My mind’s been
flaking slowly,
like dry paint off
your pristine,
decorated walls.
Every cold night
the autumn moon breathes,
my heart falls apart,
like dying leaves from
The Hanging Tree.

Doctor, Doctor—
Will you help me?
All this time,
I’ve waited so
patiently,
I became one
of your unsteady
patients.

Piled up poems,
letters left in one
dark corner of the
library garden—
Alone…

Heart’s tangled in
sharp thorns from
wherever I go,
where the cold
moon blooms—

Piled up poems,
buried beneath
the silent sun,
wilting faster than
a daisy’s death—
Unread…

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.

To dream
a dream
of hope—
fly away like a bird.
Or to dream
a dream
in empty
nightmarish hell—
where even
the devil
aches?
That’s the
question…

Voice’s broken—
left unheard…
And still,
I think the
unanswered
question…

To dream a
dream to live
and let go,
Or to dream
a dream to die
under my very own
shadows alone?

I hear
her screams
of loneliness
love—
Faint and distant
but caught
in storm.

Venus cries softly,
Like two lovely doves—
Yet her voice
torn between
the dust of
abandon hell
and the
fallen silent stars
dancing across
the midnight skies,
where it shines
her beautiful scars.

I hear
Venus screams—
Her tears drop
like rain,
fear consume
Venus’s mind.
Her storms howl
louder than
Zeus’s thunder—
Yet left unchanged,
unheard.
Her heart,
still fresh—
Yet her soul,
almost left
for dead.

I hear her screams.
Venus burns—
Still, she waits...

Anxiety,
keeps on eating
off of me—
like a disease.

Anxiety,
slicing me with
a sharp knife.
Anxiety,
killing me quietly—

Anxiety,
I feel
The Crooked Man
standing in one corner—
Like Death,
watching me—
waiting…
The ghosts,
haunting me—

Anxiety,
spreading inside
my chest,
stress spilling over—
mind’s a mess.
Anxiety,
killing me
quietly—

Anxiety,
Pulling me in tightly,
wrapping its rope
around my throat—
choking me…
I can’t breath,
I can’t see,
I scream—
Anxiety,
silenced me.

There,
left hung on
The Hanging
Tree…

I can’t eat.
I’ve been falling
deep from not eating.
Heart’s aching,
right hand shaking,
taunted by scattered voices—
Slowly consuming my insides
like a parasite.

I feel too sick,
haunted by the fear
of being forgotten—
Left rotting alone
under the cold,
abandoned
wasteland nights—
Afraid to lose
someone,
like you.
Self hate crawls
around my stomach
and cuts old deeper wounds
like a sharp blade—
Maggots feeding off my scars
filled with shattered memoirs
all over my tired,
puppetted body.

I can’t eat…
I think there’s
something wrong
with me.

Oh my lover,
I’m sorry—
I know you
mean so well,
yet I’m not
a vessel to
your empty
self—

Even when
I still loved you
like poison
from a bottle—
We fall apart
like glass.

Oh my lover—
It’s over.
I’m sorry,
I have to let go.
It was lovely
to know you
from the
same room—
It’s over.

The cold
wind blows,
laughter
echoes loud.
The young
night glows
a circus light
show at my
school.

Blurred faces—
some I
recognized
under their
white smiles,
know what’s
at stake.
They speak
the name to
which I can’t
shake what
aches—

A soul I’m
afraid to lose.
A soul I can’t
speak to
nor reach.

Running like
a rabbit into
the dark
forest library.
Chapters of
painful poems
and shattered
memoirs.

“Tick…”
“Tick…”
“Tick…”

Then a sound
of my alarm
clock—
screaming.

I wake up,
scared and
isolated again,
lying in bed—
breathless.
My real
nightmare—
I never
reach you—
Or maybe…
never see
you anymore.

As I sit
on isolated
grounds of the
library covered
in cobwebs,
I hear a sound—

A sound
of dusted
silence.
My own
words echo.
No shadow
approached—

Nor has
found me—
like a dusty,
forgotten book
filled with
broken memoirs.
Left waiting
in the poetry
aisle—
left unread.

Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child,
always falling
into wild
fantasies and
Mad Tea Parties.

Always stranded
in haunted forests
for endless days—
Tangled in
vines of hurt—
Covered in cuts
and open wounds.
Running away
from your own
shadows as the
raven echoes—

Drowning in oceans
of fragmented emotions.
So injured,
you can’t speak
what is spoken.
Astray in crowded
places where loud
souls breathe as
your voice fades.

Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child—
Where will you go?
Trapped beyond
The Hidden Hills,
lost your way.
Will you ever
find your home—
Or forever
wander along
the forest roads?

My Emotions,
my screams—
muffled.
Left to decay
behind your
colorful walls
you decorate—

My Essence,
buried under your
etched, wooden
floor boards.
Hidden beneath
the rugs you
stand on—

My Heart,
hung higher than
The Hanged Man
from your ceiling.
Exposed like
a chandelier,
yet only held
vulnerable by
a thin rope.
Ready to snap
and let go—

My Soul,
cold and restless.
Locked in
tight behind
closed doors—

My Shadows,
walk forever
down your
hollow halls.
Trapped inside
The House of
Bitter Horrors
it holds.

Dear critics—
and for those
who read this,
I believe
you may
or may not
notice—

Maggots,
crawling inside
my ribcage,
gnawing me alive—
I’ve vanished
without a trace.
I hope you hate me.
It’s so tragic—
I’ve quit, erased
my magic that
made me ache
to exist—
**** it.

Illusions spread,
warm imagination
turns dead cold,
trapped in a room
with broken hands,
barely standing.
It’s tragic—
I quit magic.
Moments burn—
ghostly “friends”
turn into critics,
watching the last
trick unfold—

The Dead Magician
vanish into thin air.
Pulled in isolation’s
crooked hands
behind closed
curtains.

My throat burns,
choking on greener grass
I breathe in—
white bathroom walls
closing in.
Eyes bloodshot red,
too blurred to see
the greener side.

My insides shatter
the glass mirror
each time I look.
Eyes aligned—
tired and numb.
Sick of my essence—
SICK OF IT.

Fist—******,
trembling, sore.
Heart— cracked,
bruised, wounds
split wide open.
Walls closing in.

Falling…

    sinking…
                            
      drowning…

until blue-cold
waters submerged
my eyes—
shaking and
crying.

I walked down
Lovers Dead End today,
always muttering
to myself—
as if a friend
listens to my
broken voice
but is never there
to comfort.

Each step
drops deeper.
I see the cracked
cement roads
littered with
remnants—
fragments of laughter,
moments I cherished
brew bitter—

Flickering streetlights
of past arguments,
and forest vines of
neglect tighten
around my throat.
A reminder for
tangled hearts
I won’t forget—

But my voice chokes,
left speechless as
I trip on curved
grounds of regret,
scrape my knees
and shatter my
essence.

Lovers Dead End—
where the past still
breathes in fog,
where the cold
morning air lingers.
Where we fell apart
and melt like
strawberry ice cream
on the sidewalk—
where I found you.

I’m so silly and lonely,
I walk by my own,
often talk to my
broken self.
I’m silly and lonely—
I look in the mirror,
and all I see
is the bitter me.
I’m so silly and lonely—
I’ve been bitten
and spat out,
covered in bruises
and scratches

Scratch it—
I’m so silly and lonely,
I make ******
jokes to laugh at,
only to feel laughed
at for being alone.
I’m so silly and lonely,
I wanna be underground,
at least I found nobody.
I’m so silly and lonely...
**** it—

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

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.

Your lies hit me.
Every “I promise”
or “I love you”
was covered
in horse ****.
A lie reeks
so badly,
I could *****
any second
and die in
a casket.
A lie is
a bullet—
a violent
way to ****
someone’s heart.
Quick.
Cold.
Fatal.

I remember a girl…

Her hair branched
out like tree roots,
but shine like crimson
leaves of autumn bloom.
The last thing I saw,
I noticed her eyes.
Her eyes glow
cold but bright—
Her dark sea blue eyes
could stare out from
the endless ocean
miles within.

Her skin,
covered in scars.
The Crooked Man
cut through  
her beautiful
skin.

The last thing I heard.
Her voice—
A sound of
nature’s broken
beauty.
An echo haunting—
almost of a violin
screaming for peace.
Her heart’s stolen
by the shadows,
lurking inside
her cold, dark
Sea Blue Eyes

The walk for freedom,
The walk for justice,
The walk for equality.
Look!
These signs say
“Men of Quality,
don’t fear equality!”

“We’re all Equal!”

We don’t sit and
talk quietly about
what’s in front of us—
We shout!
Shout louder than
the mighty storm!

We protest!
We resist being
broken down by
the greedy corrupt,
and malicious demons.
We fight for the right
to live humanely.

It’s never the end,
It’s the new beginning—
We walk the walk
to be human.

Dear friend,

If you’re
reading my letter,
just know
I’m trying to feel better,
even though
I really feel bitter.
I hide my wounds deeper
underneath my sweater.

As a writer,
this chapter gets worse.
The pen I write with
buries me alive
in dark memories.
I surround myself
with sounds of laughter,
but I don’t feel
quite as happy—
I feel tired.

I’m sorry
I was gone
for a long while.
I wish to ask for support,
but that feels wrong.
I wish I can call,
but I fall closer to that
Crooked Man’s door
like never before.

A chaotic void
of black emptiness.
Left with endless
loneliness—

Yet, you’re not alone…
A monster lurks
within insidious shadows,
crawling through your
brain like insects.
The disease spreads,
memories fester,
oozing pain as
your heart expires.

It dwells inside
the cracked mirror,
where your own
reflection despises
the weakness—
loathes the “sickness”
it cannot unsee…

Oh friend,
I’m “sorry”
I pretend to
be your ******
court jester for
those who
worry too
little.

Emotional chemicals
burn inside.
The air’s tighter,
but I sing out
in laughter,
speak in jokes,
riddles, and rhymes
so you hear me.

I put on a **** show
for the audience,
only to have you
never see me—
not even me.

A white cup of
black coffee:
a psychological
routine for zombies,
slaving away in
dark, cubed offices
of self corruption—

lives drained,
never energized
enough to love
their creativity
of oneself.

The irony of
what I just said—
I care for those
who willingly
****** themselves.
I beg on my knees,
pleading you to stay,
saying how much
I’m scared
to lose you.
I don’t want
you to go away—

Yet,
I never cared
about wanting
to die myself

Throughout my life,
it has been a conundrum.
I wait for someone
to numb the bitter.

The problem is…
Asking for support
or wishing you’d stay—
makes me feel sick.

I’m afraid you might think
I treat you like my therapist.
Seeing me decay as I watch
you walk away.
Pacing through the asylum,
clipboard in hand
as you stand there.
Listening, writing
down the things I say—
except how to
save a patient.

And that,
is the oldest
conundrum
to exist.

You said you
would be
"dead"
without me?

Well then…
why are you
still breathing
in my head?

Oh, it’s
so “selfish”
to say what
my true feelings
were to you?

“I love you.”

The most
offensive
sentence
I’ll ever say
in this room—

“I need you.”

A line I hear a lot of times.
My life—
bitter memoirs,
disappointments,
mental scars,
and feeling miserable
most of my
lonely moments.
Opened my emotions
only to feel vulnerable,
exposed to the
broken cold.

These past few days—
I hate them.
I ache in pain,
I cut myself—
my wounds on
my right arm
have no mouth
but scream for help.

Only to be sent away,
to hear them say,
“It’s not a punishment.”
A line that cuts deeper
than a sharp knife.

And yet I feel
so abandoned
in my own
treatment center.

In order to
write a poem,
You become the ink.
The Pen.
The Paper.
The Idea.
The Cold fear.
The Lover.
The Ghost.
The things you
hold the most.
To write a poem,
you must become
what you write.

The violin
screams its voice—
The voice of
the beauty of pain
for the lonely.
Played so loudly
and violently—
It could not
have meant anything
but violence.

Only then,
the violinist hears
the haunting words:

“Oh help me—“
“PLEASE HELP ME!”

I try to keep up,
but then I fall.
Soon, I sink
into the wheelchair.
White lights glare—
cold, grimy,
asylum prison.

Fallen.
Broken.
Soul stolen.
Poison in my veins.

"All I want is"—

I stare for hours
down endless,
narrow halls,
full of lost souls—
the ones who let go,
ended up hospitalized—
suicide on their minds.

I feel paralyzed—
left traumatized,
trapped inside,
confined,
searching the
room for you,
someone to talk too.
I can still feel you,
but you’re not here.
You’re not there.
You’re nowhere.

A bandage covers
my right arm,
hiding the cuts,
hiding the pain,
but drowning deep.
I don’t know who to trust,
“All I want is love”—
but my hands are tied.

I hate feeling desperate,
I don’t feel protected,
you told me you
would protect me,
I don’t feel respected,
I feel rejected,
I hate rejection,
I feel defensive,
I feel vulnerable,
I feel exposed,
all alone—

WHY CAN’T YOU
LET ME GO?!