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.

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.

Walking over the ash,
teetering the line between love and death.
There comes a crying from a stack,
hands and feet and heads staring up,
reflecting on the murky water.

Smoke is still spilling in the air, tumbling and
turning like a bride and groom dancing. But there
are no people here. You can see their eyes, without
the same refraction of light that made them human.
You can hear cries from the debris as your father leads you away.

Don't worry, he tells us all. It will be over soon.
The bombs will stop soon.
The sun will shine soon.
But soon was so far away; he had lied to his children.
Not in the way you would lie randomly though, pathologically.

He lied to them because he loved them. Because the bombs brought
back memories from his own childhood, where he already knew
from a young age they would never stop falling like glass shattered
from a bottle. Like the towels thrown over the bodies, flickering in the wind every which way.

I think I need a glass of water-
but I guess that would ruin the point,
to rid this world of myself,
sans I is a world to rejoice.

But something bitter came my way,
it stopped me in my tracks,
downing downers, feeling
the cuts along my back.

I thought first, of the windmills,
of an April in Paris,
this is a feeling that
I digest with the pills.

I thought second of fient,
in their imprecation I had
become, nay, grown so
used to the thought.

Except late at night,
I would pay to make it stop.

The third thought was the killer,
poised with a knife above my head,
stabbing viciously, cleaving the flesh
from my withered wrinkled bones.

We could've had a ****** good time.
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Late at night I ponder it.
Hemingway, of all the things.

It comes like an electrical fire,
slow and creeping; slowly building up.

But it reigns down like memories of childhood,
and laughter underneath the sun.

Like the loudest chanting choir,
or a reasonable markup-
everything screams "would
you ever have fun"

Worn to the brim is the old gold necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are too feckless,
fickle as they crack as to slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another hateful time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the steady, distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been so regally taught,
it is inside the mind that often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.

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.

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?"

Dare enter to thy miserable life!
See the nothing inside my dying brain.
I was a poet once before the strife,
it was hell to watch it destroy my train.

Now every word sounds like it is a joke,
there is no plot inside this teeming home.
I do not want to watch you fall and choke,
but it is hard when you read me your tome.

I hope you enjoy bullying your son,
because this is the last you'll see of him.
I made him go quite crazy so he'll run.
I control all the words that come from them.

So until he becomes one who can't sleep,
I will make him see me and want to weep.

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.

he is lying on the grandest marble floor,
in between two pillars as he cries out.
Yet none hear him, the door is locked.
He looks for a way, he was told about
by his older brother years ago, do
you want to know how he found it at all?
He stood, his hands were stuck like glue.
He cried out, tried to show the world his call.
His voice like a used marker,
his nose could not smell, he couldn't taste.
His bright thoughts and mind sadly grew darker.
His bones growing weaker, a waste.
And not one reached down to pluck him
up, none extended their arm to him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Worn to the brim is the old necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are feckless,
fickle as they crack and slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been regally taught,
it is inside the mind often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.

I just want to lay down,
wash my skin away.

Their hoses, wet,
houses, painted,
lawns mowed.

I hate it.

I just want to exercise,
ride my bike, leave this plight.

I'll pedal fast, run hard, do so
many push ups my arms feel
like snapping.

Behind me though, I'm being watched.

Look around, you'll see nothing,
my head is a maze that creates apparitions.

Sometimes I can see them plain as day,
other days, some days, they fade away.
Those are the happiest-

when I am normal. When I can hold a conversation.

God! I can feel my whole world crumble.
I'll probably fall ill, sad, diseased.
I'll surely watch my body tumble,
from outer space, my mind appeased.

But my body! Oh my body still lies,
down in the mire; the sick land below.
And in time maybe I'll do my cries,
write the same lines in the snow.

I'll surely show them my screeching writ!
I'll end the facade somewhere.
Even just for a quiet spacing bit.
Distract myself, get myself out there.

lo, in the darkest stairways I will climb,
****, one day I'll make it rhyme.

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.

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.

This is the truth of suffering-     when something as a feather falls as fast as a lightning strike to the ground-     and you see the melancholic burns in the grass slither, slip into every weary heart.

This is the truth,
of the cause
of suffering, to watch the world die, the flowers grow to be eaten, stomped on, caressed or simply plucked and thrown away.

This is the truth of the end of suffering, and the path that leads towards it, with all its twists and turns.

All of it's a plague,
dripping from a dagger,
or a thief in the dead of night,
exalted in the moonlight.

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.

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".

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.

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.

I am quite simply unbearable,
everything I do, it's terrible,
and when the night strikes twelve on clocks,
I will sit and lie awake, think a lot.

The old lake by where I grew up,
the palm trees of a place I love,
it all flashes past me in a stare,
like even the good memories exist
simply and utterly to pull my hair.

I am so sick of myself.
I scream-    I am so sick of myself.
I lash out, I am so sick of myself!
It doesn't pay to be sick of yourself.

It's a sad, lonely life that I envision,
convince myself I'm fine, until the
bombs strike or the Earth decays,
and it is wrapped around my finger
like a note to my dead thoughts.

I am so sick of myself,
utterly annoyed at how little
I pay attention, how little I
regard others' feelings.

And it is at the end of the trail I see
old men, lonely, same as me.
The bastain of their minds covered in thick dark fog.
Inside of it I presume, just more of the same bitterness.

Then there are the post feelings,
and you know you drive everyone
away from you. You know they are
afraid of you. You know every sound,
every breath that escapes your lungs
is the same as a clock ticking until
it breaks. You know how it ends and
you have ambitions that aren't great.

Maybe I'll go to college,
                                             and be pitied there.

Maybe I'll finally learn the violin,
                                                       and disappoint my grandfather.

Maybe I'll find someone to love,
                                                      and watch them misunderstand me.

Maybe I'll enjoy the world,
                                                     until I lay awake at night.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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...

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.

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.

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.