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.

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…

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.

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.

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…

There lies
A Storyteller
of the mountains,
Seeking for answers
from the Hills of Guidance,
Yet finding only darkened paths.

He tells a tale—
threads of what
once was,
weaving truths
in a voice of dead
rusts:

Silence echoes,
Forgotten souls,
Stolen Hope;
Of Fallen heroes,
And Artists and Poets
Hidden In the Ruined Roads
of the Unknown.

Then there begins the
tale of the Hunter.

Broken fragments
of a heart,
A thousand voices
Whisper in the
Bad Man’s name,
Shouting the sentence—
                              
“You must perish and
become trapped in you own
Hellish cage you’ve
once built with your hands!”

Yet he ventured onward,
through the narrow
Rivers of shame,
To the haunted fields
of blame,
Where ancient moments
The hunter holds close,
lost on a cold,
shadowed path
of mystery.

Only the Storyteller
Tells a tale of the hunter
Who hunts the
fleeting creature
of Hope…

Though the
Storyteller knows—
He once was that
fallen hero long ago.

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.

—“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.
:)”

There was a man
who did bad things.
The people called him
“The Bad Man”.
They say he murdered three—
He lives a land amongst the trees.
He steals broken souls of burden
and hangs them on the Hanging Tree—
Their bodies swaying,
Forbidden momentos,
Burns like fire,
The shadows called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though the bad
was never in his tired hands.

The wind carries screams
of stray memories,
crying to be free.
The Bad Man
who sees the tragic flourish
Dark magic in the midnight of the
Hanging Tree…

The Dead echos the bad,
chopping the heart into pieces
with the Hunter’s sharp axe,
bleeding into the stitched
fabric of stolen trust—
From one who once stood by him to protect.
Now lost in the woods of neglect.

The people called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though he’s trapped—
Lost in the decay paths of the betrayed,
Forever In the Hunter’s Bird Cage.

I walked into a Mel’s diner on Santa Monica and Lincoln Blvd one time.
It was a rainy Sunday afternoon.
The gray clouds surround the diner.
Loud raindrops clashing the glass windows.
The lights of the cars and buildings shine a warm yellow bright light in the dark skies.
The cold breeze sends chills down my spine through my sweater.
As I entered into the diner with a warm air, welcoming my face and skin.
A smell of greasy burgers and fries being cooked by a chef,
who looks to be in his 40’s or older.
I hear groups of families talking and laughing.
A couple in their teens kissing and cuddling together against the window of the booth.
A Jukebox is playing a song called “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac in the back.
And there I see an old friend, Allan, sitting in one of the booths, drinking his coffee.
He was excited to talk to me since we haven’t seen each other in ages.
I met him, gave him a hug and sat down.
It’s been a while and something has reminded me of the things that hurts me.
But I try to smile through the ghosts of the past.
The ghosts of pain and sorrow.
“Rainy, isn’t it?” Allan replied.
“Yea…” I sighed, dripping wet.
We sat there for a bit and talked for what felt like hours.
Tried to catch up with our own lives.
The atmosphere however felt a bit awkward.
I started to lose myself in the distance.
His words becoming blurred in the back of my head.
My breath becoming heavy.
“You ok?” Allan worried.
“Yea…sorry-I didn’t mean to like…fade away.”
I said as my right hand is really shaking.
Sweating too.
He noticed and said
“It’s ok. What’s on your mind?”
Just then a waiter walks over
And refills my coffee but left Allan’s cup Empty.
“You good?” The waiter asked.
“Sorry but why didn’t you refill my friend’s cup of coffee?” I questioned.
The waiter looked confused and just stared at me for a solid minute.
Then walked away.
“What’s wrong?” Allan asked,
looking confused and concerned.
So…
I grab a pocket knife from my pocket
And gently put it on the sticky table of the diner.
“Please tell me why you have a pocket knife?” Allan asked.
His dark brown eyes looked down at the knife for a minute.
Then looks back at me.
“I don’t know.” I replied.
“Oh come on! Tell me!”
“Ok, fine…I keep it in case…if I ever wanted to go…”
“Go where?” Allan questioned with a look in his eyes.
“In case if I decide to wanna die, okay?”
The diner felt silent.
The coffee felt really cold but the room felt really hot.
Allan looks really worried and scared. As if he saw a ghost.
“Having the knife here helps show me that there’s a way out…”
“Why?” Allan asked once more.
“I DON’T KNOW, ALLAN! I DON’T KNOW!
I felt like I’ve lost hope in my life!
The bitter memories of you and me…
hurts me everyday.
I’ve cried every time but I try to hide it in the inside so you won’t see it.
After I’ve failed to be a great friend, I’ve hated myself…
I felt like every time I talk to you,
Or see you, I’d always think of those moments.
Then I start to sink through…
Life is just too **** hard and
you’re gone…
So it helps to know that there’s a way out…”
Tears start to flow down.
I felt like I’ve drowned in an ocean full of lost emotions.
I’ve gotten up and ran into the bathroom.
The light was grimy and dark.
My right hand is shaking in the worst way possible.
I look into the cracked mirror. I see myself, broken…
Then I see Allan behind me, worried.
“Hey…” Allan spoke, trying to comfort me.
We then sat on the bathroom floor.
I can see the crooked man in the mirror.
“I’d wished life has gotten better, but it has gotten bitter each time I’m alone.”
He then hugs me close as I began to cry.
“I know…and I’m sorry.
I’d wish it didn’t turned out how it happened.
Sometimes we feel vulnerable.
We struggle with the problems that occurs
out of nowhere and we crumble.
Hell, makes you feel uncomfortable because
you think of the painful regrets in your head that plays over and over.
Then it leads you into this.
This hateful self you feel because of what you can’t control.
But I want you to know this…
You are loved. You will always be.
And being alive today is the most strongest thing you can ever do!
Don’t let that crooked man **** you.”
He then grabs the pocket knife from his jacket.
“Can I keep this?” Allan requested.
“Y-yea…you can…It was yours anyways…”
I spoke quietly, trying to pull myself together.
“It’s ok, I will always be here.”
He said softly as he points at my shattered heart.
A few minutes later, I walked out and sat down.
“You okay?” A waiter asked.
“Yea..sorry” I said and handed $20 dollars
To the waiter and left Mel’s Diner.
I went outside across the street in the rain.
I saw Allan one more time in the yellow warm light of the window.
Then a truck passes by and I don’t see him anymore.
I hope he’s doing ok high up there.
I’m glad I get to say “hi” for the final time.

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?”

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.

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.

The Silence is Silent.
The loneliness is
a sharp knife,
ready to cut off
my wings

The Silence is Silent,
Though the screams of pain—
so loud and unbearable,
It broke me.

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…

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 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.

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.

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.

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

Your mind is a powerful place and
It can affect you in a powerful way
Depending on what you feed.
But it’s not always safe, see?
Your mind can leave you behind.
In a hurricane full of regrets and mistakes.
Your mind can throw you in a maze out of nowhere.
But what amazed me though is the fact that it can leave you
Threats.

See? Your mind is like a puppeteer
Controlling your thoughts and fears.
Sometimes you feel as if you’re floating off into
Space, and everyday you’re hoping it goes away.
Well actually…

Your mind can feed you anxiety, leading you
In a spiral of insanity of no hope.
Having the ability to shatter reality and
affecting you mentally.
Then you sit there silently because it won’t
Let go.

Then you look at yourself in the reflections,
aim at your direction,
and shoot your perception
With hate.

In fact come to think of it,
Let this sink in.
Your mind is like an act on stage
Because the things you might believe are not real.
I know that sounds strange.
Sure, you might feel as if you’re locked in a cage.
Can’t even stop yourself from reading the same page
Of the past, over and over again.
Sometimes you don’t know when to begin to love yourself.

But is that where we all struggle the most?