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.

You said you
would be
"dead"
without me?

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

I drink this tea.
I lost the voice in me.
I feel empty.
I can barely speak.
I’m lonely in my mind.
I’m losing time.
I hear the voice becoming hungry, having anxiety yelling at me.
My mind Turns into a Heavenly Hell.
So I write poetry to **** the voice silently
From within.
While I’m drinking my tea to get the
voice of me back so I may speak again.

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 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…

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.

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.

I hold a box of tissues.
I try to clean up a mind filled with issues.
A heart filled with wounds.
Rooms filled with abuse that intrudes.
To tell you the truth, they can’t be removed.
Then I lose myself.
But instead of sitting and
crying with tissues in my hands.
I choose to write my issues through
poems filled with words and rhymes
like Dr. Seuss to tell the truth from a wounded soul.
These tissues will not be enough to solve my issues.

For me,
being lonely
is like starving…

But sometimes,
I’d rather die
alone than choke on
a poisonous cake,
served with a
delusional
grin at the
Mad Tea Party…

That phony person
with their hollow smile,
would stab my back,
then slit my throat
and watch me croak
under a minute—
or less…

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.

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.

—“Hey”

hey—

—“Hru?”

I’m…—
I’m not ok today—

—“Oh, I’m sorry to hear”

why…?—

—“well… you’re feeling
******, right?”

yea, but why do you care…?—

—“You said ur not ok,
I’m sorry if I’m annoying you,
I just thought I could help”

no um…sorry,
I didn’t mean to come off rude…—

—“Dude, it’s fine,
I know what ur going through,
I’m here if you need”

see that’s the thing,
every time I hear that,
no one is actually here.
I call everyone I can think of,
and they don’t show up!—

—“Oh..”

I just feel so alone…
like every day I always
fade away, like they
forget I existed in
the first place..—

everyday I text
a lot of my friends,
and they leave me
on read
or give short
little replies..—

—“Well… I used to feel
like that a lot
And I still do sometimes.
But ur not alone cuz I care
and I wanna care about u.
Even if you don’t
feel like it’s true”

u don’t know me—

—“I want to though.
:)”

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?!

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.

My poetry exist
with a crooked purpose—

And so,
its crooked disturbance
violates
its comfort presence.

It exists
without my consent.

- Paul P. Deratany

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.

Your name—
Screaming in violins.
The clock on the wall,
ticking in a rhythm—
A crooked dance.
Behind closed eyes,
I see your
million white eyes
staring down dark halls.
Red lights only glowing.
A green exit sign,
always there, taunting me.
Like a vivid dream
gone wrong—
My heart, my body,
your eyes—
locked in place.

I̶ ̸c̵A̸n̶'̵T̵ ̵M̸O̶V̶E̶

The red walls talk.
I used to know them,
whispering to my left—
Turning into screams
of the violin.
On the dead TV to my right,
an amber alert goes off…
A glitching static,
breathing heavy and low—

y̸O̶u̷ ̸B̸r̴O̵k̶E̵n̵ ̷m̶E̵.̴

The room hums louder
in violins and TV static.
The red walls—
breathing heavy and loud.
Pale eyes—
Watching close upon me,
tearing my chest open—
Burning, bleeding,
wounds open, hearts exposed.
A hand of a million poor souls
slammed the TV screen and walls—
Over and over
into a cursed rhythm,
My heartbeat—
Screaming—
Screaming—
s̴C̷r̵e̸A̷m̵I̷n̶G̸—
Until it shatters.
The clock stops ticking.

y̴O̴u̸"̷r̴E̸ ̷L̷o̸S̵t̴.̶.̷.̵
̸N̸e̷V̸e̸r̴ ̷f̶O̶u̶N̶D̸.̶.̴.̷
̴w̶H̵o̶ ̵h̵a̶V̵e̷ ̴y̷O̶u̴ ̸
b̶e̷E̵n̷/p̷R̵a̷y̸I̸N̴g̶ ̷t̷O̴
̵a̶L̸l̷ ̵t̸H̸i̴s̸ ̸t̶I̶m̵E̸?̶

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”

“*******!!”

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.

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 for me
to see—

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

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.

There was a silent boy,
Who used to have a lot of joy in his heart.
Until he fell apart.
The boy’s emotions were toyed by the bitter moments.
Life destroying him little by little.
Problems yelling in his head,
Even though those negative thoughts should’ve been dead already.
But the silent boy still stands there silently…

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

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…

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.

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.

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.

There was a man who can see clearly.
Both the sunshine and darkness.
“Cut my eye that sees darkness.
I want to see the sunshine more”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man immediately left
to fulfill his destiny to be happy.
To only see the sunshine.

There was a man who can hear clearly.
“Cut one ear that hears pain so I can
Hear the joy and laughter once more!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man leaves as he hears
the Illusions of laughter and joy.
But the man doesn’t know the confusion
that lies.

There was a man who can speak.
“Sow my mouth closed! I don’t want
The lost voices to sneak out!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did.

Then there was a boy
Who has one eye,
One ear,
And a sewn mouth.
He grabs a piece of paper.
He writes
“Give me an eye that sees darkness,
And ear to hear the sorrow that follows,
And cut my mouth open so I may speak out…”

“Why?” The Doctor replied.
Then the boy writes:

“If the truth hurts.
Then kindness must be a lie.
And if I sit there silently with these lies and Illusions,
What would that do if we don’t take the time to embrace
The pain and bitter memories that lies beneath me?
To speak out the truth of that false love and joy
that we fake ourselves to cover the heart that bleeds,
instead of treating it properly?

And at the same time…
How can I write poetry with these
angels of the shadows that sings mellow songs
and tells tales of hope that
lies in the forest roads to the unknown, doctor?”

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—

Every morning, driving,
I see the orange sun rising,
trying to shove my problems
into a four-inch storage bin.
Lock it tight behind a
four-inch orange door.
Inject myself with a syringe
full of poisonous illusions,
covered in mental wounds,
I fall to the floor,
self-hate oozing.

Losing sleep,
screaming inside.
Drifting apart in my car—
I wanna call you.
My heart’s sinking,
tryna salvage good moments.
It’s a challenge
to forgive myself again.

I’m sorry.
I haven’t left
you a message.
All day, I’ve wanted
to talk to you.
Sitting in my car,
watching the orange
sun falling down,
I drift…

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.

I’m breaking,
collapsing
into pieces,
trapped in
my bathroom—
crying…

shaking
in fear,
tears fall
against the
floor with stress,
My chest heavy,
Barely breathing,
I’m a mess—
barely holding
on

Not ready to
leave yet,
Afraid to ask
“I need help”…
I’m a little
unsteady

Beyond the mountains
of morning,
an Angel sings
a melody of a
Thousand lost spirits.
Its lyrics sharpen
into weapons,
carving truths.

Too sharp to be
spoken and sung.
Too raw to be
understood.

Its wings eaten
away by maggots.
Its heart stabbed by demons.
Once a heaven of innocence,
until shadows killed
the Angel’s soul.
Now trapped and
hidden forever
in shadows with
no wings,
its voice hits anger
and violence and
no freedom.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…”

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…

Each corner I turn,
my heart hurts—
Burning in ashes,
beating, bleeding—
Lurking everywhere.
Scars on my arms,
barely healing—

I think about you
every once in a while,
standing out in
wild nightmares.
I hugged you in a dream,
whispered sorry for lost times.
I know you still hate me—

**** it.
I don’t want you,
running back,
coming and going—
Go burn
in paradise!

With my eyes closed,
I see your ghost.
Somebody I used to know.
Both caught in razor thorns,
with broken bones,
bleeding from
twisted tongues.
Fire breathing,
burning my heart,
Memories bring out the dark,
They leave me breathless.

G̴o̷o̴d̸b̸y̷e̸ ̸P̷a̴u̵l̵
*******̶ ̷Y̸O̶U̷!̶

It begins with friendly love,
ends in scars of ****** madness—
I cut my teeth
on deadly, forbidden names
from the thorns for the rose.
Falling in the deep,
watching the days
burn down into decades—
leaving me breathless.

I realized:
how we fractured in flames
is how I poisoned us to the ground
with bleach and vinegar
and ignite us on fire.
Your corrupt shadows
lurk in chemicals and ashes
everywhere I go.

You’re gone,
and so am I—
Yet your essence is not.
You’ve waited for so long…
I’m sorry
for breaking you.
I hope you rest—
peacefully…

I̷ ̵a̶S̷ ̷F̶r̶E̸e̸ f̶O̷r̸G̷i̸V̸e̷ y̵O̷u̵,̷
̵y̶E̸t̵ n̶E̸v̵e̷R̶ F̵o̶R̸g̸E̷t̶ ̷
̷t̶H̸e̴ ̵d̷E̴e̵d̸S̸ o̵F̵ ̴t̶H̵e̴
̸f̴A̵l̵L̴e̸N̷ ̶a̸N̸g̴E̸l̵ ̴
̶y̵O̵u̷'̷V̴e̷ b̶E̶c̷O̵m̵E̶.̶.̸.̵
̶w̶E̷'̵l̷l̸ s̴P̵l̷I̵t̵ ̵p̶A̶t̸H̸s̴,̴
̶a̷N̵d̵ ̵o̷N̴e̴ ̴D̵a̷Y̵,̸ ̵
̸w̵E̵’̶L̵l̸ ̴ ̵m̵E̶e̸T̵ ̴a̵G̶a̷I̷n̶.̷.̶.̶
̶
̸G̴o̴O̵d̴B̸y̶E̷ ̶P̸a̷u̵l̶.̷.̸.̵