I haven’t caught feelings in 4 years and it’s just as terrifying as I remember it.

You drive me ******* crazy. I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t focus.

But **** I don’t want to be without you. I don’t ever want to leave you.

You don’t think you’re pretty and I don’t know you any other way. You’re fantastically funny and caring. You care about me, you listen to all my crazy banter.

How did you find me? How can you call me yours so easily?

I don’t deserve that.

I’m drowning in Frank Sinatra songs and sugary coffee, I am on cloud 9 with a stomach full of knots.

I have all the confidence in the world and none at all.

I’ll write all my best music for you.

Being lovestruck is as much about being struck as it is about being in love with you.

I’m scared to be crazy about you.
I think I’m more scared of you being into the train wreck I am.

But **** it you’ve got me.
They say love hurts, but I don’t really mind right now.

It almost kills me that I gotta keep you a secret. Crushes are weird like that.

I’m stuck looking at you, not knowing what to do, but incredibly happy to be where you are.

You make me better.
Stay with me a bit longer.

I love you.

And saying that terrifies me.

But I’m willing to risk being scared for awhile.

I am so neck deep in this, I might pass out.

I love you so much, it might **** me.

I feel crazy. This might be crazy.

But you say you love me anyway.

And that’s good enough for me.

6 months you say.

That’s how long you’ll be away. You leave today actually, maybe in the next 6 or 7 hours. You’ll be saying goodbye to your family and your home and I will be here.

I haven’t seen you since last Sunday’s church service and I think I won’t see you until these months are over.

To tell you the truth Baer, I’m scared of being by myself for that long. Most days you’re the sister I met too late, and I do and don’t wish we met sooner, but as for right now that’s not a big deal.

So I’ll count the hours in 6 months. 4380 of them to be exact.

I’ll get through how I can, if I can.

You remember what you said to me before I left the church that morning?

“Call me, text me, I’ll make time for you.”

It still seems funny that you’ll make time for me like I’m incredibly important or something.

I still haven’t even texted you. Part of me believes you’re too busy for me to barge in.

But I will wait out these hours. That’s something I can do.

Before you go...

I just thought you should know... you know..

I love you always. Come home safe.

Some days, I'll just sit in my room and listen to one song on repeat.

I'll slowly make my way to my poetry, and find myself feeling more empty than poetry needs me to be.

Poetry is the letter someone spilt water on but you can still read whatever was written on it because for whatever reason the world decided to be nice for a minute.

My sister is nice too. I think you can say I've only really known her for 7 or 8 years. We were too far apart in age for me to even care she existed for the beginning of my life. And just as I get comfortable with her being here, being home...

She moves to another country.

I guess one way or another, your heroes do fly away.

My best friend is a girl named Baer. Although, I cannot tell you if I'm her best friend, she is mine.
I always seem to latch on to people who seemingly don't show a lot about how they think of me.

Maybe I just don't look hard enough, but isn't that what all self-deprecating people do? Avoid mirrors and self-image until they come to scourge it? Punching out mirrors either cuts you up or picks apart your reflection, and hey, whatever.....

It's just you.

Baer's sister is a whole other story, funny and open, far away from time to time, but wanting a hug when the time comes.

I've always been the type of person to idolize others who treat me well. Perhaps it's because I think so much of them compared to myself. But it's okay.

I would do anything for them.

I'm so full of everything for the people who are everything to me.

And for myself... I'm no hero.
Capes just aren't my style.

I will love you as much as you need.

Which is always more than you want.

Over the past year, I’ve convinced myself that I am some kind of villain, because I don’t exactly hold the redeeming qualities of a hero or protagonist.

I have no idea how to combat this thought, so I decided I’ll just confess my non-redeeming qualities until the sun sets on my lifetime.

I change the subject a lot, I can never stay focused, and I never stay in one spot, I’m always trying to run somewhere, while trying to get away from something else.

I’m not really a good person, but I'll go my entire life believing that something is incredibly wrong with me. No one is good all the time, and no one is really innocent either. A lot of what I say doesn’t really make any sense to anyone but me, and I’ve come to accept that when I realized that I am pretty crazy and a lot of other people would rather be crazy pretty.

I’m simple, I don’t want much, and I gain very little, so like an actual villain, my desires a pushed away until I need to make someone hurt like I do.

I have very little patience for anyone but myself. Sometimes I wish my grandfather would just die already just so I can write poetry about it, and part of that makes me selfish, and part of that makes me merciful because not all deaths will result in me making art but that’s how it is.

You have to admit, that whether or not you like Jesus, he was probably the best example of the designated driver. He made water into wine just so his buddies could drink it. You might not like him, but you have to admit he knew how to party.

Every time I drive my brother home from school, I wonder what would happen if I died, does my car just drive without me? And then I realize that dying is probably the most gripping experience I will ever have and it is always going to come for me.

There are people in this school who do not know me, and yet I want to tell them they have the world in their grasp long before I came to tell them. I can prophesize what it will be like to die, but not to live like dying can’t touch you.

I cover up my blunt attitude with comedy just because I can and it’s been working for 18 years. I’m a self-manipulator who somehow just gives away the best parts of myself just so people will listen to me.

I’m not good, but I’m trying, and maybe that’s all death will ask of me. I don’t know what a good life is like, but I know that good people are in it. I don’t actually know tomorrow is coming, but I want to be in it.

I don’t hope that I will someday wake up at 80 years old and realize my life is over. Villains don’t live that long anyway. Villains get to watch everything good happen to someone else they hate, but I have no energy to hate so I just watch.

This isn’t a confession of my sins or my faults, it’s a confession of character and identity I thought I figured out years ago.

Religion might be my last “Hail Mary” before leaving and as much as people want to joke about hell, I’d rather just be at a campfire for the rest of my death reciting stories of my life over an endless night sky.

The villain usually dies first, but the happily ever after is an ending we all forget about. When everything is gone, I can only hope my stories are told forever, and when I’m gone I will finally be able to see… everything.

I'm afraid I'll write this all too fast because of how eager and nervous I am in this moment.

Because you are a million miles away it seems, but all I have to do is say your name and suddenly you are...here.

I never knew how much I needed you until I spent months hearing from you, but never hearing you talk to me face to face.

But my dear, I long for the nights where I will receive an out-of-context text from you at 2 am only because of the timezone difference.

My hands sweating for no real reason.

I guess I really am trying to tell you I love you.

But I'm always to cutesy about it.

Always saying "love ya!" in a text, but I want to say it as though it means so much that the universe will get my words straight to you.

I've never loved anyone more than I love music or God, but I want to come close to that sometime soon.

I don't need a single day to go by without you knowing that you are so beautiful.

And people love it so much they almost hate it.

It is that genuine.

I'm sorry I can't always think of you and remember that I am also a living, breathing person.

I forget myself far too often in the presence of so many good people.

Or I guess...

People who are too good to have me in their life sometimes.

You're probably asleep right now.
Now who's up at 2am?

Ahaa....

I'll just be here.


I love you too much to wake you up.

So just sleep a while.

I'll see you soon.

Or at least I hope so.

Oh!

I almost forgot to say this...

In case you forgot.

I love you.

1.  I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.

2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.

3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.

4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...

Yes...

5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.

6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.

7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.

8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.

9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.

10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?

A list of answers and facts for questions no one asked, or wanted to know the answers to:

I was told in by my high school social teacher that people who have green as their favourite colour were the smartest kind of people, and I thanked my brain for choosing that colour to love.

Despite loving green, I know deep down that red is not only the most attractive colour to wear, but my track team always won the race when we wore it. Superstition or not, red is deadly hot attractive.

When asked if I am religious, I will say "yes". When asked if I have doubted that religion, I will say "Of course". Notice how one answer sounds more certain than the other.

When asked if I am single, I don't hesitate to say that I live in Singletown, Population: Me.

I was once at a show with my mother. Me, wearing my snapback and sweater as we walk in. We're sharing a table with an older man. He says, "I should tell you that a professor told me that wearing your hat backwards lowers your IQ by 20 and that wearing it sideways lowers it by 30". So I said, "Well, I'm glad I don't wear my hat sideways."

I may be stupid, but my favourite colour is green, so do not cross me.

When asked if I wished I was in a relationship, I will say...

I will say that I used to know the answer to that when falling in love was more of a luxury than a tragedy.

I have shaved my head twice. And cutting my hair has just become the main "solution" to making my showers shorter.

When asked if I have questioned my sexuality, I will say "Who hasn't?" and I will also say "You are lucky you're getting an answer out of me."

When asked if I'm going to take the blue pill or the red pill, you know I'm gonna ask for the green pill instead. Because what is smarter than a green matrix pill?! In your face Neo, Morpheus doesn't need you anymore.

I really love and hate telling my story. It's not because I hate myself, or I'm going to cry, or I just really hate telling people everything. I mean, sure those are all true, but it's mostly because I don't want to hurt people.

Every poem I write slowly becomes a poem about her.

When asked about her, I say...
She took the red pill.

Hoping... it made her more attractive.

My birthday comes in a little over 2 weeks and I think when people talk about birthdays, they are secretly talking about status in blocked hours.

Somewhere in that 24 hour block, a person was born, and that person was me. .....well Yay I guess.

I don't like my birthday. And the reasons for that, are more complicated than you think.

When I was 13, I was really into cupcake birthday cakes. I asked for one, every year, for a long time.

When I turned 15 and 16, my best friend baked me cupcakes and brought them to school for me, and I shared them with my peers. You see, I considered her my best friend, and I guess that's not enough to be the best friend.

It's like unrequited love if you put poisonous platonic friendship in my blood first.

When I turned 17, she did baked me my last set of cupcakes, but I no longer had a best friend. So I spent my birthday mentally by myself while my family sang otherwise.

And right now, I hate cupcakes, and superhero films because they remind me of her. But saying that is the weakest thing to do, since everything, reminds me of her.

I will never admit I loved her, the same way she will shamelessly say she never loved me. I can't hate her, but I can't see her without hating myself.

You know age, goes up, the same way sadness, goes down. Pulling you into another 24 hour block just so you can say.

"Hey. I made it another day."

I will admit that every day without her is another day without cupcakes, and another day without sugar is another day without happiness. And people may have asked me "How can you flip-flop between preferences like you're not the biggest homosexual in the closet." So when I tell people I'm straight, they tell me I'm not allowed to change my mind.

I loved her, but she left me and took all of my friends with her. And I thought that real friends wouldn't abandon me, but there is always time to be wrong. By the time my birthday comes, I'll be crying, and she doesn't even remember what day my birthday is on.

By the time I read this out loud, I will have been through this birthday, like a person walks through fire. Turning 16 is less about age, then it is about school, and turning 18, is less about the number, and more about becoming an adult. And no amount of adult can neutralize pain.

I have accepted the fact that no man will ever really want to marry me. And no Christian, will ever truly want to love me.
And if I am wrong, I will have to repeat this lost love forever dragging it out in my life.

And if I have kids one day, do you really think...

That I'm going to tell everyone if it's a boy or a girl...

By making blue or pink...

...cupcakes?

I have saved a grand total of 3 lives... maybe.

2 lives probably.

1 life definitely.

I have saved the same life multiple times. Once from suffocation, once in a runaway situation.

I have saved myself numerous times. Twice from suicide... almost. And countless times over from personal trauma and pain.

I think I like pain too much. Yeah, I think I like pain a lot.
I think I like pain because it makes me feel human.

Because if I'm suffering, then the body is working, and if the body is working, nothing is wrong on the outside.

And by outside, I simply mean, the side that people ignore the easiest.

So when I get no reaction from anyone, it's okay. I know what it's like to get ******* over every day by everyone.

It's cool. No big deal.

I like weapons way too much, I like really cool blades and badass guns that for some reason are attached to electric guitars.

I'm a martial arts teacher. Which means that I am responsible for teaching young lives to survive until they are old lives.

I've never had to bare scars on my forearms. But I would like to bare tattoos... but only if you'll sign it with:

"Remember when I was here? Because I don't".

Hahaha... You're funny like that.

You seem to like knives too, you've made my back a knife block out of my back. You like to cook, don't you? Slice me up like one of your best works of art and I will scream how genius you are.

No.

There is no more room for me on a plate for you to serve up!

I...

I would constantly wash dishes after cooking in class. And I would always make sure I picked up some of your plates if I could because doing good things in secret was the closest I ever got to you.

And you went and replaced me with a seemingly nicer, shorter, pretty blonde who was everything that I was... but more

But it killed me that she wasn't me. Or maybe that I wasn't her.

Because she matters to you and that just cuts me up. One day I'll brandish a pocketknife with your name on it.

And every time I want to **** myself over what happened, I have to remember that no matter how many knives are in my back...

I have to keep this one in my pocket.

When I leave this world...

Stencil graffiti on my gravestone. There is no greater way to tell that people have touched your life unless a mark was made in reflection of it. I will personally see to it that the words etched into my gravestone are "Permission Granted".

When I leave this world, know that I did panic in my last moments. I am a thanatophobic which means I am both afraid of death and dying and always running away from it. So watching doctor shows and cop reruns with my family seem a little less comforting.

When I leave this world, plant the brightest, most purple orchids you can find around the patch of land I own that is my gravesite. I don't even like the colour purple that much, but when I googled the top 10 most beautiful flowers, number one was roses and that is too **** fancy for my dead punk body.

When I leave this world, pray for the sky to cry rain enough for all of you. I was not famous enough for people around the world to cry over me, but rain is as close as it gets.

When I leave this stupid world, make sure people knew I was also pretty stupid. I once told my mom that I realized "Hey water isn't blue... it's clear!!". I clearly didn't drink enough water as a child.

When I leave this world, hang a sandwich board on my gravestone that reads "I will continue to sell lemonade as long as the world keeps giving me lemons."

When I leave this disastrous world, publish everything wrong about me, and then make a sequel containing only things I said about myself during my worst hours. Compare the two and decided for yourself if the way we judge ourselves is too much to argue over.

When I leave this world and Sara is still out of the city, tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I don't want her to dig. Tell her that I wanted to talk to her so badly, but I was always scared of interrupting, or being an inconvenience, or dying suddenly without her knowing. Tell her that I wanted her to remember me so well that she knows exactly what our last conversation was about. That she won't have to dig for answers...ever.

I dug myself into a grave I do not need others to dig for my past.

Death is never one to discriminate against anyone. But it is selfish, it takes, never gives, and is always consistent when giving the final sentence for everything we do wrong.

I will constantly run from it, and it will always get me.

When I leave this world, and if you're there, tag my gravestone. I get to say that I was here... you might as well tell me that you were also here.

1.  Dust is constant. It is a symbol of time telling you that either something needs to be cleaned, or you need to take a picture.
There will never be complete cleanliness so when people say "cleanliness is close to Godliness" promptly hand over an invitation to have dinner at your dusty house. And then show those people where you pray. Notice that sacred space has dust.

2. Chairs are complicated. They can have 4 legs, 5 legs, no legs, wheels on their legs. Chairs are such a wild forever changing species that we don't really have a good concept of what a chair is. Which begs the question, what is true chairness? Plato believed that somewhere somehow there is a perfect concept of such things. Which begs the question, what is it to be truly human? From where I stand, we all wear skin, breathe air, and hate high school anyway.

3. Appreciate your couch. I realized this at a young age when I figured out that dying means, never seeing a couch again.

4. The bed is not sacred. It is not a stronghold or sanctuary. It is the place you go when you are either done or satisfied with the world.

5. Windows are the windows of your house. It doesn't sound as good as eyes being the window to your soul but my point still stands. The windows are beautiful. And snowflakes freezing on them is a captured moment of nature being transparent.

6. Take a painting class. Learn how to make art on a canvas and hang that **** up. Buy a painting for no other reason other than that it costs more than $50. Travel and bring back a print and frame it. Learn to cross-stitch and hang that up too. The walls may change colour from time to time, but at least hang something on them.

7. Look for imperfection. When I was a kid I took a pencil and wrote in jagged penmanship "The end" at the bottom of my staircase. My mother, of course, scolded me for writing on the house, but for whatever reason, she kept the phrase there. Maybe because I knew the end had to be somewhere and I might as well end in the home I started in.

8. Buy refrigerator magnets that teach kids the alphabet. Organize them so that reading a message in the morning makes breakfast seem a little more inviting. And as a firm believer that breakfast is not a necessary meal, I too, need something in the morning to make me feel less alone.

9. Fill one closet with cleaning supplies. We may never get to the end of many tasks, but we can clean this house. Clean the cupboards, wash the windows, sweep the floor, write on the walls, just so you can erase it. And when you finish cleaning, and you bring all of your supplies to that closet, organize your closet. Notice that there is a small amount of dust on the shelves of the closet.

10. Work around the house, big or small, is never completely over.

I've said this so many times to so many different people.

I have been told this phrase by maybe 4 of those people.

2 of which for sure don't miss me anymore.

1 I'm not sure of, and the other does miss me.

But it was out of desperation, and bad decisions, so that one doesn't really count...

I miss you.
I miss you.


I miss you...

I'm so... so...

sorry.

Hey...

Yeah, okay I get it this is weird.
I'm talking to you from the past and you don't even exist yet.
So...

Needless to say, you will not be reading this for a long time.

Maybe this won't even make it to you.

But these words will hold anyway. They always do.

My dear son...

You will try to fight authority every day. And when you are young, that authority will be me. Whether it be toddler tantrums or hurtful words firing from your jaw, it will be directed at me until you are old enough to realize that when you stop fighting with me, I will teach you how to fight the correct way.

Yes my son, I do intend to teach you to fight.

I learned how to fight when I was 10, and I haven't stopped because you will learn how much I fought to bring you into the world.

And I don't mean the physical labour. But the guilt.
I've always wanted a son more than a daughter because I didn't want your possible sister to be too much like me.

But maybe you too will be so much like your mother.

My dear boy, take care of your sisters and brothers and maybe the dog if you bug me enough to buy one. Your smile should be enough to bring me joy, not because I might see myself or your father in your eyes, but I can see that you do indeed look with want, desire, and the utmost joy.

My son...

You are one of the only things in this world that I will be able to call solely mine, you are my blood, and you are my legacy, but you are my son so please, tell me anything.

Or tell me everything. Or tell me nothing, but show me everything.

Your dreams, your passions. I hope you get a job young, and learn to hate it. I also hope you get a job that you love but have to leave eventually.

My boy, not all things last forever. Learn this now before it is written on your skin like a tolerable tattoo that seems faded, but you always know what it says.

My son...

Treat your lover well.
I will come to protect you from everything, but love is a curse in its own league so be careful.

Be safe.

Do not resort to physical aggression against them EVER I have taught you better than to do such things.

You have only learnt to fight so that you never have to use it for such things.

Be smart, be kind, be gentle to your lover.

If they ever hurt you, or threaten to do such things, tell me and I will go **** them.

They say the best contraception back in the old days was fathers with shotguns.

But your mother is a lethal weapon unlike any other. Your father knows this well, it's one of the many reasons we found each other.

My son, love is a complicated thing. And if you find yourself alone at an older age, find someplace to store your love.

Whether it be your job, or a child. Be happy my son.

Of the many things I have to say to you...

I wish you happiness.

My son...


*My son

That is as honest as it gets.

And I'm not talking about all the political BS and how the world becomes more and more broken each day.

I've already put that in a spot in my mind where I don't venture often.

I try not to venture at all really.

Most days, I am awake but not conscious.

I am eating and not filling.

I am composing and not thinking.

Very much has changed about my life and I do know that most of it was my own **** fault. I have been there.

I have one person I wish I could talk to always.
She is close to me and not close in range.

I am sometimes the embodiment of a donut.
Sweet on the outside with no center.
No soul.
Nothing there deep down.

I am sometimes a corpse who hasn't yet realized its full potential.

A bed is no resting place for a lazy student turned zombie.

I know these things.

So why did 2017 make me this way?

Well... it didn't.

A year by itself cannot make you do anything, it only marks the time that I marked day by day in hopes that the next day would be harder to hate the last.

It is a constant reminder that time is the only thing you know when you don't know God.

It is an epitaph to your future saying "I'm sorry I knew the way out and just didn't take it".

It is to shove in your face that sometimes no resolution is the only kind of resolution you really like to hold.

If only for 365 or 366 days you didn't hate yourself for it.

That you are not only lazy, but self loathing and lazy.

I didn't come home from a war or natural disaster, but I came back a changed person.

And as the clock proceeded to march forward to midnight.

I felt nothing.

This was the second year in a row where my family didn't celebrate with another to bring in the new year. No, they went to bed.

Or at least, most of them did.

2017 was 2 parts trauma, and 1 part self concocted pathological fear of everything.

Eleven... out of twelve months... were disastrous.

And I did not even try to make it better.

Lying is not my strong suit.

So I will once again pass with the resolutions nobody tries to keep.

Somethings are supposed to get better.

This may be the first year when my birthday is once again a forgotten 24 hours nobody knew was important until I said so.

So yeah, 2017 was the worst year of my life.

I just hope it wasn't the worst year of my life so far.

I wish I was in love.

I wish that a lot.

I wish most days that someone would love me.

But it all seems like so much to ask of a person.

To love a broken person like myself.

I won't bother giving reasons to love this empty shell of a body.

Most days I just want someone to hold.

Or perhaps... someone to hold me.

I think it is easier to love after pain has been brought upon you.

Because people will tell you that love can bring pain.

So if you have already experienced such pain...

It cannot be much harder to not only love, but to love someone with pain.


I wish so much that I would be swept away with the blissful thought of another in my head.

But such things do not come to the broken hearted.

Big house, big family, big heart.

Something like that, I remember.

But clearly, I am the uncivilized person at the table as I hold out the salad bowl, asking for the main course.

All eyes turn to me as if I am foreign.

Now it is just a simple mistake. I won't make it a big deal.

But when you're as much of a perfectionist as I am...

You seem to hate these little things that get in your way.

Things that you just didn't do right the first time.

Being so hypercritical of myself just magnifies the things I do wrong.

So something as stupid as a salad bowl got under my skin.

I don't think I envy your family.

I don't even think I envy your lifestyle.

I won't call it rich, or comfortable.

I'll simply say that it's not mine.

And that is reason enough to not feel at home in it.

The night was long, and the conversations were longer.

My ultimate honestly always hanging around like a sad puppy.

And yet, I can't help but think of how you could be ashamed of me.
Or embarrassed by me. My ways, my habits, my lifestyle.

My awkwardness, my jokes, the things I do in default.

I wish I were a better spectacle to show off sometimes.

Although most days, I talk more about you than I do about myself.

Often talking to myself.

How sad is that?

To feel all of this in an instant at a supper table.

But there's no time to be sad.

Be a part of the conversation, don't faze out, act like it's all okay...

And pass the salt.

I can't tell you how much I miss you.

And I feel awful because you'll never miss me.

You broke my heart, and maybe it's my fault for not noticing sooner.

Or it's my fault that I let you do it.

I didn't think I was doing anything wrong, but I did.

And you didn't say anything but that you were able to excuse my character.

I guess I deserve that.

I'm not myself.

I don't like change.

I make no progress.

Self?


Self image?


Self worth?

What even are those things?

I felt so sad as I took a jar of paper stars from the top shelf of my school locker and held it close to my chest as I walked down the halls and I knew you were watching... Arden.

You just didn't do anything.

You knew what it was like to cling to life the same way you hung from death, like it was some kind of sick game. However, this is not a one player kind of match now, is it?

I powerwalked through the halls once, wanting so much to die. I had no plans, just a few ideas. You know, I didn't consider hanging myself in my mind to be a "plan to die" because I didn't actually write out the plans, I just thought about them a little too much.

I answered "No." when asked if I made plans to **** myself, because in my mind, I really didn't make plans.


When asked if I was homicidal, I don't remember what I said, but I remember not saying "no". I remember that I've imagined punishing people, but never killing people. I want to hold their lives in my grasp and hear them apologize like they actually mean it.

But I am too nice for that. Too Christian for that.

It takes a strong person to lift weights, but a stronger one to lift the personal weight off your own back.

I've thought about retiring my poetry career 10 years too early, not even making it to my mid-twenties before quitting simply because there were too many people too eager to get offended at my work.

I will not play innocent to your sickly made games.

I am no fool.

Although, I will not retire my poetry career just yet. Because every time I feel the urge to quit, I am here at 3:22am writing long strings of poetry.

Arden's gonna have a fricken sleeve of tattoos.
Alex is gonna have pain.
Baer is gonna have me taking care of her sister.

But who really cares about that? Because Arden's gonna have something.

Arden has friends,

education,
teachers,
a job,
a life.

Arden's gonna have love.

Arden's gonna have ******' love.


Alex is not going to beg for my jaw unhinged from all the fighting.
Alex will not bend.
No sir.


Baer has hired me as the worlds worst babysitter, and her sister, only a few years younger than I already holds me to a higher standard than most.

But Arden has more to life than me.

There's no comparison.

I too, want to die when I'm not staying up this late to escape my thanatophobia.

I will not live to see Arden's graduation.

But I will live to see the hurricane that comes after it.

I don't feel special Baer.

But no one really needs to know that.

Music is not a weapon I wield with such grace these days.

It's mostly a necessary thing I try to master in the comfort of my own room.

A new year, a new start. Or at least it seems that way. I don't really care to know where I'm going to start over in this new year.

My hands feel frail and coarse, like they've never gone swimming, or like they've always gone swimming.

I barely type with the swiftness I used to. My arms grow tired, and I grow just as tired. I am not myself these days, but these days are getting longer and longer.

I fear my death most nights.

Thanatophobia is a type of illness unlike insomnia, but similar no doubt.

Every day I wish you were here to hold my hand, but when I ask what will I do without you here, you tell me "I'm honestly going to be fine."

What part of that is fine anyway?

But you're right.

I shouldn't cling to you as much as I do.

I said before in a previous poem that I didn't want to scare you away while trying to be a friend.

I just hurt so often and pray so little.

Falling apart while you move away and yet, there is no safe haven for people like me.

But people like you seem to think the I'm okay.

And I wonder every day...

Why you think so.

Wears "Beware of Dog" sign

I would've stayed up into the midnight hours for a conversation I cannot wish to have.

It is a forbidden thing to ask for conversations I am not allowed to even grasp.

I have seemed to love and lost but not lived.

Have I not suffered enough?

I am not even close to Shakespearean in voice or writing but I stand anyway.

When asked what time to you favour most, do I dare answer honestly?

I would've answered sometime in the midnight hours all those years ago.

And now, I would give anything for a night's rest for a fort night straight.

And yet, nothing comes of these times going by and by.

I do not dare say I love the night.

But rather say I wish for the sun.

I wish for the sun.

I wish for the sun.

I wish for the sun...

I think it takes a special kind of broken to look in the mirror and stare into your reflection.

And when you look into your own eyes...

You know you're not there.

I just saw a bunch of pictures of people who I used to be friends with.

And I forgot how beautiful they all looked when they smiled.

It's been 9 months and counting.

And they still smile without me.

Tuck Everlasting


A musical that didn't exactly live up to its namesake.

Ironic isn't it?

As far as I know...

Pain is just that..

Everlasting.

The last FaceTime call I ever had with you was on a Monday night.

And you offered to call me.

You know, heaven forbid I ask you.

I was too shy and cowardly, and I didn't want to seem so desperate.

I'm bouncing between thoughts because I'm sick of everything.

And beyond that, the world is sick of me being sad.

I haven't touched my calendar in a week.

I stopped just before the Monday of last week.

And it just stays.

I'm not asking for a time machine.

I'm just waiting for something..


And I don't really know what it is.

truth becomes part of a life i used to know

i care enough to put spaces between words and nothing else

i'm not gonna go out of my way to commit suicide

but dying

even as a thanatophobic

seems more desirable than what i've got now

so truth be told


i think i'm more scared of the idea


that i might want to live

I was built with an iron will and a weak soul.

I was made by the best, and built to take a hit.

You can tell I was made to be hit and not hit on.

Haha.

But despite the way I'm supposed to work...

I might as well malfunction now.

The kid was killed by adulthood.

That's what they said.

But the reality is...

The kid is always killed by adulthood.

She's here.

And I love her.

But she's not my friend.

I've accepted that over and over.

I get it.

I got it.

I never had it.

To feel worthless in someone else's eyes is probably a feeling that cannot be shaken.

It is to be close to her..

And have nothing.

Sept 24th, 2017

In the midnight hours, my neighbour is hosting a party. And I... was in my bedroom watching "The Walking Dead" on Netflix.

In the room next to mine, I hear shouting in the streets and out my window I see the flashing of lights.

2 cop cars on my block.

The night is not young, but look at all these young people in it.

I analyze the voices outside my window, as I watch 3 young boys gather in my driveway.

Wearing dark clothing, CHECK.
Group movement, CHECK.
Overuse of the word "****", CHECK.

And I am praying for them to leave my driveway and they do.

And I migrate to the next room, slightly open the window and listen for more of these people. It's too dark outside for me to see much but the colour of their hair, and the backpacks or purses the brought with them.

They are all gathering at one house, the cops are further down the street, so that all moved.

I used to hang out with the kid who lives at this house. My how things have changed.

Relax.

Go back to your show. And I did.

Later into the night, I hear through my headphones the shouting of a girl and I stop.

She and her what I assumed was her boyfriend just turned the corner and I slowly open my window.

I begin to analyze the situation.

Fighting teenage couple, Check
Probably intoxicated Check

She starts talking about some other guy.
He starts accusing her of cheating.
She gets in his face.
He gets in her face.

She says "I wouldn't do that because I ******* love you!" "And you're gonna make me walk home in the dark?!"

She gets in his face, he gets in her face....

BAM

She's on the ground.

He had forcefully shoved her into the pavement and she just...

Sits there.

In disbelief.

He says, "Yeah? HOW BOUT THAT!"

I don't know why it took so long to act, but I did.

Bolting into my kitchen, with my father up playing backgammon I tell him I just watched a guy shoe his supposed girlfriend in the road and he doesn't miss a beat.

He is out there in the middle of the night and he gets to that boy and I just stand in my living room, watching.

The windows on the first floor were closed so I couldn't hear a thing. But I could only pray that this boy did not carry a blade, or a gun, or the wrong words to my father's throat.

I ran up to my bedroom, grabbed my old cap gun and heard the boy say, "Hey man I don't hit my ******* woman!"

And I went downstair thinking to myself I don't know if my dad is sure to return to this house alive.

I just watched a girl suffer battery, I did not need to see my father die today.

And nobody can tell cap guns are fake when you're buzzed at 2 in the morning so yeah, I was scared.

But wait....

I see my father shake the boy's hand, give him a bro hug...

And send him off.

And when he came back into the house I hugged him and I wasn't exactly keen on letting go.

He told me that he had sent the boy in the opposite direction of his girlfriend.

It turns out she had already walked down the block by the time he had gotten outside.

It is 2:25 AM

After a talk about what happened, I went back to watching "The Walking Dead on Netflix".

And I can only hope that girl was not also walking dead.

My father is a good man.
Even after all that.

He still went back to play more backgammon.

I'm not going to beat down on any religion.
That's a battle I don't need to be a part of.
Let alone, get on the wrong side of.

But here's the thing.

Something is very wrong with me.

What? I don't know.

It's not something under diagnosis or investigation, but it can **** as far as I can tell.

Long story short, I don't want to hear the good news.

We make it so easy to complain about nothing, and yet we stick to the things we hate.

Don't want homework?
Don't go to school.

Some people will take that advice, and most people will rebel against it and stick to school, because something will benefit surely...

Don't want to put up with the parents?
Leave home.

Don't want to feel pain?
Don't start feeling love.

Don't want someone to forget about you?
Become the worst possible version of yourself.

People can't seem to forget everything bad about the world.

Don't want to deal with the guilt of being a terrible person?
Then don't acknowledge anyone.

Don't want the pressure of being surrounded by people who hate you?
Then don't go anywhere.

You see none of these suggestions seem appealing at first.
But when you face this everyday, every answer comes out bland, and boring, cynical.

Like emotion you say them with.

Don't try.
Don't care.
Don't live.

It's too easy to give up!

But I do it anyway.

I can't handle hearing good news.

Or rather, hearing good things about myself.

Do not tell me I am better than this, I know I'm not.
Don't tell me I'm special, or that I'm redeemable, or worthy of anything above this.

Because I know...

I know deep down in this body there is a monster who's been uncaged before.

It's dying to get out...

And I'm dying to live.

Reasons to go:

-My low self image
-The people I've hurt
-I'm tired of fighting
-I'm tired of trying
-I'm tired
-I will never be what I was

Reasons to go on:

-Music
-Trying
-Waking up
-Redemption of any kind
-Being seen as someone...anyone

I forgot what you looked like when you were dancing.

I guess it just took a good P!nk song to get you moving in rhythm with the world again.

I guess I was just missing out on that.

What about all the times you said you had the answers?

I never wanted to be the world dictionary or encyclopedia, but I guess I took it too far when I said I was right.

Only now can I see that I can't even fight for my opinion even if I'm right.

What about all the broken happy ever afters?

I honestly thought this was going to be my big story.
That we were that story waiting to be told to anyone.

But I shouldn't write for someone who didn't approve their part of the story.

What about all the plans that ended in disaster?

You mean me?

Because I'm pretty sure I was your worst mistake.

What about love? What about trust?

If you think I would know anything about either of those subjects.
If you were to think me a fool...

You would be correct.

So in the end, I can't fight anything with pure willpower from here.

I'm still not sure if I should bother wishing you good luck.
Since you've been gone for awhile.

So yeah..

*What about us?

You...

Are still in a relationship.

I have never been in one.

You... are travelling to Costa Rica.

I went to France a million years ago.

With..
YOU...

Are still subscribed to my YouTube channel.
And I have no idea why.

For all I know, you're only subscribed because you don't go on YouTube all that often...

Therefore... you've forgotten.

I don't blame you.

I'd like to forget me too.

I... am lonely.

You.. not so much or at least it seems that way..

I... am blind to my own pain.

You... are probably the same way.

You... still keep certain people as friends on social media despite how things ended.

I... don't even have Facebook.
Or Twitter.
Or Snapchat.

Or anything that would make me any "Friend" of yours.

You have no idea what's happened to me.

And vice versa.

You... have changed your hair for the hundredth time.

I have cut my hair for the first time in months.

I... have no idea what I'm doing.

And you are going to be set to be a history buff.

Funny thing... history huh?

How you will go on to study world history.

While I fall apart over our history.

What a mystery, the inconsistency of our lives right?

Because we weren't supposed to be friends.

I was never supposed to send you songs.
I haven't in 7 months give or take.

I cannot bare the weight of an unwanted conversation.

I have been told not to worry about hurting people.

But I don't worry about things I have already done.

So congratulations, you got out while you could.

And I deserve it.

On any other day, I would asked you to be alone with me.

But tonight.

I'll just be here.

And yet...

I wish we could talk about something else...

Like music.

I'm no longer one of your favourite artists.

Okay.

I'm glad we still have something in common.

I've always said that I wouldn't mind being in a coma.
Because the world wouldn't have to worry about me so much.

Now truthfully, most of the world has no idea who I am, so the world doesn't have much of a reason to worry, but still...

The small percentage of people who do know me, would be so worried all the time.

I would always be in one place.
The hospital.

I would always stay in the same position, and have the same reaction to everything.

Good news, bad news, no news at all.

And yet...

A coma for me is just a cover up.

I wouldn't want this to serve as an excuse for someone to visit me out of guilt.
And I would be able to respond if they told me they were sorry.

It kills me to know, that beyond being a limp body, I'm also a lost soul.

But even as I am here now, awake.

I feel closer to dead than anyone can ever know.

Only because I finally lost it.
And by "it" I only mean... me?

Like I was put on this planet just to hurt people, and I sure did...

I sure... did.

This feeling..

Of having people around, but still feeling like the most truthful thing to say is "I have no one left".

I can say it, and it still feels true.

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

So maybe people would finally feel guilty for leaving me if they just saw me close to "drifting to sleep".

Breathing harder, and feeling my T-shirt suffocating me.
And then feeling the vice grip of my sins wrap around my neck.

And I can't take it any more.

Sins...

Sounds too biblical and cliché right?

I'm tired of fighting to live well.

I'm tired.

Let me sleep.

Or induce a coma.

And put this whole thing to rest.

It's been a few days too long.

I have work to do, and nowhere to go.

The least I can do is take a shower.
Because I might as well look good.

Even if there's nothing good about me.

Living through my tragic life, and then talking about it to the point where I can't even defend myself.

It's killing me.
There's no point to standing up for yourself.
And no point in arguing ever if you're right.

Living my life, and then being sad about it.
Telling people who can't help me.

It's like being on a treadmill.

It's exhausting without going anywhere.

I've been told that people have forgotten what happened.

I've been told that word got around.

I've been told that hatred still exists here.

And you tell me not to be guilty.

But I look at them...

And feel nothing but the pain I cause them.

I know I'm no good.

I cannot believe that you say I'm a good person.

When seeing them does nothing but remind me of how I ruined it all.

You know I'm a simple human, I don't worry about much except for school, and food, and work opportunities, and the future in general.

And the future is big, it's one of my personal biggest fears, connected to my fear of the unknown.

I like to know when and where things happen and why. Needless to say, I'm an organized person.

I don't worry about much.
Sorry, I lied, I worry way more than I used to.

I can't do much of anything without needing confirmation and reassurance that I'm gonna be okay.

Mostly because I'm not okay.

Sorry, I shouldn't do this.
I do this thing where everything I write becomes about the same sorry tragedy, starring me as the main character.

But far from any kind of protagonist.

My best friend texts me and asks me if I'm doing okay, and I tell them "I don't want to talk about the end of the world".

At least, that's what I would say if I had a best friend.

Sorry, am I lying too much? There's only been two lies, and that's too much on the record for most people so just don't stop to address my mouth, just walk away in hopes that I might shut up.

When I was a kid, it becomes the end of the world when a classmate lets the entire class know who your crush is. And that sinking feeling that happens when I wonder if Jason would like a girl like me.

So yeah, the world's ending. But 10 years later Jason turned into a *******, so it's not that big of a deal.

If you believe in multiple dimensions, any one of those worlds could end just when the story gets good, like a cliff hanger that never gives you closure, or when a song cuts off because your phone died.

Like popping the question and before deciding to spend the rest of your life with someone you might love forever, the world splits in two and you fall away.

The world ends.

I want to live to answer that question like the world won't end until it has an answer from me. But somedays, even I'm indecisive.

When a test score comes back and it's just below what you wanted or needed it to be, the world ends.
When you put on your seatbelt on before your first driver's exam, the world ends.
When there is only one Oreo cookie left in the package, the world definitely ends.

December 21st, 2012, we were so convinced the world was gonna end, we made a movie about it that only managed to get 39% on Rotten Tomatoes.

And where was I the night before?

In karate class. My sensei standing before the class, shrugging it off saying "So the world's ending tomorrow... let's do some work".

The world goes on.

But when I woke up successfully the day after doomsday on the 22nd, I was surprised to be alive. Because what is any average kid supposed to think?

I was scared. But we continued on to Christmas anyway.

2017 comes along and we have yet another eclipse, one of many passed and yet to come.

I did not look up to see the sky shining of falling, my heart couldn't take it.

I am told, it is a sign. A link in the long chain of events leading up to coming of the Anti Christ, to the ends of the earth as we know it.

I have woken up countless times more scared of the ground falling out from under me than the sky falling onto me. I don't need alien invasions, or nuclear war, or acid rain, or killer volcanoes, or my own depression because the world is ending, and I don't want to talk about it.

They ask, "You're a Christian aren't you? Why are you scared? Of death, or the end, or anything?".

Being religious, and afraid are two worlds I'm told are never meant to touch, but yet they are still ending. I still haven't read the book of Revelation like a "Good Christian" Because I'm afraid of scaring myself. The world is going to end!

I did have a best friend.

Or at least, I treated them that way.

They said, "Death, is just another adventure. that's why I'm not scared of it."

I ruined my friendship with them about 8 months ago.

I haven't spoken to them in...

In..

I'm sorry. I can't remember.

But suddenly it feels like the first grade crush reveal all over again.

But it's different now.

Someone has left me.
And it hurts.

The world is ending...

And I don't want to talk about it.

~September 5th, 2017~
~Sometime between 10 and 11PM~

Her:
You're an empath.

Me:
I guess so.

Her:
Have you ever thought about it?

Me:
Being an empath?
I never knew there was a name for it.

I never knew there was a name form my kind of pain analyzation. Like I have some kind of supernatural power to read into pain of all kinds.

Her:
Is it that you understand other people's pain or your own pain or both?

Me:
I think I’ve always done both.

Her:
I had a feeling.

Here we go.

Her:
How does it affect you?

A loaded question, and being the person I am I answered it the only way I knew how:

Me:
I always get this feeling that when people are sad or hurt, I have to be too.
Sometimes it’s just my way of showing that pain is just something people have.

But mostly, it makes me helpless to stop other people’s pain.
I get sad, like some kind of way to share the pain that isn’t even mine.
And when it is my pain, nobody can seem to understand it fully.
And it’s not like I completely understand someone else’s pain,
but you see and hear a lot when you turn silent for awhile.

Lots of people try to say that people aren’t alone when they suffer.
And most of it is comfort.

But most of the time I see people in pain, and I don’t see a reason to comfort.

I see more of a reason to just be there.

Experience something beyond yourself.

There a certain type of selfless peace that comes when pain is no longer just one person’s fight.

It’s not about being together in pain. It's about experiencing life with pain just passing by.
It’s been said in books, “Pain demands to be felt”
I don’t know, something about that makes me wish I could do more.

But yeah,
I’m empathetic a lot of the time.
Maybe that’s why I stick around even when I shouldn’t.

I stop. I've said enough.

Me:
Sorry, I’m rambling...
That’s a ton of text.

Silence

And for a minute, I wonder if anything I say is being understood.

Her:
The way you speak is beautiful.
I'm marvelling in it.

... I sit in awe. Grasping at a full acceptance of the way I convey myself in feelings, but more importantly, here, in this moment.

Her:
You speak poetry.

Me:
No wonder I’m a poet.
It’s like destiny or something idk.

Part of me wishes I would have spelt the whole phrase out, it has the same amount of syllables.

Her:
I'm here for you.
I **** at comforting and that's not what I want.
All I want is for you to know that I am present.
And sharing the fight.

This, THIS right here, is companionship, and friendship, saying that "I can be here", and that will be enough.

Her:
I want to fight with you.
Even though I'm not very aggressive.

Hearing this said, "I want to fight with you". Not "I want to fight for you". This says more than any kind of battle with someone at my side, this is real, in this moment.

Me:
Hahah, we’ll fight it with music or something.
Doesn’t have to be aggressive.
Faith, hope, the essentials.

We're believers in things like love, God, and good songs that rock the world... and we don't need much more than that.

Her:
That said, music can be aggressive.
But we'll stick to the essentials.

We'll stick to our guns and hopefully, we won't have to fire.

Her:
Please know that you can ramble to me as much as you like.
I love it.

I know... me too.

Her:
Goodnight, love you.

And as we come to an end, we fall back into a small but familiar silence between us.

Me:
Goodnight, love you too.

-End-

The three poems I have made private here are all about you.

It seems like everything about my opinion of you is some kind of private matter.

Honestly...

I still care about you.
I think you're amazing.

Maybe I still love you.
But not in the same way I used to.

I'm sorry I'm not worth all that much nowadays.

I just wanted you to know that I'm going into therapy soon.

Getting help.

After all.

You said I needed to "sort myself out".
Okay.

I've been through a lot of things that shouldn't have happened to good people like us.

Or maybe I was never that good person.

Who am I kidding?

You're not reading this.

Last time you did, things went wrong and now all those poems are private.

So.

I can't even muster up any courage to say "hi" in any situation.

So I won't.

Makes things easier.

Okay.

Sorry I didn't try harder.
Sorry I wasn't there.
Sorry I called you late at night.
Sorry I still remember the circus.
Sorry I still want to send you gifts for your birthday and Christmas.


I...

Sorry I didn't say anything the right way or even at the right time.

Anyways... talk later?

Or never I guess.

You'll be busy.

And I have a therapy session to go to.

When I tell my testimony, it becomes a tragedy known as my "6 - month story".

Unique in its weight, age, and mental destruction.

And I'm a broken person, you know that.

But hear me now, I'm trying to say what's important.

I don't write much about God these days, but I find myself in a position where I need to say... something.

I don't blame God for what happened to me. If anything, I blame myself. And I know blaming God gets me nowhere.

But being on this camp ground for the fifth year in a row seemed different, knowing I may be older, but wisdom and experience has fallen beneath me.

The friends I knew, younger than I am, and yet they surpass me.

And I fell into sadness again.

An easy crier, I am.

But then, suddenly there was something here.

A curious voice, wondering how I came up with all these song titles, and claiming how awesome I am.

And me... being absolutely floored at how much you wanted to talk to me. Let alone... learn my songs?

Nobody has ever done that before.

Suddenly I don't feel so alone. I feel like I can sing again, like I can smile again, and this two hour session with you learning my song is the longest surge of happiness I've had in months.

And I don't want it to stop.

I feel... at home.

This old campground, and having someone to talk to.

Or hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay...

Instantaneous connection.

I've had it before. With many other people who have left me what feels like a lifetime ago.

I fear I may get too attached, or scare you away.
That I might find a peace here in your friendship that may pull itself away before I can say "thank you"...

So..

Thank you.

If God has helped me through anything in life, He didn't never had to give me riches, or fame, or reputation.

He gave me people.

So many people.

It's been so long since anyone has been a new friend to me.

And I'm so glad that you found me. Even if it was ten years later.

Time has a way of being like that.

God being bigger than time, knowing something like this would happen.

Of all the people who could've found me at that time in my life...

I'm glad He picked you.

I know, I'm sappy and cliché, and write sentimental things too early because I'm afraid of losing good people. Mostly because I have lost so many already.

But I hope you'll stay.

I'll have that sad song written soon enough.

And you gotta be around to hear it.

Here it is in a nutshell:

I want to know that it isn't all for you.

That you knew we were part of this too.
That you knew we went through the same kind of pain.

That you missed me.

That you wanted to make it better.

But if this is all there is.

I'm still going to take it.

Because it's better than nothing.

But hey,

I was there.

I was there.

I suffered.

It isn't all about you.

You can't tell me that you missed anything about our friendship?

Then I guess there wasn't one to begin with.

I almost went to the same dark and empty spaces.

I tried so suppress everything.

I suffered.
And I suffered just as much as you.

You don't get to "win" at having the worst outcome.

Nobody won.

Just because you weren't there to see the pain, doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Just because you never saw me do anything, doesn't mean it never happened.

I was here.

And I've been here the whole time.

Okay.

I'm done being mad.

I'm done.

Being mad.

I want someone to love me as much as I want to love God.

And yet all I want is a day where I don't feel so alone here.

~September 2014~

They came to me with hair filled with colour.

We met.
We talked.

Friends.

Right...

I miss them a lot.
And the only thing I seem to remember is the shape of their hair and all the rainbow it contained, from blue, to pink, to red, to green, to blonde, to finally going back to the normal root colour.

You could say the hair had personality of its own.

~August 2015~

Summer camp.

She was a stranger and a musician, and I had to know her.
She was a strong soul, and even holding her hand felt like a superpower I couldn't control.

Short cut hair.
Clean.
Swept over her eyes, over her ears.
Framing her smile.

~December 2016~

Techie girl.

She is the most complicated thing to come from all of this.
The semester didn't treat either of us well.

Slight curl to dark short hair. Shaven around the back, kept remarkably short.

Leaving her face untouched.

~July 2017~

Me.

I've shaved my head twice.
No shame in it.
My dignity not what it used to be.

My hair hangs down past my shoulders.
4:40pm comes around and I've lost inches upon inches of my hair.
6:30pm.

Slightly bobbed at the ends, framing my chin and shoulders.
Changing my hair part again.
Moving from side to center.

Straight hair, dark colour, lighter.

Short.

I like the aesthetic.

And I like these people.

I miss them most days.

But even though I'm now a short haired person myself.

I still forget about it...

Only to find my reflection later.

I have done nothing today.

Woke up at 2pm, ate food, took a 30 second bike ride and then ate some more.

And here I am, 2 hours and 4 1/2 bowls of soup later.

I thought I might as well eat well before I panic.

Here we go.

Listen to me old friend.

I'm going to go crazy, or have a panic attack very soon.

It's going to be violent.

And uncomfortable.

And I'm going to cry.

So please.

I am a coward who can only look back once and then break.

I don't expect you to talk to me ever again.

And I don't plan on this poem reaching you by any means.

But I would appreciate it if you thought about calling.

But you know what?

Maybe you won't, honestly, I'm never sure I'm worth your time because you never seem to show it.

You're a busy person, with a life and job.

I'm broke as all hell, unemployed, and the single worst person to break after a text message.

But I will be panicking or going crazy soon.

So yeah...

Just thought I'd let you know.

After a great catastrophe hits home, like a fire or a tornado, you search through the wreckage to find pieces that can still be saved.

If anything is salvageable, you might as well take it. This was your home after all.

Finding old pictures, supplies, things of sentimental value, anything that reminds you of home before it was destroyed.

So what if your home is built upon people?

When catastrophe strikes, people might run away, give up, and sometimes they die. Not always, but sometimes they will.

I was part of the wreckage of my home made of people.
But I was also the disaster that tore it down.

Leaving people in pain, with traumatic break downs, panic attacks, and a lesson in language only known as ******.

Nobody died.

People were saved. I know of three in particular who found each other and survived.

But it left two others broken apart, one confused, and one completely homeless.

And as for me...

I survived like the rest. But unlike most of them, I didn't recover.
They didn't bother to search through the damaged home to find me.
There was no monetary value to my life, no point, no sentimental value to them.

And I just lay there to this day.

And to the person I hurt most...

You know who you are...

You left me in that home, the one you invited me into and cared for me as if I was family and now...

I'm here.

Buried under the catastrophe.

And I'm sorry I tore the house down.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth going back to the house to find and salvage.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth saving.

It's currently 3:47am and my window is open.

Which means the birds are now becoming nature's alarm clock. And that is just a wake up call that I did not ask for.

The birds just keep singing and here I am typing this on an iPod that doesn't even belong to me.

Hating the constant chirping of winged animals while I've been here watching Grey's Anatomy for hours on end. So I guess I am just a huge ***** for staying up late watching doctor shows.

I'm not even sure if this is a poem.

I'm just sick of the birds and feeling terrible for things I did late at night.

If this was any other day..

I would have already shut off my alarm clock.

Or just shout at the birds I guess.