Last night
I saw the fire dancing.
Its red and orange skin
sparked a spotlight
across the dark skies.
Its flame shapes
into fiery eyes,
and looked through me
with a crooked smile
as it dances a haunted,
quiet dance of death.
Echoes of crack screams,
the smoke twisted,
forming into old,
tortured souls—

Fragment memories too…

I woke up tired
this morning.
As I walk out,
the smell of smoke
still kills the air.
I watched as the
world burns—

Myself too…

We create gods
not to make up a story
Or to build a group or a society or a greater city.
We create gods because
We don’t know why we really exist.
We’re scared of the possibility
that we exist just to exist without a reason to exist.
Maybe the only reason that life was created and that we only live
Is just because our only purpose is to be human,
and to be human is to be ourselves.
Makes me think though that when a God gives us love or hope,
It’s basically saying it’s the people that we think of the most, loves us
And was always there for us.
Maybe it’s someone we love is the spirit we look upon.
But who have I pray to all this time
if I’m the only person that feels lonely and lost?

Come to think of it, let this sink in…
We also create a story of how bitter memories shapes us
or how we’ve been that lost soul in the crossroads of no hope
throughout life itself based on strange characters we created throughout history.
You see, when you base on the devil himself that gives you hell,
You tell yourself that it’s the traumas that bring us down.
Our own self hate and anxiety trying to drown us into the dark abyss.
Making us not breathe.
But the only gods we can look upon are us.
We’re the ones to create these thoughts and choices.
Beliefs and crazy stories of ghosts and spirits that
Lies inside our minds
and to let go of the Dead that used to live in our own heads.
To tell people that you’re not alone in this world.

I think the only reason we really exist is to be human.
To think and create stories on our own perceptions
Of life and the beauty and ugliness of our moments to be human.
To express or feel the emotions of bitterness and hope throughout any art.
I’m not an atheist,
Nor a realist,
I’m an artist,
living the beauty and horror
Of the moments from my own perspectives
Of my own story
To be human.

Here’s the truth…
“I wanna die,”
“I wanna survive,”
the ropes are tearing me,
pulling me apart,
like tug of war.
I wanna cry
but my tears are dry.
I wanna go back
and try to start over—

But I can’t…
I can’t sleep,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t see,
I can’t be free,
I can’t find what I seek.

I can’t scream—
my voice breaks.
I can’t be saved.
I’m stuck in my room,
I can’t love you.
I can’t be loved.
I can’t be enough.

I can’t find you,
I can’t find me.

I hate myself,
I hate who I am,
and I miss the
old me who didn’t.

I hate my life,
I hate the time,
I hate this day,
I hate every minute,
I hate the memories I made—
but they’re all I have left.

I hate the silences.
I hate the noise.
I hate walking away,
I want to stay,
but I’m always a memory away.
I hate the pain and ache of wanting,
yet never being heard.
I hate everything,
It hurts!

*******,
**** me,
**** everyone
who lies and say
it’s gonna be ok,
the talents I hold,
every word I spoke,
this poem I wrote,
the illusions of hope,
the isolation—
I’m getting cold
and alone…

The Crooked Man’s
living rent-free,
laughing.

I wanna scream
into the void—
*******!
Because I’m still here.

It’s 12 o’clock.
I see a lock
on the door
but I forgot I
have no key.
I rot in a box
as the bugs eat
my facade face.
Critics watched
me struggle
in this dark place,
I wish to be free,
to be loved…

As many artists say,
They have one thing in common.
They try to live to the fullest moment.
By that, they live in their own agony.
They let themselves almost get killed
By their own art just to get the voices out.
Critics leaving voicemails of death threats
under the beds in their heads.
Following a spiral stairwell down to hell.
Getting Inspired by the worst current events.
The artist never let themselves think.
Thinking might just let them sink underneath
their dreams,
Feeling unheard.

For a painter,
they just throw ink and splatter paint
onto a canvas full of bright and dark colors.

For a rapper,
they rap in rhymes and rhythm
full of realism.
They’re not just trying to be a spokesman,
they’re just a broken person carrying a mic
full of mistaken burdens over a mountain.
Leading them in a journey for Hope.

Poets and writers are rotten in a mental prison
with a journal filled with poems and written chapters
they write while they fight and ****
the devil with a pencil in their mind
throughout the night.

Actors actin’
on a part that they don’t even recognize,
But they can entertain an audience with a smile
and a good show.
Their whole life is a stage to them.
Even when curtains close,
you never know the real them
because they’re going with the flow,
playing their parts.

Without using our tragedy as art to tell stories
Is like saying a painter with no paintbrush,
canvas or paint color.
A rapper with no beat, rhythm or rhyme.
Getting lost in the path of no hope.
A writer with no crow and no Idea what to write.
It’s just pointless without a pencil and no demons to fight.
An actor not knowing how to act in their part
of a bitter situation.

How can I use art to stitch up
my heart with a thread that would soon fall again?
How can I be the artist if I can’t be a realist
and speak my mouth out with the hardest subjects
and darkest moments
that will soon have the crooked man ******
me in my sleep?

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?

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...

Any relationship,
friendship or more,
is a game of charades.
It’s messy when
two sides elaborate—
lost in gesture,
illusions and
miscommunications
that leave more questions
instead of answers.

It’s scary…
to talk,
to reach out
to someone,
sometimes—
they might hate you,
grow annoyed by your texts,
see you as a burden,
or simply walk away.
You want them to stay,
then you feel greedy,
stupid or strange to say it.

That’s the point.
Charades is never clever;
Everything is a guess—
A choice.
And each choice
is a fifty-fifty bet—
like Russian Roulette,
where you pull the trigger
to see what happens.

It gets messy…

BEEP
Hey…
Um…
If you’re listening to this audio recording,
Um…
I wanted to say I miss you.
I haven’t seen or heard from you in a while, and…
I know what you're going through hurts you…
Um..
It’s ok to not be ok,
and I’m sorry that it hurts.
I really am.
But um…
I know everything will be ok and…
Well, I know that sounds cliche but
I'm not just saying this.
I know it will get better soon.
I want you to know you’re not alone.
Just don’t let go of hope, ok?
I love you…
*BEEP

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.

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.

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

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.”

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.

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.

Oh, Hello!
I’m stuck in a ****** asylum
for the mental abused, freaks,
and drug needles that doctors use.
Hollow halls filled with the white voids
of nothingness,
Swallowing white pills to solve my mental problem,
seeing tall shadows that follow me every corner of these walls.
Trapped in the narrow room of the mental prison.
Each day, I wait for freedom
as the time is tickin’,
eatin’ every moment in this room.
I see the broken people walkin’ in crooked ways,
Talkin’ in crooked riddles and rhymes
of wise nonsense about their fractured realities.
Wearing blue gowns to cover their skeletal bodies
filled with scars,
Haunting the hospital rooms with the screams of…
Well, screams--
Or something worse.
The doctors assume they’re insane,
but really they’re in pain.
Those doctors are the ones crazy.
They think the ones broken
are psychos.
I ask for help,
they neglected me—
As I rot in the cell of the asylum
with these broken memories.
Even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.


Time ticks and I feel like a freak.
They feed me venom through my veins,
Keep me up at night with horrible screams
of pain through my prison.
Time ***** me and I feel like a freak.
I feel hidden and trapped in my burden walls
And I can’t escape.
I wrote poems full of fractured nonsense
of my reality that turns into fantasy
for the shadows that see it.
All I wanted to be is a poet…
To speak the truth…
To be freed and loved…
Now I’m buried in the ****** asylum in
my own head again.
Here, even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.

I remember the terror—
Embers of 25,
the endless days
and nights.

Winds of thousand voices
roared louder than thunder.
The fire burned sharper,
hotter than ever,
reaching sky-high,
dancing to choke the air,
slaughtering and devouring
memories of what once was,
making us to fall
like ashes to the grounds.

The unexpected sacrifice
left us traumatized,
but it symbolize
how together,
we will rise,
burning brighter
and stronger than
The Ember of 25.

In the silent hills,
a ghost cabin stands,
left cold and abandoned
in the woods,
where once a family lived.

A house of
broken memories,
a weary hunter’s reflection,
a haven for those
who wandered hope
for far long.

Untold stories linger—
of heroes into ghosts,
lost souls for those
who never passed
the test.

Their hearts—
decomposed and forgotten,
their bones mold into
the old wooden walls,
their essence carved
into splintered floors,
as mushrooms bloom
through roofs of despair.
Their souls burn
in the chambers
of the fireplace,
where their screams
forever haunting
the hunter’s mind.

To pass the test
is to let go of
what haunts
and follows.
To claim the courage
to love yourself again.

If you see
the Crooked Man,
don’t trust his crooked smile.
Though you must play
the forbidden games—
A twisted duel
of Solitaire and
Russian Roulette.

Survive until dawn,
and your soul will go on,
free for another day
to continue your journey
toward peace…

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.

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.

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.

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…

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

In my head,
it’s an escape room.
I wake up, stuck in a bathroom,
Each wall closing in on me.
Filled with mistakes
and regrets that make me fall.
Bittersweet memories and lost mementos
I hate-
A horrid melody put on repeat.
Each worst memory that I’ve replayed
Feels like a ****** mystery
To a broken scene.
Trying to figure out what happened.
Or if I did wrong in a relationship…

I’ve searched for hope…
Or the answer to it.
In the cracked mirror,
I see a broken self.
That self turns bitter and lonely,
Fading away in the shattered glass
As the time ticks slowly,
Wishing for the world to be better.
Each puzzle is a current problem
that yells and screams in my head.
Turning life into a living hell to solve.
The door won’t budge,
And I can’t find the key.
I keep thinking,
Wishing to be freed.
I get tired of it-
Trying to escape...
In the endless Escape Room…

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.

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.

I see
the voice
that lives
Inside…
Carrying hell,
yelling memories
that were never
meant to be—

Only meant for
me to see.

Lately
I’ve been
feeling lonely—
Lost…
always one door
away from hope
but I’m trapped
In an escape room
with no key.
Always solving
a messy puzzle
in my pansexual mind,
while time’s ticking,
walls closing in—
I’m scared…

Scared to
love someone
again,
scared to lose
loved ones,
scared to
lose myself,
scared to
ask for help…

My heart see souls,
not shapes,
not frames—
But more pink
and yellow Ink scars
bloom across me—
like a cherry tree.
Blue tears fall—
And I’m scared
I’d break apart—
drift into the
lonely dark…

Poetry is
something
I speak…
almost as if
I can breathe,
be me for once,
be free to love
without shame.

I’m carving
a window in the
locked room
to let the light in.
I silence the
mental devil
with a pencil
when they rise.

And when
you write,
you’ll find
yourself
aligned with the
words of scars
you’ve conjured—
like stars

And when
you find
yourself,
you don’t
let go

The pencil
you hold
will open
the door
to hope

“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

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.

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—

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

The Sun dies
And the Moon rises high.
Dark dead trees dancing away
To the mellow song.
Crows singing through the darkened
forest of dusk.
The Foolish Dreamers follow the path.
Where lies the Hunter,
who lives near Blood Orange Valley,
Where the wind of feared children screams
in pain for peace as the sun bleeds
against the cut fields.

The Hunter lives in the forest
amongst the Shadows of Judgement.
He wears a hollow mask of a bear,
To scare the Spirits away who tear the
face of a Castaway, covered with scars.
A teeth of the beast,
Worn to be protected of fear from afar.
Striking down the dead trees,
His axe raised high,
shoulders heavy as stone,
Each swing echoes,
a crack through the bones
Of diseased trees and roots
of Blood Orange Valley,
to clear the path for the feared ones who suffered.
Fur boots crunch the ground paths
as he voyages forever more.

The Valley bleeds red,
The Hunter’s own scar
runs deep in the dead forest.
The Valley and he,
both carved by memories.
He carries the tokens of broken luck,
Mementos of fallen dreams that scream.
He listens to the song sparrow echoing,
Of the long river flow to follow the path of Hope,
whispering stories of ancient fights,
lost hopes, and strange, forgotten nights.
To this day, the wind hums the heartbeat drums in
Blood Orange Valley,
where lies the Hunter who hunts for Hope.

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…

I’ve been in
pain for a while.
I tried to smile
but my brain’s
turning into
a knot—
choking me.

I watch the
time go by,
I wanna talk to you
but lately my
hands are tied,
cried my eyes out
last night,
my voice cracks
like glass,
ready to break,
hurting in the inside,
searching for hope,
but circling
into a burning
memory—

Where my soul
is left rotten,
And long
forgotten

Dead in my bed.
My head aches,
swollen with stress.
Tragedy rewinds
on a worn VHS tape,
a melody played
on my old cassette.

My chest is heavy,
covered in sweat,
breaths shaky,
emotions suppressed,
I’m breaking slowly
as the voice creeps in.

I swallow pills,
force to forget
who I am…
Soon, I’ll be a
Dead Silhouette…

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.

I haven’t written this **** yet so here we go…
It hits me every time I sit on a red couch.
Sometimes I wanna gouge my eyes out.
Sometimes I feel sick.
I used to be surrounded with comfort
Against the fabric.
Now it brings in dead torture.
Once, I had a friend I used to like…
Or so I thought…
You see?
I regret tellin’ him I liked him,
More than friends.
Shouldn’t cuddle with him,
or hold his hand…
Or lean in to kiss him.
But I was in the moment.
My heart skipped a beat when he said
“I love you”.

Now it goes from a “I love you” to a
“I didn’t wanna hurt you the same with Ethan”
Which left me bitter and broken.
I don’t hate him because
he made a promise he couldn’t keep.
I mean I wish I’d forget this ever happened.
He said something that made me not trust again.
He leaned in after the kiss and whispered
“If you want me to let go, that’s fine,
but if you don’t say anything,
I won’t let go of you.”
I hate him now because I hate believing it.
I hate myself.
I realized I was an act for his entertainment
Of his loneliness.
He left me on silent for a while after.
So I cut the thread and left the moment dead.
Leaving that red couch cold.

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.

Have you ever felt,
even for a moment,
like you belong—
just for a second.
Then later
you’re gone.

You were happy once.
Then you start to
feel off with yourself,
like that mirror reveals
something wrong
with you.
You grow bitter
towards your reflection,
thinking it’s your fault—
you’re broken.

Your vision twists,
shifts into fake illusions,
A haze of self destruction
and hate,
slaughters your soul.
You drift away,
slowly,
hoping to stay
a little longer at this
Mad Tea Party.

But you vanish,
disappear—
like magic,
fading into
the tragic dark,
alone.

I’ve felt
that feeling
for a long
time now.

I,
The Sage fool,
Am trapped
in a birdcage
Of lies,
Aged away
in this wooden
stage,
left to decay
As I entertain
The ones who complain,
The ones who don’t know
When the curtains close,
I go into rage—
Because I can’t get help
When I hate myself.

Memories inked
in bleeding words,
Filling every page,
Ready to fleet away.
A chapter of stories I keep,
hidden deep in the
basement mind,
worsened everyday
With unkind echoes
As I listened.

While I,
The Wise Fool,
Forced to wear
A fool’s masked grin
to deceive,
To hide what’s real in me—
Like a trick up my sleeve.
Used my talent
To inspire the
ignorant—
They **** my hope,
Shove a bitter
pill of judgement
down my throat
To keep me on silence,
Yet I still stand.

I am the fool,
The entertainment,
I am the sage,
A wisdom they fear
but never lamented.

I’m the fool
With a smile,
But throughout
my wise miles
I played their games,
My wisdom blazes in
their mocking flames.

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.

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.

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.

It’s so tragic—
The Sleepy boy turns into a Sick Boy,
He vanished just like magic.
The clock ticks,
Locked up in bed with chains,
Almost dead in his head with
toxic coughs and sneezes that clogs
His heart that shiver cold chills down his spine.
Eating some blue,
yellow and purple pills on Friday
just to ease the pain,
But the migraine misfits
Kept cutting the wires and killin’ his brain,
makin’ him brain-dead tired at home.
Meanwhile
I’m sitting here against the window alone
in the unknown,
With one empty brown chair across,
Writing a poem to the Sleepy Boy
who’s gone.

So if you’re readin’ this,
Hope you feel better,
Sleepy Boy,
Cuz we miss you--
I guess I miss you…

I’ve been
sick all day,
eyes tired
and hollow.
Woke up
with a ****** nose
and a sore throat.

This morning at 4 am,
I forced myself
to throw up.
I felt so sick
of myself inside
I wanted to cry.
My hair’s a
chaotic mess.
My head aches,
my heart fades
in the quiet dark
as I lay in bed.

My body
ShAkeS
with a cold touch.
The ghosts send
shivers down
my spine,
but my poetic
soul is burning.

All day
I felt isolated,
alone in my
own room.
My problematic
mind screams,
keeping me up at night
with dreams left rotten.

I wanted to
talk to you,
but my voice—
It’s broken.

Each time I’m talking to you,
It feels like walking blindfolded
Through a minefield.
You never care how I feel.
One wrong move and I’m
Thrown on the wheel of misfortunes,
knives hurled at me as I spin
with one sentence:
“I love you”—

Got me weak like kryptonite,
I’ll admit, but that was a lie
and you never meant it.
You tricked me two times,
I’ve gotten attached to your false love,
Caught a disease of heartache,
and end up with rabies filled with
memories I wished I’ve forgotten.
It’s like tossing a grenade at a relationship
that will soon sink like a shipwreck,
drowning in the ocean in bitter,
cold emotions I still hold.

You said to me you hate me,
Told me it’s too late for apologies,
But now you’re calling me at night
because you want me back?

Your love was always fake,
Suffocating me in my mistakes.
Afraid to lose you,
You never really wanted to make amends,
You want me to entertain you
With a show while you complain and say:
“You’re the problem” and how I can’t solve them.

Talking to you,
Feels like taking pills that
will **** me sooner or later.  
Your hollow apologies echo with
Empty words dressed up
in cheap disguise,
Choking me with more lies.
I apologize if I hurt you
but I don’t want to forgive you—
I want to forget you.

To forgive you
Is like playing
Russian Roulette.
A fifty-fifty bet
With one bullet—
Harsh moments
loaded In the barrel of
a silver revolver,
Aiming at my heart,
Still wanting to
forgive you—
Trust you even…

Will it end me,
send me to the coffin
of regret?
Or click away
into nothing?
Tension ticking…

When you called me,
Saying you’re sorry,
I felt so mixed up
in my emotions—
drowning me
with this question...

Do I gamble my life?
Spin the chamber
of hope,
take the shot,
And see what happens
when I forgive you?

Or do I leave the gun
on the table,
Turn my back,
walk away—
and forget you…
Forever?

A Tortured Artist,
had always suffered in the dark,
With a fractured heart that was never healed but
Filled with stitches of the scars from the past that lies within.
He never wanted to exist just to be thrown in a locked closet
under the Harvest moon of cold November.
He remembers the burned reminiscences
Of the broken promises and bitter mementos that sends him into
A downward spiral in the deepest darkest pits of the shadows.

He was promised love, and freedom.
Now he’s dead-
forgotten.
He now lives as the wisest artist.
Speaking and throwing ink with the
Rawest words of realism on the canvas of the coldest world.
It shapes the view of the dark Harvest Moon from a closet.

Without a shattered heart,
Or being locked in the dark closet,
how would an artist be inspired of art
if he’s not tortured in this coexisted world
That lies beneath the worst current events?