First, the tears.

They build up and up and up,
Never falling, not just yet.

You stop breathing.

You start gasping for air,
The poison in your lungs, your head,
Making your head spin in all directions.

And, if you try to stop,
You end up making it worse.

Calm down.
Breathe.

But in order to calm down you must write,
And to write you must calm down,
The entire paradox
Sending your head swirling.

Vision blurry,
You stop thinking clearly,
Less clear than before.

The world a huge kaleidoscope
Of sadness.

Every attempt to find what you lost
More desperate,
More unrealistic
Than the last.

Each rejection,
Each nonexistence
A greater blow
Than the last.

And suddenly,
You
Can't
Breathe
At All.

And you're crying yourself to sleep,
Trying to make up for what was lost,
To make amends.

But you know,
Deep down
You'll never be okay with it.

That loss defines you.

we lived that October sunset.
shifting our mindsets
and pressing the reset,
you are the hug and kiss I'll never forget.
as free as the breeze,
a love that could cross seven seas
when you’re with me
it will flow purely with ease.
crunching the leaves
and picking apples off of the trees
what our mind perceives,
is truly guaranteed.  
we walked up the road
along the yellow line,
here,
I know that everything will be just fine.
this story-line is no crime,
it’ll be clear in a dime.
but for now,
I love you,
the raddest dad of all time.

when suffering's luster loses glow,
when overcoming is never known,
what dreams may come from fire below,
lonesome moments, ever-boding,
misery imposed, for evermore,
glorious warnings from sordid war,
of freedom imploring,
indifference ignoring,
and discontent exploring our stratosphere...
measly metamorphs,
wearily forcing inaction forward,
desperately sourcing mortality,
fallacy after fallacy fall to their knees,
umpteen deviations,
outlandish iterations, exhausted,
accost me no more, mister consciousness,
for I've already given in,
just when my sin uncovers itself,
befuddled and bereft, at the gates of hell,
the self dispenses its painful beliefs:
that nothing comes without leaving,
remains we bequeath only provide what's conceded,
so seek what is needed,
impede not the other,
and love will muster from such healthy souls.

we write when we're at our weakest
we write when we've been cut open
we write when we're bleeding
we write when we're dying inside

Not all those who write are sad,
but all sad people write.