To tell a tale of my heart,
I love you.
I love your hair,
your handsome face,
your lips,
your hips,
your soft skin,
your chest,
your body,
the beauty and ugly scars,
the stitched up soul—
The messy and imperfect you.
I love your personality—
I love you no matter what.

I love your spring green eyes,
your teeth,
your smile,
the sound of your laugh,
your voice—
Nature’s melody
lost in the Wheat Fields
of Dreams.

To tell a tale—
You appear in dreams,
crossing my mind like a crosswalk,
your name ringing in my head like bells.

I love the way you breathe,
the sound of the warm summer breeze.
I love the way you walk,
the way you talk.
I love how you shut me up—
The way you pin me
against the wall.

I love the way your hands
resting on my chest,
the way you grab my neck—
Yet never choke me,
like the tangled vines.

I love the way you bite me,
the way you kiss me,
the way you miss me.
I love the way you keep me safe,
the way you comfort me,
your lovely words of affirmations,
the way your heart beats calmly—
A thousand mellow drums beating.
I love the way you see me.

I love the way you make me alive—
like burning fire.

To tell a tale of my heart,
I can’t not love you—
I love you.

Come here,
young traveller…
I harvest the pain,
from the scattered brains
to the shattered hearts
across the wheat fields.

My soul will untangle
the poison vines.
Though thorns
will cut my arms,
I bled many more before—
I’ll bleed for you.

You carry so many scars,
to still believe you’re beautiful,
love—
Oh child, young child,
who did this to you?

Knives twist,
gutting your insides,
strung from chest to thighs.
Running like prey,
hearts beating a million drums,
lost for breath—

Strings of stress
tied to the heart—
A manipulated puppet
played with by crooked hands
and conjured voices,
each sharper than
my harvesting scythe.
Tangled in a wild dance
for far too long…

I hear the hollow
whispering beyond
Blood Orange Valley.
Here, young traveller,
give me your hand.
Let me be the one—
stabbed through the heart,
covered in a million wounds,
left tangled in
The Hanging Tree—
You need rest now.
Be free,
young traveller.

Burning out slowly,
falling apart daily.
Dreams turn nightmares,
alarm clock screaming,
wake up at 6:30,
time rapes me
in my bed—
Spine shivering,
head aches,
dead and cold.
Maggots crawling,
I can’t sleep,
I can’t breathe—
maggots crawling
down a memory.

“wE MiSs yOu”

Dreams turn nightmares,
wearing the same clothes,
same skin with wounds,
drenched in bloodstains,
decayed in pain—
Is it worth it?
Clock’s bleeding,
I’ve been here before.
Stuck with trauma
on a hellish loop.
I’m over it—

“Goodbye Paul”

“*******!!”

You say you “miss” me?
God—I know you “mean it,”
said it like
a broken ******* record.
And if you see my smile,
you know it’s *******.
**** it.

You were never there—
You neglectful *******.
Your performance fakes all,
watch me fall and drown,
like you were hoping
I’d slam into a brick wall,
bleeding—

Tryna make a sound,
I choke on toxic venom—
Burning my chest,
stress feasting like parasites—
Never found my disgusting corpse.
A ghost haunting hearts,
friends with ends meet,
arguments turn into knife fights—
Take things far,
left with scars.
Last sentences hit
like a guillotine,
heads left rolling,
no ceremony…
But **** it—

Hypnotized in your
warm spring eyes—
Colors dancing through
nature’s unknown roads
I long to lose myself in.

Watching the blood-orange
sun of my heart
burn peacefully bright.

Fantasy to reality,
your voice—
A sweet song
I could listen to
for hours,
again and again.

Kiss me slowly,
as if you miss me.
Press your chest
against mine,
hold me close,
and don’t let go—
Take my breath.

Lock me up,
keep me hidden—
Take me someplace,
where stress can’t
chase and feast
on my ghost.

Take me where
wildflowers grow,
where the cool
breeze touches
my neck gently,
where I feel at home,
on our picnic blanket,
lying next to you—
Lost in your warmth
within our Wheat Field
of Dreams.

When I look
into your eyes,
I see a world—
A beautiful galaxy
I fall into, peacefully.

Green spring colors
dancing and twirling
like ballerinas beneath
a stage-light moon.

Each time you laugh,
even when
The Crooked Man
touches you—
It fills up the air
across Hollywood.

Your voice is
my favorite sound—
A sound of nature’s song,
lost in echoes beyond
the Wheat-field of Dreams.
When I look into
your green eyes,
I feel home
for the first time.

The moment
I look into your eyes
covered in midnight skies,
I realized I started
to feel alive again—
You get it?
Neither do I,
don’t know where to begin—
Was stuck for a while
with suicide blinding signs.
Scared, restless, lost,
feeling like imma die,
yet I survived cuz
I get to see you
through wild nights
that bloom—
Wishing I was
in the same room,
holding onto you,
Loving you…

****, I think
I love you too much—
Too addict,
crossing my mind
like a crosswalk.
Yet too much
is never enough.

I love you

My wings—
Torn off.
Left mangled
in sharp thorns.
Tangled in cold
****** chains
and tightened ropes—
Tensions divide.
It holds me close
with dark, crooked hands.
My screams—
A thundering crack!
A fallen angel’s heart,
like a lone Island—
Broken into two.

Falling from
black rainclouds
as the golden sun gaze over.
Tensions divide—
Cast away from the heavens,
screaming and shouting,
nothing they can do.
A thundering crack!
My wings,
a lone island—
Broken into two.

Too numb to eat,
too numb to breathe,
too numb to sleep,
too numb to
wake up
or scream—

Eyes tired,
shriveled up
from tears—
Love is numb,
and I’m too ****** up.

Too numb to see,
too numb to write
you poems and letters,
Too numb from
bitter remnants
and ruined dreams—
It keeps me up all night.
Too numb to walk,
too numb to
talk or speak—

I JUST WANNA
******* SCREAM!!!

I can’t…
My voice is
too numb…

Trapped beyond
white walls—
Scatterbrained
from the same
Monday moment
that kept me up all night.
Down dark, grimy halls,
for all critics to see.
My rotten heart—
Hung high from
the cracked ceiling.
Too soon,
the string snaps—
Too soon,
I’ll fall behind
those white walls
by dawn.

An unlicensed
therapist and I,
sitting in a
white room,
chaotic yet calm.

He sits on the
blue cushioned
chair, silent.  
Every word
out my mouth
runs like wild dogs,
lost beyond the woods.
His eyes, darted like
a hawk as I talk.
Digging too deep
into my crooked,
insane, ******-up heart…
Unsettling yet interesting.

A chaotic poet
and a therapist—
Both observers
in one room.
I asked him,
tested his
thought:

“Am I insane to you?”
“We just met…”

When I was
a young child
I used to be afraid
of the wild dark...
I thought it was
because it became
too hard to see
what lurks beneath,
It scared me…
Then the more
I think about it,
the more I sink
into it—

Today I realized
it was right
before my eyes.
I was afraid of
falling in the black,
endless void,
alone—

But here we are,
no monsters,
no demons,
no Boogieman—
Just the bitter me.
I don’t even flinch—
or give a ****
anymore.

The moment I look
at my bathroom mirror,
I see bags under
my tired, bitter,
****** up eyes.
I look like a hag
and my heart
cracked into broken
pieces like glass—

Not only I couldn’t
sleep last night from
nightmares and
fears I’ve had.
I lost one friend—
Or two—
Or a few friends,
here and there…

I want this to end—
I just want my
friends back…

Late night panics,
right hand shaken,
covered in blood and scars.
****** therapy sessions,
sane pills I’ve taken,
my inner critics
in their tea party
laughed and said
I’m insane.
Yet I say
“we’re all ****** here…”
Lost friends,
killed souls
I’ve stayed with—
sadly ended…
Always a memory away—
Gotta keep my head up…

All letters,
diaries and poems
I’ve written—
Scattered into
riddles and enigmas.
Readers falling down
rabbit holes—
Or that’s just
me as a poet…

My ticker,
a mad rabbit,
It runs—
Keeps running—
Running into
a train...

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.