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.

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.

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?

I
lose my
breath,
I yell for help,
But I lose
myself,
My mental
health’s
Hell...

I write them
down with
a pencil,
Just to ****
the bells
that ring—
Echos of shame,
Names
I can’t
let go…
Playing games
in the shadow…

I love who
I loved,
Though
I stand by
myself…

The wrong
souls
I love—
drown me
In an ocean
of bitterness,
Self-hate—
Tell me they
hate me,
for the
way
I am.

They say
they’d stay—

But they go,
And I grow
cold
and alone…

Still, I’m
standing,
One day
hoping
Someone
will guide
me to hope

Sleepy boy,
Stuck in a dreamy story
In his head as he lies
in his bed of reality,
Seeing the sun
Set and the moon rise,
Feeling trippy in the skies
of his mind,
Where wild imagination
flutter in beauty like butterflies,
and thoughts trapped in a dark forest
of scary nightmares.
haunted by the hollow shadows
that follow,
Whispering regrets and mistaken burdens
he can’t forget.
Making him not sleep,
becoming lost in the deep
Darkness of insomnia.

Sleepy boy,
Always tired,
Eyes wrinkled in borrowed time,  
Coffee smell dances in the air of dusk,
trying to wake him to dreams
he can never quite reach.
Near and far in the hilltops,
Where stars once
sparkled and lingered in dusk,
Glimmering dreams.

Sleepy boy,
The blanket is a map
that guides him comforts
in his journey through
the cold dark nights,
The wind hums a mellow lullaby.
Follow the heartbeat drums,
And it will show you
The hidden path of Peace

Sleepy boy,
Rest will come when night’s anew,
Till then, push through, wander on,
dreams in view,
promise to bloom like flowers
under the morning hours.

You wanna
talk now,
But I walked
out

Every minute
I sit on that couch,
Your critics
start to
speak to
me

You said you
would stay,
But you walked
away

I’m done
playing your
rigged games—
you throw
shame on me,
then hate
started
to eat me alive
and you blame
It’s my fault
all along,
Even though
you dealt
the same cards

every time
You beg
me back,
we fallback to the
Same trap,
Carrying the map
of no hope,
I wanna let go
of these cracked
memories that
were never meant
to be,
But only me
to see—

I can’t breathe,
I can barely speak—
And I’m sorry,
But we can’t be…

Nature's trees dancing
to the wind's mellow song.
Crimson leaves falling on the
October roads. Letting go of
the trees. Slowly becoming
free on its journey for Peace.

I sit here on the yellow-green grass.
I see a butterfly passing by as the seasons change.
I'm listening to the colder breeze speaking of the
written chapters full of word of wisdom flowing like
a river full of rhythm of realism.


the sun sets into
the October skies,
birds flying through the October path.
Ghosts of the wind singing on the Friday night
of October.

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

I solation is what kills me.
S o I scream for help—
O nly then, silence echoes louder.
L iving amongst false illusion alone,
A life in an empty home of a lonely heart.
T hroughout my time, I use this map.
I tried to find hope in the dark.
O f course—
N othing shows the path.

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.

There were all
the things you
don’t see about me.
I can’t open up to you,
and lately, I don’t
know what to do.

I wanted to say all
the things you don’t see.
If only we had
one moment alone—
but I barely see you
nowadays.

The thief of lonely
lingers in the shadows,
drives me crazy,
slowly killing me like poison,
stealing pieces of my soul,
breaking my voice,
leaving no words
to speak, shout, or scream
all the things you don’t see.

So I stopped
trying to reach
what’s no longer there,
but you never noticed
I was gone.
That’s all the things
you don’t see.

I am one person,
trapped in one
nightmare,
playing one
endless game
of solitaire,
with cards of
my own choices
and decisions
made with regret.

Time devours me,
a feast for parasites
and maggots,
while I ache
to forget
myself--
****** myself
with hate...

I sit in
a wheelchair,
stare at the
white walls
of my own
mind’s cruel game—
solitaire confinement,
inprisoned in
loneliness…

as I sit on the grounds of the autumn fall
of the forest roads to the unknown,
the surroundings become small.

As I sit there and write
A poem full of reminiscences of
pain and lost souls that echoes the word
"Nevermore".

A butterfly flies and problems fall
like golden leaves from the trees,
becoming free from the tragedy.
But not hidden in the forgotten,
lonesome roads.
Where the ghosts of lost orphans
that lies in the haunted shadows.


A crow follows wherever I go
as the seasons change and the flowers die.
Waiting to bloom the transformation of rebirth
that lies in the forest home. Listening to the gentle
wind singing that mellow song of hope like ghosts.
Watching the gold-orange sun sets into the distance,
disappearing into the Autumn Fall.

I met a girl
named June.
Her heart blooms
like a flower under
the golden sun’s hour,
immune to the dark.
Her eyes shine light
across the room.

One day
she looks at me,
noticed the darkness
burning in my tomb.
The long, lonely silence
that grew louder,
the echoes of neglect and
self-judgement—
self hate…

She reached out her hand,
“I will always stay…I wanna help”,
she said.
I stared at her for a moment…
I wanted to reach out,
wanted to believe,
but I rejected her offer
and walked away,
only to never see her again.
I regret it so much…
I wish I could forget it…
But not her.

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…

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.

White and gray
ink covers the ground,
spilling across the land
wherever I stand.
The wind sings
its frost-tangled voice,
whispering and whistling—
I feel lost,
not found.

I follow the sound
of false hope,
each step sinking
deeper into the snow.
I stumble forward,
struggling blindly,
not knowing
where to go as
it blinds my eyes,
burying me deep
in the night’s snow.

The sharp,
cold wind blows—
sending shivers down,
cutting through my spine,
tearing through
my skin, flesh and bone
with a shadowed knife,
a bitter memory—
a ghost story.

All I want
is love,
but that’s
to much
to ask.

I chase it,
hoping someone
would stay,
but they
walk away.

I’m always
stuck in place,
lost in space,
snake like chains
wrapped me
with venomous,
murderous
intentions
of hate—
losing myself,
anxious to ask
for help,
always
remained lonely,
like a castaway.