One, Two, Three—
Hearts pounding
in wrong beats.
Songs blasting loud,
ground shaking—
Illusional spotlights
flashing poor blind eyes—
Guys and girls dancing
and laughing throughout
the Saturday night party.
Drinking the lonely
night away—
Sinking in
shadow’s decay.

Four, Five, Six—
I sit on the couch as
I hear two voices,
clashing in chaos.
Mind’s spinning
through broken
memories.

So many shots later,
Time rapes me,
I can’t breathe—
I begin to see stars,
smiles glow in dark,
my own scars
start to show.
Growing slowly
from my fist to
my right arm.
Then inside the heart—
I start to feel sick.

It’s so tragic—
I can’t do magic
at tonight’s party.
Always swallowed
by hungry holes—
souls grabbing me
under their forbidden
spotlight—
still starving
for something
loneliness
won’t feed—

I fear you’re
not here in this
Saturday night party—
Or maybe you
never will…

There beyond
The Hidden Valley,
lies an orphan—
Found and forgotten.
The orphan marionette,
controlled by
many strings of
broken hearts and
woven threads of
stolen dead souls.

Once Found,
now forgotten—
Once held,
now discarded—
Cursed and alone,
unraveled in shadows
of endless, empty
field roads.

You still exist
in my head.
What kills is
the thought of
my existence.
A meaningless name,
a voice with
no shadow,
crawling through
my ribcage,
gnawing me alive
every waking night.

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