I was told that knowledge was power.
I was told that I should become as smart as I can be.
I need to learn.
I need to remember.
I need to come to terms with the past.
So I can unfold the future.
I did as I was told,
and I keep on doing so.
But these people.
They never told me how lonely it would feel.
They never told me that they wouldn't do the same.
I was never told that everyone else would settle.
That they would find out before me that they should stop.
That it's impossible to learn it all, so what's the point.
If we can only learn so little.
What's the point of learning things beyond our daily use.
What's the point of being able to reason out the functions of time.
What is the point of being able to reason the thoughts of another.
What's the point if I can't use it to help myself,
and this is why it is so lonely.
The one thought that made people stopped.
They never learned the answer to it,
and makes those who keep going the loneliest bunch.
Because to be honest everyone else settles.
Can't you see that's the world.
No matter who they are, they are people that settle.
People everywhere settling for the bad.
Because it's easier to say that you tried and then die in the fire.
Because no one is there to question you about why you stopped.
There is no one to wonder why you do not stop those from evil.
Why have you stopped thinking.
Why have you stopped learning.
Why aren't you out there doing what you need to do,
and they will tell you all the things of what they live for
Or what they live with.
You will see the people that settle.
These people are your friends.
They are even your family.
IT IS EASIER TO STAND STILL.
IT IS EASIER TO ADMIT DEFEAT
It is easier to blame everyone else, but yourself.
As long as you see yourself clear of blame.
Then those people will always be able to settle.

I am thankful.
At the same time I am not.
It's hard to be thankful.
When your wishes are never met.
That if you were to be honest.
Well speaking honestly.
No one would ever grant my wish to make me thankful.
Logical or rational.
How you would explain my mind.
If you were to meet me.
You would hear the titter tatter of a robot's mind.
Seemingly skimming through numbers.
To phrase through the facts.
But if I were that logical.
Does that mean suicide, I do the same?
That if I spoke my mind about this, would you not agree?
Convincing those the idea of equality.
While at the same time planning times of when I won't be.
You call me too young to know so much,
but age doesn't equate the pain.
And with pain, we learn so much.
That while I am young and some are old.
I know the concepts of what we can gain,
and what I am willing to lose.
I want to be thankful for other things,
but I am thankful only for one.
Either show me something that I do not know,
or grant me my final wish.
I am thankful.

From where I am.
Under the stars.
In the fresh night air.
Buzzing sounds.
Flashing lights.
Sounds drowning.
Worlds twisting.
Amidst the thundering world.
My mind swirls,
and I begin to hurl.
Then everything stops.
No more.
Lips bitten.
Tongue swollen.
Eyes ******.
Heart breaking.
Hands shaking.
I begin to go numb.
My view crashes.
Locked onto the ground.
Stuck,
frozen,
crippled,
unable to move.
Only able to think.
Possibly feel,
but too empty.
Blinking,
stuttering,
convulsing.
Save me.
Help me.
Someone.
Screaming.
Opens my eyes.
Closes the door.
Walks back into my room.
Maybe I'll try tomorrow.

The love of your touch.
I imagined your hands.
As if they were a part of me.
That they would slowly sink into my flesh.
The warmth.
The essence.
The sense of existence.
So soft.
Pure.
They take hold of me.
No longer sensing two beings, but the semblance of one.
I feel at balance.
That somewhere I was missing a part of my body.
That I had long last lost.
When we are no longer touching.
I feel as if I have just been through surgery.
That some piece of me has been cut out.
That strongly I have the urge to be touched by you; again.
My insides scream for me to find, you.
My lungs tell me that there is no oxygen.
That I must find, you to breathe.
My liver tells me that there is too much alcohol in my blood.
I must find, you to filter out the pain.
My stomach twists as it screams for food.
I must find, you to motivate me to eat.
My whole body is tearing itself apart.
For just one more touch.
But I know better than to go back.
I cry and miss those hands.
My brain whispers to never let them touch again.
Never let them abuse.
Don't let those hands crush anymore.
They controlled.
Your lungs do not gasp for air out of love.
But because those hands were rapped around your throat.
Those hands brought all the alcohol into your veins;
So you could not resist.
Only yourself can filter out the pain.
Your stomach does not twist for them
Not out of hunger, but the sickness that the medicine brings.
These flowers next to the bed calling me dear.
Will not bring me back to those hands.

Sleeplessly I stumble the side walk,
A man.
No, I was something other than a man.
A man would hold their head high and sing songs of glory.
Deep bellows would slush around his words.
Dominance would gush.
Strong and unburdened.
Shoulders wide and broad.
Just like the horizon that rose for him.
Setting ablaze his inner beings.
Tempers unable to be tempted.
Slightly tipped to one side.
Animosity of being such a way.
Strongly glaring at the world.
A mold that doesn't fit whom he should be.
Never told to be a man.
Because that's how he always acted.
Edgy and living up to expectations.
Male companions never wavering.
Unable to shed this masculinity.
A stage set for man.
Started when he was a boy:
Pick fights,
Be tough,
Never shed a tear,
Do not show weakness;
When brought to your knees, that could never happen.
A man never falls down.
Never sees darkness.
But the wholesome sun that rose for him.
It's the way everything started.
It's the reasoning behind his ability to batter and abuse.
It's why his lovers always felt the strength of his hands.
Why his brothers in arms never said a word.
It's the same reason I walk the streets alone.
Never able to ask for hand with a closed fist.
And never taught to open them.
Only taught to beat yourself dead.
No longer able to continue life as a man.
That's why so many of us end up dead by our own hand.

Reality is a troublesome topic to persuade.
Subtly tiptoe the tropes of life and death.
Black Swan tips the scales of good and bad.
Light and Dark.
Misanthropy, how can we not.
The good die young.
  Is all we've ever heard.
Beauty dies fast.
One glance of beauty.
An ever long war.
The greatest and the best only strive for success.
Not the redemption or aptitude that they test.
Many bring emotion,
but folly the ends.
Greatness dies.
And only reprized in final a glance.
Unrecognized do we part.
Our being sold wrought.
Once escape is our parting phrase.
Stodgily will our image fade.

A maniacal machine of glad and fad
A thing of mystery
A man that smiles the brightest of us all
No matter the weather, even in the fall
The darker stories that he never tells
Ring the most often of all the bells
These chimes are the very loudest
and his least proudest
They are the things that lead him to the bars
And honestly he hides these scars
His laughter is among the most of any
Because he was told not to frown by the most of many
He is not mad
Only empty and sad
All alone he is
Sharp edges are his only friends
Deprived of self expression
He's been in a depression
And this is why he is a maniacal machine of glad and fad
No longer a thing of mystery
At least here he's not the smiling man