I’m lying awake on my bed
But I should’ve been asleep
For an hour or more already.
I’m thinking too **** much.
Constantly spinning, swirling
And I can’t stop the thoughts.
I can’t stop thinking at all.

My family
Is asleep.
They have been for a while.
They aren’t me.
They’re whole.
They don’t think about it.
They know
That tomorrow
Is gonna come and be fine.
I don’t.
I’m scared.
I’m scared of myself mostly.

They sleep soundly.
They’re whole.
I’m not.
They don’t know that.
That I’m broken.
They won’t.
I’m good at keeping secrets.
Even if it’s bad.
So what.

I can’t fall asleep because I’m thinking too much about me. About what I’ve done and about what I will do. They don’t have to think about it. But I don’t know which me is the real me. Which problem is the truth? Which attitude is my nature? Do I have a nature if there’s so many different ones conflicting? Or is my nature conflict?

Either way.
Tonight feels
Like sleep is
For the whole.
Not the parts.
Or broken.
And not me.

I reached out.
I took a massive leap.
It might have paid off.
I’m not sure yet.
I asked a girl
Who I met a year ago
For less than an hour
If she remembered me.
And she did.
Me.
The ghost.
The psychopath of an absence.
Somehow, memorable.

I’m the guy
Who actively avoids people.
I’ll talk to them
But always at arms length
Or farther.
I’m the forgettable guy
Who sits back
And stays so quiet that I’m forgotten.
And that’s it.
And yet somehow, memorable.

I forget people
And they forget me.
I stay in the shadows.
I hate the spotlight.
I’ll even skip my bow.
But she remembered.
I don’t know how or why.
But there it was. Me -
Somehow, memorable.

Words
Are not worth.
We can teach a monkey
How to speak English.
But if it doesn’t understand
Then what is the worth?

This site
Celebrates popularity,
Celebrates good timing,
Celebrates words.
It is a reflection of our society.
But what if a person
With popularity,
With good timing,
With words
Has no meaning?
Why do we still celebrate them?

We come online,
And if you’re reading this
To Hello Poetry,
To escape the world.
But all we get
Is an amplification
With a filter.
20 people will read your poems.
Maybe two will like them.
But sometimes,
Because it is sometimes,
People will find something
And give your words to others.
And others.
And suddenly
You have a hundred,
Two hundred,
Three,
Four -

And then it stops.
You fade.
Back into obscurity.
Because people
Want popularity,
Want good timing,
Want words.

They could care less about meaning.

What if I told you
That death is not the end?

I’d leave.

Well then I guess it’s time
For you to walk out.

Ok.

Really?
No why?
No how?
No what do you mean?
Not even the slightest interest?

No.

Why?

Because when I die
- And it is when -
I want to be dead.
I don’t want oblivion
Because that implies
That part of me lives.
That something is conscious.
When I die
I want to be gone.
I want nothing left.
Nothing left to think.
Nothing left to imagine.
No oblivion.
Just nothing.

Well.
That’s something.
You’re different you know.
From most people.

Because I want death
To be the end?

Well yes.

Then I’m happy being different.

Distance
Doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.
It makes it harder.

Distance
Is not a friend.
If you can’t get rid of it
It will get rid of you.

Distance
Can be healthy.
It can help you see the big picture.

Distance
Is like a roller coaster that only goes up.
It’s fun and scary and adrenaline spiking for a while
But then it gets boring and you just want to get off.

Distance can be nice.
Distance can be ruinous.
Distance can be deadly.

Each and every single day
A thousand broken hearts are made.

The little girl lives down the street,
Who used to run and play all day,
Now sits alone and drops her eyes
These weeks of late with mother gone.

The little boy who isn’t sure
But asked a boy if they could date.
And now instead of saying no
The other boys tell him he’s ****.

The mother holding infant child,
Her milk gone sour before the meal
Because she lost her other child
And cries through both her eyes and teats.

The father sitting home alone
Who blames himself for everything.
Not just his wife, who’ll soon be ex,
But children both who left for mom.

A thousand broken hearts each day
A thousand different faults that break.
Along the faultlines, far away,
And even in the in between,
A thousand broken hearts are made.
A thousand lives forever changed.

As backstage crew
I must argue
I’ve thoroughly examined you
And though this play’s not merely dead
It’s really most sincerely dead.

We’re off to **** this show up
This magically horrible play
Which is a major pain in the ***
For everybody involved.

Somewhere over the rainbow
This show’s good
But we’re stuck on this side of the rainbow so this show still *****.

Ha ha ha
** ** **
Maybe it’s not ****** up
That how we save this hellscape play
In the merry old land of oz

Somehow somehow
We didn’t all die
But we certainly came close
On every night