It’s 2:06,
And I feel too sick
With every minute—
I’m with a critic
that’s about to
make me drift,
And that critic
is you.

I don’t care
if you hate me.
I’m not scared of you,
Nor your fake love,
your hollow support.
Leave me in the dark,
Blame me for it all,
Say it’s my fault—
break my heart
all you want.

But It’s 6:02—
And I’m sick
of you.

Every night,
As I lie in my bed,
I can’t sleep.
When I can’t sleep,
I do these funny strange things.
Like when I roll over in my bed,
I imagine in my head I’m with someone.
Hugging my pillow, trying to hear a heartbeat.
Though It’s hollow.
My bed is warm,
But I feel cold with this empty space.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep,
I sit up and clasp my hands close together.
Like that Disney scene in WALL-E.
For a while,
I start to think I’m holding someone’s hand.
Though the whole time, I find myself alone.
Imagining things in my mind.
I distract myself…
From the reality of being untouched and alone.
But even in my dream,
I wake up to find myself
In the reality of being touch-starved
And lonely every waking night.

You and I
Are in a fight,
And every time
becomes a Cold War.
A war I will hold
forever in my mind,
Frozen in time.
Each moment
I tried to talk to you,
It’s like stepping in a mine field
of arguments.
Each hurtful word
you’ve ever said
Hits like a bomb.

I’m done,
but you haven’t won…
You invade with a fake smile,
All charms and illusions,
Then ignore me,
make me small.
Take my heart
and rip it apart,
Tellin’ me you
“HATE ME”
As you walk away,
Pretending nothing happened.

We could have just talked it out
Instead of acting like babies.
Left out the weapons and walls,
But here we are—
Two fools in a ****** war
Nobody wins.

If we focus on
the past,
What’s the future?
What’s left of the Present
if all we see are messes
behind us,
worryin’ about the “ifs”—
A ****** surprise birthday gift
we never asked for,
ruined before you’ve
open it.

Dear readers,

I’m not much of a poet,
But I know I’m stuck in a closet,
Writing letters for people
Who’s suffering with the darkest moments
from the coldest people,
Hoping one day, they read it.
I remember someone
told me to seize each minute,
Don’t ponder it,
otherwise you’ll be in the casket full of regret
And late wishes to change one thing.

So Instead,
I take something from a broken nothing,
Use my voice for the people to feel heard,
and I never just use words,
I use it as a weapon,
So those raw emotions lurking inside
becomes a burning letter
no one will forget—

Don’t **** the messenger,
I’m writing a letter.

BEEP

Hey!
I know you’re not here right now,
and I’ve called you all night,
But I miss you.
Sometimes I wish you were here,
Maybe to hear your voice…
One more time.
Cuz every minute
I fear being alone.
In my own home,
I’m lost in my head.
In my bed, I can’t sleep,
Cuz I dream of you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever
listen to this…
Or if my words are just
echoes lost on the line.

Anyways,
Hope you hear this voicemail,
Cuz I love you—

BEEP

There was a man
who did bad things.
The people called him
“The Bad Man”.
They say he murdered three—
He lives a land amongst the trees.
He steals broken souls of burden
and hangs them on the Hanging Tree—
Their bodies swaying,
Forbidden momentos,
Burns like fire,
The shadows called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though the bad
was never in his tired hands.

The wind carries screams
of stray memories,
crying to be free.
The Bad Man
who sees the tragic flourish
Dark magic in the midnight of the
Hanging Tree…

The Dead echos the bad,
chopping the heart into pieces
with the Hunter’s sharp axe,
bleeding into the stitched
fabric of stolen trust—
From one who once stood by him to protect.
Now lost in the woods of neglect.

The people called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though he’s trapped—
Lost in the decay paths of the betrayed,
Forever In the Hunter’s Bird Cage.