Dear critics,
friends, families,
readers, my haunted
shadows and people
I’ve lost alike…

The cold sun was due.
I sat in this very
lonely dark room
for far long,
no way to escape.
There’s something
wrong with me.

Nightmares slither—
visions, illusions,
thoughts to lose you ache.
My right hand shakes intensely.
Reaching out feels
like climbing a cliff—
I slip and fall off
as ghosts watch…
Pain ***** me,
its rope tightens
around my throat,
I feel isolated—
I can’t breathe,
I can’t speak,
I can’t eat,
I break easy,
Anxiety cuts so deep—

“HELP ME”

I want y’all to know
it’s not your fault—
Never was.
You all meant the most.
I love you.

I don’t know if this is
my last ****** poem.
It may never reach you,
may never be read,
may never be found,
maybe forgotten,
lost in time,
or may never be—
My last letter...

-Paul

12:30 am
last night—
I woke up with
a nightmare,
couldn’t go back
to sleep.
My chest felt
something crawling
inside again.
Sharp and cold,
it touches my heart—
And there I
couldn’t breathe.

It chokes me
with a rope.
It hurts,
I don’t know
what words to
describe it—
There’s razor
blades living
inside my throat.

Worse than nightmares
I wake up from—
I started crying…
Fear of losing you
scares me.

I’m sorry but
I don’t wanna
go to your
Pity Party—
I’m tired,
my head aches
and my heart’s
****** up—

Three shots in
of happy pills,
and already have
so many imaginary
remnants of my
ghostly ghosted
friends and critics,
All dancing
in my lonely
room.

There was
no madness…
Yet some call
us lovers
“mad”…

Love can
drive you up
your own walls
and ceilings.
Left roped
and hung
by your own
broken heart
strings—

Sometimes,
Love leaves
the lonely—
Mad Lovers,
behind for
dead…

When I was young,
I used to go to
the museum,
where art was
hung high
on walls—
Higher than
The Hanged Man
on The Hanging Tree.

A painting stood
out in one room,
both beautiful
and terrifying…
The Mona Lisa.

Her essence—
Trapped in her
own framed
prison of hell.
Her skin shines
old gold,
yet etched with
cuts and bruises
underneath Death’s
black robe of sorrow.
Her calm smile
hides a cold secret…

Her dark,
red-veined hair
stretched out
like a river,
yet tangled
down like vines.

Her eyes spoke
her tale the most—
restless and fearful.
Reaching out to
feast attention from
both critics and lost
soul’s eyes,
like Medusa.
I could hear
her echoes.
Almost as if
I heard her
ghost speak
the words—
“Help…”

She reminded me
of my mother…

I used to
play a game
by myself…
A game of
Russian Roulette
every waken night.

Decide my fate—
Make my choice…
Whether to heal—
Or to hurt
again…

A friend once
asked me,

“Why in the
world would
you hurt
yourself?”

Soon in
my lonely
bathroom,
scars bloom
beneath the
weeping moon—

I gave it up…
Gave the blade
away to that friend…
I feel strange
but free to quit,
like I can breathe
another day.
It’s the
End of my
Game…

I woke up alone.
My bones dead cold.
No soul—
Nor ghosts roamed
the endless night.

I follow where the wind blows,
And sat under the stage light moon.
White stars cover the navy
and black blue blanket sky.
Scars on my right
arm starts to bloom,
like flower under the
golden night hour—
And soon, the moon watches
My lonely moments.

The wind cast crooked voices.
Speaking its tale of how one day,
I will be forever trapped under
their abandon shadows—
Forgotten and left to decay.
There I held a small blade—
The blade shines inner hate
beneath the weeping moon.
The wind trace its cold,
crooked word on the sand.

“To become free,
You must draw your first blood—
And soon comes the newborn dawn…”

Yet my shattered heart hesitates.
Slowly breathing,
letting go of the small blade
As I hear creatures howl
my fate,
my fear—
To which falls to silence.
It’s just the moon and I.