want to lay down in a ditch,
with my balloon and my gun,
wait until the morning comes,
just to watch the sun.

Then I will put it slowly
to my temple, aiming the barrel
like a confetti tube to a birthday long ago.
And in those little hearts was innocence.
We used to play war in the yard.

They never told me how real it would be,
how much it would scar.
God, we used to play war in the yard.

It takes a while to pull the coherent thought out of my mind. Like trying to rip a snake from the inside of it's tree trunk. As soon as one is finally caught, there remains another hundred that grow and grow over time.

thoughtless, uninspired, trying to think but at the same time tired.

I like to think I'll follow through with my mind, and
exercise the intelligence I know only comes out in waves.

Being insane is like running with scissors-     you're in danger of yourself until you eventually fall. It takes a while to get up again from that.

We'll start with the trees,
and work our way down,
to the sound of knees
slamming into the ground.

I was ten, and a half
and certainly full of myself,
The floor felt like a bath
but it was not good for my health.

my legs still ache sometimes,
and I never ever asked for it,
but I taunted the God of gravity,
and in the state of disarray I was,

I stood up.

The soft grass where I had landed had a bit of blood, in between
the blades I could see the dirt a darker brown than the heavy sky.

There is no pattern to this poem,
I just remember being so careless I didn't
care what would happen if I hit the ground,
I could only see to the stars over my head,
not to the tall grass and years of self loathing ahead.

how cruel it is,
to see beauty, but not make it.
It's like looking in the mirror and only
sadly seeing cracked teeth and matted hair.
I guess it's the days I falter and don't pay attention
to the things around me I fall the hardest,
and leave the biggest trails of aggression and
sadness in my waking despair. If only I could trace my fingers
across it, like the model cars on my grandpa's shelf, I could wipe the dust from the window and see the meticulously callous
bright colors peeking out of the evening; hoping to string
together the proverbial tie of the clouds to the blue, awfully blue
sky. It seems a decade has passed since I've seen it. and I fear I have
nowhere left to go, nowhere left to turn to paint out my thoughts. I
miss it all.

but no worth is it to fret,
even red and white clouds
flicker away to someplace better,
more serene or calming.
Like crowd surfing the
line between life and death.
Leaning one way for too long will result in your fall, but at the in-between, where does life start? Where does death begin?

Could the clouds tell us, warn us of it?

Do they feel me slipping through the crowd and sinking into
the cold dirt?

Maybe it's better here, the world is certainly colder when you dare to dream.

Shattered ties,
lying on the floor.

Like little birds,
that sing in the sky,
their necks wrung,
they sing no more.

Famous lies that we all sell like:
Life is swell,
love is good,
the world is blue,
the cross is stood.

They all rectify the appearance of a beautiful world
that has been hidden behind a maze of deep and
unsettling clouds.

A writer's mind, should be fine
if he takes the time to go outside,
but what difference is there,
in sitting in here to listen to
the world cry?

I think that I should look in a mirror,
longer than I have been,
and see myself as the liar, the cheat, the *******, that
I know I am.

Maybe then those famous lies will start to show a bit of truth.

I am not a good singer,
I am not a good artist,
I did this for fame for so long,
I've become a martyr,
and now life is even harder.

The more I think about the girl,
the more she becomes everything,
yet also,
the more I'm reminded she may
think of me too.

I really hope she remembers the same moments,
like her car at night, all the windows down with the red and white dash flickering across her pretty face.
Or the time we stopped at Walmart at near midnight to buy food we never even ate, just to have an excuse to talk more to each other.

Oh, so dearly close I hold those memories to my heart, but how long until I will forget them?

How long it will be before I forget her, and the silent moments where all was loud for everyone but me, where time would stop and I would see, just beautiful, everything about her, the quant passion and quiet pain.

But the more I wander, the more I realize my love for her is like a broken lighthouse on an island at sea.

He is forty-six

He walks into the diner, with his hands up, excited to share the news.

He's turning forty-seven!

He looks all around, licking the eyes of all in the room, minding their own business. Then he looks at me.

And I look at him.

And he smiles the biggest smile I have ever seen.

He emanates the happiness that left so many Monday's ago.

I wonder if he's gotten used to the thoughts, that he's going to be alone forever. Or perhaps he has decided that they never mattered.

Well, wouldn't it be pretty to think so?
Or to know rather that the same snake that strangles me
has gently wrapped around this man's neck as a companion, not as a rival?

It's perplexing to me that I find it funny that he looks at me funny.

Entertaining people with my feigned stupidity has become funny
even to myself, and to the sparrow that died years ago.

The sparrow dove out of the nest to slam into the concrete sidewalk of Parker Avenue. Right next to Wrigley.

Or at least as close as I allow myself to get to Wrigley knowing that I killed myself there and many people have also killed themselves in similar places.

He asks me, "Isn't it great? Nearly another fifty years!".

I can't talk, my mouth is cotton; doesn't he know everything about me though? Don't they all? Wouldn't it be easier to pass me by rather than pity me?

I reply, "That's awesome, here's to another fifty".

To the four that may or may not see
the words, read the whole texts; digest my
poems. Where are you?
I really hope your lives are swell,
that you've found happiness,
and no longer feel the need to write.

If I was to drive away now, and find
my own inside the world, what
would I look like in ten years? Twenty?
I'm curious to see what I would become.
But then what if I stayed? Would I finally meet
the world, or will I lose out as she walks away?

What if she died in 2003?

Where would the heartsick go to find peace if
their soulmate's had died years before they had a chance
to meet? We'll surely be alone forever, but not used to the thought.
Will we fall to heaven when we discover them so far below the dirt? Or no, if Hell is up instead of down, and Heaven lapses under the Earth; where do the feeble go if they are afraid of church

I can neither jump off the edge, nor summon the courage to climb the ladder.

If I could write you a love song;
it would be so perfect,
with all the incantations; intonations
to let you know how much it hurt
when you left.

On my soul I swear, don't be there for me,
for I am the one they will forget, I will
fade into the background,
I will fall and be stuck, like a magnet in the
darkest ravine imaginable.

If I could hide in my bed; dream of the
world around me as I want to see it,
will it help me get used to the thought?
Am I getting too used to the thought?
I'm going to be alone forever.

I'm going to be uglier forever.
I'm going to be envious forever.
I'm going to be insane forever.
I'll never be over the weather.
I'll surely be alone forever.

I'm so used to being drowned out
in the sound that has become deafening,
I can't stand it, I can't stand it,
but still I stop in place, so often.

What's stopping me from stopping?
I don't know. Like I've taken a brick to
my skull I can't recall why I would just-   stop.

Maybe it's the breakups, of friendships;
few so rarely understand.
Or maybe it is the weight of the world
on my slowly arthritic hands.

I'm going to be alone forever,
and I think I'm getting used to the thought.

I'm going to be alone forever.

Beautiful girls,
fast cars,
a home,
a family,
a life...

I wish that I,
in all my selfish glory,
could get used to the
thought of loneliness
in a world filled with opposites...

I have been working,
or rather waiting on myself,
trying to be the beautiful people
I see on TV. But now I'm getting used to the
thought, I'm going to be alone forever...

Do you sit like fire before rain,
calmly in the wind crackling along,
with a vinyl static hiss?

Squirrel sits on the edge of the forest,
conflicted where the trees have gone.
Unknowing that the world is culling.

Somewhere often it knows the forest grows,
and sometimes, teetering the edge of the village it goes.

The light balance of the shrubs all around
does not correspond to his homeward ground.


Squirrel wanders a vacant field,
listening for the bird's songs.

He does not hear, or look, or react,
he walks until he stops to relax.

Then in the light of the field he sees
something that he can't believe.

A great and roaring star, falling from the heavens
to the world underneath him that cries and writhes.

He wonders what the light means, as it disperses across
the field, hearing the screech and the tumbling on the asphalt.

The ground collapses in several places as it flips into the field.

He walks over to the metal body in the dirt, stretching his
legs along the way to be ready to run.

But there is no danger, just suspicious little bumps of dirt,
and big metal pieces he doesn't understand.

His eyes carry on, peaceful and serene; examining everything.
Just trying to make sense of the wonder before him.

Community gone- to the life after, it
crinkles all the flowers in the darkness.

The bright red and orange lights flicker down the street.
The bipeds hustle to the husk before the heat consumes it.

Flipped on an axis, as squirrel looks on
a loud piercing call comes from the ground,
so away the squirrel rolls into the brush in fear.

The yellow, simple walls of my room wrap chaotically around my throat.

Like sandpaper, my tongue flicks across dry lips,

desperate to feel something, anything. Even a taste of blood on the chapped skin.



I've been picking my lips again, thinking about dancing to music when I was young,

and falling in love so pointlessly and obsessively over the smallest things,

like a bright gaze and a soft smile in my direction. It makes me so bitterly happy.



Do you remember when you fell in love? Do you recall

their eyes, their skin, their slow and crushing presence?



I remember when I fell in love. She was taken,

although that never stopped me from thinking about her.



I would sit on the same hill we sat that far away, perfect night; Just

to dream about the things I would never have.



Like the moonlit field in front of me, with all it's tall grass and gentle

whispering, I could feel the coldness on my skin.



The warm summer sun has been so far away, for so long, I'm afraid

when it returns, I will have to feel it forever.



At least in the end I have the memories

of your laugh, of your eyes in the dark.



I remember when I fell in love.

I also remember the year after.

like it wasn't even there at all

an anvil in the sky

proclaimed, one day,

that the city in the frough, fried

would become a sight to the eyes.

So it matched it's creator's ties,
mix matched the hearts and souls of many,
and watched the silly little poor people dance,
too far away to see the look in their eyes.

One day, however rich the city became

the farmers marched forth, from fields and hay

to arrive, from outside, to the center,

where they kept the dreams of their children,

to crash them to the floor. Smiling as the glass shattered.

Smiling as the crowds stopped, to stare at the torch thrown

to poverty, and the torch ignited to the city.

When rain falls to earth,
and you hear the patter,
do you think of the crowd inside the ground?
Or the worms that die after?

When thunder strikes the sky,
like a hammer to a skull,
does depression whisper,
or does it scream above all?

Can you feel it?
The rain says to me,
under broken words,
as the sad wringing returns.

Yes, I can feel it,
but you wouldn't know the
half of it. No, you wouldn't
get it at all.

The rain does not understand the
feeling it brings down to earth,
like pikes to egyptians, or a puddle
in the desert.

The rain does not know of
the world that it soaks.

It does not feel for the people
who lie underneath the gloating,
roaring sky, nor does it fear the
trees that fall because of it.

The rain is stoic, and emotionless, and
destructive. But still we personify it,
we rectify it.

We ***** a monument to every bitter flash of
lightning; every whimmering rabbit trapped
in their holes, flooded out to the street
in wonder. But not wonder of.

Rather, wonder when the sky became dark, and thoughtless,
and when every morsel of sun became hidden.
It's strange we can't personify the deadest things,
like the worms that crawl from the earth to later die of thirst on the pavement.

It's strange that we personify the rain as a creature of ferocity, when the rain simply does not know when it falls.

I'm just terrified, that one day, the rain will fall on itself,
and she will see what she has done,
who she has become,
and the world that is spinning around,
on an axis that runs parallel with the ground.

the worst part is-
nobody, anywhere, can help you.

They all see you, and they decide-
you're uninteresting, or boring.

Then comes the mania-
where you convince yourself, for days, weeks, years,
that you're okay, and they're the reason
for the heartbreak, the distrust, the jaded
worldview.

But it was you.
And you can stare into the waterfall,
or into the photograph,
or into the mirror,
and see that it was you.

The sanity, in the whirlwind of self absorbed thoughts,
is what reminds you of those days.
It brings you back,
dragging you all the way.

Till your brain screams-
ugly, useless, worthless.

The only good thing about me was my collarbone.
And I was so ****** up, to ever be distraught, at
the fact that my parents hated me, and would
never allow me; hurt me, if I was close to you.

Do you see the irony like I see it?
Where you tell me I'm not ugly,
then show me that I truly am.

Actions speak louder than words,
sounds like something you said once.

I am a hymn, in a hidden drawer.
I'm just waiting to be found,
like my grandfather,
and his father
and the father
before
him.

But what if-    I am the broken shower rod,
the abandoned one?
the less-than important one?
I ask because I'm terrified
of losing more than just
myself .

Self commentary aside, are we not all
two halves of the same loaf of bread?
Destined to grow mold, or become hard and
bitter? Can we not see our own mortality until we
are truly and utterly faced with it?
I know it's just a maze.

And like my Father's son, I am a mouse looking
for cheese in the farthest corners, the deepest
pieces of my own existence.
But like cheese,
and like mice,
one day I will grow old, and wither away.

So brush the dust and burn the fur,
watch my skeleton grey.
Don't mind the mess
from the "accident."
I was never meant to stay.
No, I was never meant to stay at all.

Imagine,
                   writing simply, or rather simply for yourself.
It's a bold move to pretend to be someone else.
                     and I hope that the first draft is as bad, as it could get.
But the demon in my veins tells me that it's just begun so.

I don't care if you take your time, just listen to me, just remember me.
I don't care if it hurts a little while, just listen to me, just listen please.

Because I can't hear you when you talk to me,
I have so much I need to tell you please-
listen to me. I can't wait to be heard, I need to be heard.

Something in my head hurts-   it needs to know where to start-
to take over your heart, with every boring line about the stars.
They show me what these writers really are:

Just fools afraid of death, afraid of love that leaves and life that bleeds to an end. And I hope so badly that they find happiness, or a book to read that they think is magnificent, that they can treat as a friend because--- well-

I know that feeling better than anyone I know-
when your friends say they'll reply to you, then ignore you, but they're ALWAYS on their phone. It hurts pretty bad to know that something you tricked yourself into believing was false.

It hurts even worse to know that just as they left you, they will leave others too, until they are alone.

So I hope that they find love- or something close because I can't bear thinking about their notes-   where they beg someone to stay, it really isn't hard to see that they made themselves that way.

But I hope that--

I don't know.

But you think about it all the time.

Beneath the mental nothing social media masks over our young minds, to **** us out of our individuality to buy products we neither need or use, or anyone would use.

It makes it no more surprising why I self-abuse.

Because I CAN'T STAND THE CROWD THAT BLOCKS MY VIEW OF THE OCEAN AND ALL IT'S WAVES. THEY ACT AS IF THEY WERE MEANT TO BE THERE, LIKE THEY WERE BORN TO STAND IN FRONT OF OTHERS AND MAKE THEIR LIVES SOMETHING LESS, OR INFERIOR.

But you would never hear me if you tried,
I thought I took over your heart,
no, it was just your spare time.

so I hope that-

I know that you are doing well.

I'm sorry I couldn't be there.

And all is well,

I just need to let it go,
and find a way to look over their heads to whatever is on the other side.

the grass is tall again,
and towering green, with Spring.

I never expected to fall in love with it;
but it became my lighthouse in the darkest times,
and the coldest seas. The most hidden of sanctuaries.

The earth is moving again,
and I can see every little person make some progress.

I never expected to fall in love with it;
but the people around me are like carrier birds,
transmitting my few happy thoughts to the world.
And I couldn't be more joyful, when
you became a doctor,
and you became an engineer,
and you became a real chef.

It all falls like an apple down to me, and I
wonder now, what will I become?

That is what gives me heartache,
that is what makes me feel alone, far more
than when I can't write, and I feel disposed.
They say an ocean sits beneath every thought.

So why aren't mine as well constructed as they were?
Thinking about it makes me uncomfortable, but-

I am barely seventeen and I am not the writer I used to be.
I coldly snap at everything I create, because it is never perfect,
and I am never perfect.
Nothing is ever perfect.

So I've adjusted lies to make them fit my story,
and I have become less honest in the past year.

I became so fed up with fame, and finding my way through the
commercial successes of myself, when I should have been trying to find my way to the lighthouse above the sea.  Because now I am lost in an increasing wind, and it only blows harder the more I resist.