I rewind
and play that
sentence
repeatedly
in my mind,
like a cassette tape—
And every
word of it
hurts.

Most times,
I feel it’s a
dramatic act.
I don’t know
what’s real
or what’s not,
there’s a knot
in my stomach.
Tapes distorted,
voices corrupted
them—

“We care about you—”
wHeRE aRe YoU—
“Where have you been—”
wE MisS yOu—
“Please come back—”
“We WaNt you BaCk—*

We all want you back…

Doctor, doctor
will you help me—
will you help me?
My goal is
to fix that
broken soul.
The ropes tied—
too tight around
my throat,
I can’t stand,
The Crooked Man chokes
the voice out of me—
I can’t speak
peacefully
anymore.

Get out of the sinkhole
before I get buried alive
inside that casket
full of razor blades
and inner hate.
Break the loophole
of being trapped in
a small fishbowl—
Drowning.

Trying to start letting go
before I lose control—
it’s hard
when a ******
of crows echo
where I follow.
It’s hard when that ghost
kills what I still hold,
It’s hard to not
know where to go,
It’s hard to carry
my heart with a hole.
Doctor doctor,
will you sew it up—
Sew it up?

My goal is to
not feel alone,
My goal is
to find home—
Crawl to hope
before the
black hole
drags me in
again.

“Your call has been
forwarded to an
automatic voice
message system.
At the tone,
please record
your message.
When you are finished
recording your message,
you may hang up—”

BEEP

Hey!

I hope
you’re doing ok…
Haven’t heard
from you in days.
Been trapped inside
this quiet space.
Chasing a ghost
I can’t erase—
Wasting time in
smoke and mirrors
of you—
Though it’s worth it.

I really wish
we get a chance
to talk again,
like how we used to—
way back when
your laughter echoes
like home to me.
Now it's empty

Every moment
I hear your
voice memo,
The silence
sends chills
straight to
the bone.

I hope
you’re ok…
I hope
you’re well…
Um…
Sorry—
I can’t tell,
And it’s pure
hell to never hear
you anymore—

BEEP

As a poet,
I have some
sort of “sickness”.
A “disease” that
makes me cough
cold, raw, inky words.
It forms sentences
you never heard
out of me before.

On endless hours
of sitting in a
room alone,
my throat
hurts so badly.
Someone sliced it
open with a knife—
I lost my broken voice
in the process—
But not my soul

I’m in the darkest
layers of the forest paths.
This “map” I hold,
left me stranded
to a road like
everyone did.
Left in dead ends
of coldest lands.
Where I stand is
not my choice,
not my voice,
not what I resist.
I tried to live
the fullest story.
But every minute
I don’t exist to anyone.

So tell me—
Do I exist,
or do I leave
the nearest
exit?

Grief is your
friendly thief,
quietly stealing
your heart,
replacing it with
sadness, anger,
and a heavy
weight of loss.
It stands in shadows
of every corner,
never leaving.
Even when you
think it’s gone,
It steals again

The more it
consumes you,
the less you
recognize who
you once called
“you” in the room
from the process.

Grief is your
friendly reminder
that sometimes
to begin new,
you end what
you once had.

I woke up
last night.
I felt like a
crazy insomniac.

A sound of
Death’s tap on
the window,
then through
the floor boards.
Suddenly a whistle—
Screeched like
nails on the board,
slipping beneath
the door.

Waiting to grab
me in the shadows...
to throw me
back in a black
body bag.