The hidden strength
behind dead eyes,
seemingly empty minds
running with scissors
but avoiding fights.

The oldest form of entertainment,
neon lights, loud music, stranger;
that was the last night of a cycle
for today I'm no longer 20.

A buddy, also tripping,
after the bottle is empty.
The night is young...
but Monday morning **** sure isn't.

An aspirine and lots of water,
dizzy, nauseated;
the world span, when it stood still... I didn't.

They say you should learn from older people
but if there's a lesson I learned in life
it's that an ancient can be the most ignorant
and a teen can be the one who's wise.

I want the buzz
of being proud.
I want to dance of pure joy;
And overall feel satisfied
that I've done what I've been doing
and forgiven what I have not.

When I was 10 or so I had a nightmare,
one that stuck with me for this long.
I didn't think much of it back then,
but now I don't want to ignore.

I was playing outside with a friend,
a few feet away I noticed a figure,
a guy, a teenager, no doubt
the more I looked, the more I found.

The guy standing there was me, but older,
staring motionless at my younger self,
with a tired expression on his face,
horror movie ****** style.

As a happy child I thought nothing of it,
made some jokes and that was the end.
As a depressed teen, though, I grew up to see
that exact expression on my face a lot.

Waking up from a good dream
is a terrible way to  start the day,
imagine having a good time
and then being carried away.

And as soon as I realized
I was back to real life
I tried desperately to fall back asleep
but there was no going back.

I'm going out tonight,
watch the street grow lights
as the sky blacks out
and the stars are lit.
I'll listen to new voices,
men and women talking,
I'll see dogs play fetch
as I slowly walk.

The strange feeling of floating,
dissociating from my skin,
sliding between this world
and something beyond.
I'll keep it together until I'm alone,
I'll ignore the clarity, for now.
I'm detached from my past,
present, whatever is to come.
Well this feels good,
but at the same time it's wrong.

There's a black bird in my heart,
it's like Bukowski's blue one,
but instead of sleeping with me
it keeps me up at night
and it's demands are not fun.

A huge box full of nothing
sells more than a small box
full of everything.
Your thoughts aren't your thoughts
until you've learned what they mean.
Small boxes full of nothing
will be endlessly more sold
in a place where everybody
has no box at all.

The bus is not so full now,
through the glass the sky begins to redden,
my bag's on my lap,
my eyes are on the road.
In this rectangular metal box
I pierce the city's veins,
watch them pump, pulsate
with people I may, or may not, meet someday.

How far did I go this time
with this impulsive trait of mine
so that I had to be locked up?
Did I run away from cops,
did I not run fast enough,
did they take me home handcuffed?
Why's my favorite cousin here,
what is that that you all fear
that I'll do with my own life?
I was just trying to have fun,
somehow it got out of hand
and I almost went to a psych ward.

I want to do more, and feel less
I want to be better somehow.
Yes, I'm working on it
but this is what I'd call relapse.

I'm collapsing under this weight,
my burden is the past on my back,
also doubt, fear for the future
and what the present means.

I wouldn't say this out loud
but after all, I'm kinda scared.
I pace around and beg myself
for an answer I'm not sure I have.

Passionate, bloodthirsty... Oh, so mean!
Meaner than the meanest high school bullies you've seen.
A particularly evil mindset, to a certain degree...
Because I don't hurt with punches, I hurt with words.
How can this be?

A blow in the right spot can make one faint,
a line in the right place can put one to shame.
From a blow they can recover just fine,
but from shame? Trust me, that takes waay more time.

If everyone around me read what I write,
they'd understand, at least a little, what tore me apart.
The people would feel what I felt and I'd laugh
as they bathed themselves with tears. Such delight!

When I'm not sad or angry
I'm not feeling anything
and people whisper "he's so weird"
'cause they don't know what it means.
I've gotten so much advice
on the "life I'm living"
that sometimes I wonder if they
secretly know all about me.

Desire... maddening...
...destructive inside.
What a waste of a healthy body
designated to be mine.
These healthy limbs have no use
under the command of my crippled mind.
My head spins in disgust for my own kind,
for myself, for my equals, for my life.
This need is like acid, corroding my every cell,
leaving me cornered on my own edge.
My skin is burning... and it's desire,
a primal urge haunting me at night.

I know I've come a long way
so if at least once you'd say
"I'm proud of you" instead of "try harder"
I'd at least once ask you to stay.

How can you look into someone's eyes
and tell them they have a whole life ahead
when the future is so uncertain,
life is so random,
and tomorrow they could be dead?

My mistakes consume me,
eating my body inside out,
a torturing, deadly fever
with no way to cease.

My skin feels hot,
almost like it'll melt
and expose my rotten flash
for everyone to see.

Some of the weights you carry
aren't even yours to handle,
drop a few along the way.

The obscure, the unknown
gives me a chance,
while the real world
denies me the right to exist.
Reality tries to pull my strings,
but it's never just me
they have to face.
I have a hundred soldiers
in the body of one,
and among a thousand "myselves"
is where I belong.

We're living on borrowed time
so love it and lose it,
doubt it and prove it,
live and die on the road,
I mean, maybe not literally,
or maybe yes, who knows?
What I'm trying to say
is that we're not here to stay
so let's all let it go.

I once told a wise guy I was tired
he said "dude, we all are!"
"and how the hell do we survive?"
"shot by shot, pill by pill, we fight."

It's been a full day
now I see the full moon
from the chair I'm sitting
by my bedroom window.
My head is so full,
I'm filling one more glass
to fill the void in me
and fool my restless soul.

In these lonely afternoons
roaming around the streets,
sunny or rainy sky,
I always find what I'm looking for
and I claim it in no time.

I used to believe
in the fairytales you told.
They used to take me back to you
and your sadistic desire
to fool me some more.

Today's poem is for a guy,
the guy who was "living the good life",
drove a nice car and had a hot wife,
this one's for that "rich guy".

They say on the news that he's dead,
"fell off a rooftop" they said,
"such a tragic premature death",
some say he was really depressed.

On his IG stories he was always fine,
if anyone asked "he was alright",
he was only 23 but how old was he inside?

How much longer could his life have been
if only the people around him had seen
the obvious dead eyes behind that smile?

How many more tragic funerals
will people have to attend
until they learn to teach their sons
that sometimes it's okay to cry?

You're written and rewritten in my mind,
I remove bits, add parts,
you might not have The Bluest Eyes in Texas,
but you're haunting me tonight.