I used to be emotional
But then I learned to hate to cry.
I took emotions, cut them down,
And burned the stumps to ash.
I used to know what happy meant
And sad and overwhelmed,
But now it’s all an empty space
Where once emotions played around.
But emptiness, I’ve come to find,
Can be a comfort in itself.
Unless emotions start to grow.
Emotions now are ugly things,
But relics of what once was pure.
They’re twisted, crusty, awful now,
The growth of stumps once burned to ash.

Sometimes
You start getting worse.
But does that stop anything?

NO.

You keep going.
You have to, right?
That’s what everyone says.
And if everyone says it
Then it must be true.

“Just smile.”
“It’s just in your head, right?”
“It’s not that hard to be happy.”

*******.
Why should I smile?
I’m not happy about anything.
I’m not here to encourage anyone.

*******.
Yeah. It’s in my head.
But because of that my head isn’t on straight.
And guess what?
You’re gonna hate me more if you notice I’m crooked.

*******.
It is hard.
I can’t just choose to be happy.
It’s not like I can choose it like a shirt.
I have depression.
So I don’t get to choose happiness.
It’s just that sometimes
I feel less sad and empty.

Sometimes
Mental illnesses hide.
And the person looks fine.

Sometimes
Mental illnesses don’t hide.
You better be prepared for that ****.
Cause it’s not pretty.
It’s a ******* train wreck.

It’s your job to find the salvage.

The first six hours weren’t.
But the next 20 were.
I did everything I wanted.
I spent a day with my best friend.
I got some of my favorite foods.
I watched two movies.
I listened to the best music.
I drove for probably 50 miles.
I spent 2 hours and 45 minutes
On the phone with my girlfriend.
I don’t know why
But this day was the best day
That I don’t deserve.
Which is why this day
Is a day I’ll cherish.

The one day nothing went wrong.

The Greeks got it wrong.
They didn’t understand.
Tartarus is not the worst torture.
Those punishments are frustration.
Mine breaks souls.

I’ve never been diagnosed
But I think I’m depressed.
It’s not sadness.
It’s just empty.
It’s a hole that can’t be filled.
Not even by pain.

Do meds help?
Or do they just fog you up enough
That you can’t see the hole?

I’m gonna be gone for four weeks. Well not exactly four but that doesn’t really matter. Four weeks to make new friends. Four weeks to try new things. Four weeks in somewhere new doing something new. Four weeks I don’t get to use you. No Sticky Bumps. No *** Wax. No new stickers. No waking up early just because I want to go out with you. I think I’ll name you Aaron. Not perfect but you’re pretty close. Close enough to love. Every nose dive. Every bail. I’ll come back. But it’ll be four weeks. I might miss you the most. Probably not but I might. Four weeks. Then I get to go back out in the surf. Three hundred dollars. On a surf board that I didn’t know how to use. Four weeks before I get to make that count.

I’m wrong.
I want to leave.
Would mom hear?
Why aren’t you there?
Please come back.
Why am I here?
I don’t want to be here.
Why can’t I leave?
What’s stopping me?
What’s stopping me from cutting?
It doesn’t hurt enough.
The silence isn’t loud enough.
The voices aren’t screaming.
Why do I want them to scream at me now?
Don’t I hate them?
I hate the voices.
I want them to scream at me.
I want an excuse.
I want to listen to music.
I want to leave.
Will I come back?
I want you here.
Or me there.
I want you.
But that won’t happen.
What can I do?
I’m a broken record.
I should sleep.
I won’t for long.
I never do.
I’m hungry.
Do we have waffles?
I want waffles.
I want to be somewhere that isn’t here.

A Disney princess fell from grace.
Or maybe it’s the truer tale.
Aurora Rose the sleeping queen
But this one never wants to sleep.
She’ll sneak outside and run about
And have the cops all chase her.
But that’s her choice which I respect
And maybe that will count a bit.

She made a promise not to cut.
So far she’s doing well for hours.
I think she’s scared of what’ll be.
Instead of cuts I’m pretty sure
She’s getting high some more. Much more.
If I could say I want her clean
I bet I would. But I’m scared now.

I’m trying not to lose a friend
Cause I don’t have enough to spare.
She loves the high, I don’t know if
She’s ever low and I don’t care.
The only meat she seems to like
Is long and hot, not in her mouth.

I hope she doesn’t lose control.
But that’s ironic. I’m the one
Who’d lose control but somehow she
Has found a way to love that part
Of me. I promised her a poem.
And now she has an ode to her.

I don’t know if that’s right.
Harsh; insensitive; hardened.
But that isn’t the whole story.

I wonder if hollow is better.
Not really.
Because I’m not really empty.
There’s still a constant pain.

Hurt doesn’t work either.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
At least that people can see.
And I’m not hurt.
I’m just hurting.

But I don’t think it’s depression.
Depression is sadness.
Not hardening and hurting.
It might be empty.

So what am I?
Does such a word exist?

Maybe it’s lost.

A while back
I posted a dream.
A car accident.
Today
I almost surprised myself.
I didn’t get in one.

The whole **** world
Decided to be against me.
Just me.
Just for a couple hours.
You know what?
That *****.
Especially when you struggle
When the world isn’t against you.

But I’m not dead.
Yet.
I don’t know
If that’s good or bad.

But I know I’m worse.

I tried drugs for the first time tonight.
****.
I didn’t get high.
I also found out something.
I’m addicted to an addict.
And I love that.

Maybe I’m a decent person.
Maybe I have a good chance.
Maybe I can be something.

I never really tried to be.
Decency was expected
But I never did more than necessary.
So why now?
What changed?

Why do I care?
I think I can do this.
What if I can’t?
What if I’m not what she thinks?
I make everything up as I go.
When does that stop working?

Maybe I can do it.
Maybe it won’t stop working.

But I can’t count on it.
So what do I do?
I don’t know.
I think I need help.

Maybe I don’t.
Maybe I’ll figure it out.

I need to stop.
Stop thinking.
Stop worrying.
Stop being paranoid.
Stop working myself up.
Stop myself.

I can’t do everything.
Something has to fall through.
I just hope
It isn’t me.

But I can’t stop.
Because to stop
I have to stop being me.
And I only know one way to do that.
Stop my heart.

I don’t know anyone
Who doesn’t have one.
A lot of people
Have too many.
But behind each one
Is a story.
If you have a scar,
I’d love to hear that story.

Blood is like gasoline
In more ways than one.
Both keep us going
One for us and one for transport.
But there’s another.
Have you ever walked in
And gotten the smell of gas?
There’s two ways it happens.
Too much and it smells bad.
Wrong even.
But just enough
And it smells amazing.
It’s the same with blood.
Too much
And it’s all you can taste.
Flooding, obstructing
Overwhelming.
But just enough
And it tastes delicious.
But only when it’s just enough.

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

A while back
I had a dream.
Nothing like King’s Dream.
I don’t remember why.
Maybe I was angry.
But I didn’t regret it.
I was the cause
Of a car wreck
On a bridge
At 60 miles per hour.
There were no fatalities.
But I was frustrated
Even after the crash
When the car finally stopped.
Was I frustrated that it happened?

Or was I frustrated
That I couldn’t make it worse?

I’m sorry.
It is me.
But it’s not.
It’s paranoia.
It’s fear.
But it’s mine.

I’m scared I’m doing too much.
Too little.
Trying too hard.
Not enough.
Not giving you space.
Giving too much.

So I’ll stop.
I’ll let you decide.
Maybe I won’t be paranoid.
I probably will.
But if you don’t want me around
I can disappear.

I know when I’m not welcome
So now it’s time
To disappear.

I had a dream to write in dactylic hexameter and so

I did. By the way it’s really difficult in English.

Sure
I watch YouTube
I check Snapchat
I check HePo.

But what keeps me up the most
Late at night when I should be asleep
Is you.

If I die young
I meant to.
Satin ain’t gonna help me.
No heaven to go to.
No hell either.
Burn me and
Throw the ashes to the wind.
Crime pays.
Jobs pay.
Sometimes you gotta
Spend money to make money.
Sometimes you can’t be saved.
Cause money don’t buy
Happiness.
Work does.
But sometimes work
Doesn’t pay.
So crime does.
And if I die
In MY line of duty
I meant to.
So don’t bother with satin.
Cause fire will do better.

Are you really?
You say you are
But is that true?
Maybe it’s that
You have not found
Your confidence.
So if you need
If you ask once
Am I broken?
I don’t believe.

If you can ask
Then you are not.
So stop lying.
You aren’t broken.

Let me tell you
You don’t want to be.
I know because
I don’t have to ask.

That’s not accurate.
I don’t hate love.

I hate love poems.
And I hate myself
Because I keep on
Writing love poems.

I don’t want to.
I don’t try to.
But I still do.

But that doesn’t matter.
Not for this poem.
Is it a poem?
Stream of consciousness.

I hate love poems.
Predictable.
Cliche.
Worshipping.

Maybe that’s it.
The worship part.
That might be it.
I’m atheist you see.

But so often they,
Love poems,
Rely on description.
And they flop.

“Your eyes are the moon.
Full and bright.”
Give it a rest.
Don’t cop a bad description.
Especially when it’s overused.

Get some originality.
Don’t try to make us *****.
That’s not a good look
Even if you’re in love.

But I guess you aren’t me.
So you don’t have to listen.
But if you are,
Listening that is,
Please no.

If you’re gonna do it
Do it right.
Cause I bet you wouldn’t dare
To half *** your love effort.

I keep trying.
And keep failing.
Something always
Keeps coming up.
That’s just my luck.
Maybe one day
I might succeed.
But not today.

And so it began.
The end.

We all knew it would come.
We just didn’t know when.
We didn’t know how.
We didn’t know where.
We didn’t know who.

But we all knew why.

If you overstep boundaries
There are repercussions.
If you overstep again,
Three times, four times,
Five, six, seven times,
There’s more.

And we had overstepped
One too many times.

And so
One by one
We all
Started
To
Disappear.

Until we discovered

The End of The End.

I had forgotten what I called her.
I remember now.
Belle.
Fitting.
Her, a beauty, even if she won’t recognize it,
And me, a beast.
All I can hope for is that
Maybe I’m lucky enough to be hers.

I had this dialogue
With you.
In my head.
I had some stupid ideas.

Kinda stupid.
You open a window and we talk.
Stupid.
You come outside and we talk.
Pretty stupid.
We drive around for hours but come back before you’re supposed to be awake.
Really stupid.
We go and drive and don’t come back until the next night.
Bat **** crazy stupid.
We go.

I get it now.
I didn’t used to.
But I understand.

A few years ago
I had a friend.
He was my role model.
But he wasn’t perfect.

He once described
Just what he had done.

“My arms should be
A hilly desert.
But instead
I have only one scar
That didn’t fade away.”

He described it as
The pain in your mind
Being so great
That you have to distract
By causing physical pain.

I get it now.
Self harm seems like a **** good option right now.

If I say what’s on my mind
Does that make me brave?
Or is staying silent braver?
Does it matter either way?

The greatest scientists
Are always heretics once.
Einstein is still annoying.
But Murphy saying
Everything will go wrong.
A universal law.
And we see it every day.
We do something great
And then can’t do it again.
Something goes wrong
And we go to get it fixed
So it magically works.
What is the source
Of this unnamed magic
Of unscientific observation
Becoming a guide to life?

You always say
“You sound tired.”
And I promise you
I’m not.

Then there’s times
I am.

How better to describe
The vessel that is me?
I'm good at making pain
But what good's that to me?

An instability
Resides within my mind.
A fear of me by me
And fear of what I'll find.

But I can try to be
A kind and caring soul.
But I don't have a choice.
At some point I'll explode.

The me I know myself
Cannot stop what will come.
For I'm a ticking time bomb.
With no set time to blow.

"You gotta be cruel to be kind"

"I'd rather feel pain
Than nothing at all"

"Ballon man's telling me
To turn down please
And the psychic agrees
I begin to see that I'm home"

How do these songs get it so right
While we all flounder about
Trying to find the right words?

The only way to heal
Is through pain.
And pain is the only thing
That truly tells us that we are
Somehow
Still alive.

And pain tells us
That we are nearing death.

What is wrong with me?
How'd I do all this?
Why could I not leave
Well enough alone?

They should be opposite.
The one I've met, not
The one I can't, met.
Maybe that's just me.

She loves country
And loves to work
But lives up north
And cannot breathe.

She hates country
And can't stand seafood
But lives down south
With a marsh for a back yard.

What have I done?
What can I do?
When they should be opposite
But aren't?

My curse is me.
I help.
I help and help
And forget.
I forget me.
I help everyone else.
And then I vanish.
I hide what's in me.
I refuse help.
And so I help
Until it hurts.

People think
That I can't scare.

But I'm terrified.
Always.
Because they can't see
What lies beneath.

I'm scared of silence.
Of them talking and screaming.
I'm scared of not having control.
Of not being able to help or save.

But most of all
I'm scared of losing control.
Losing me.
Of what happens after.

I'm terrified of me.

Tears on cheeks
And tears in cheeks.
Tears on the carpet
Some water,
Some blades.

Why are they so soft?
You could fall asleep in them.
They're warm when they're fresh.
But they are put down.
Left behind.
Always negative.
Always destructive.
But they can preserve.
And they feel so soft.
So light.
Like downy feathers
Torn from destruction.
Why are they hated?
Because we need ashes
To rise.

Why are people so scared of you?
And why do they avoid you?
We don't know
Not what happens
Once you knock.
Why do you?
You probably know what you do.
You ruin so many lives.
Do you not care?
Or do you enjoy it?
Either way.
I'm not scared of you.

What the ****.
Seriously.
All this time
And you come up with us?
Papery
Weak
Vulnerable.
All we have is our brains.
And those don't even work.
At least not all the time.
So tell me.
What are you?
Are you the greatest gift?
Or the most terrible curse?

They talk rarely.
Only when they know.
THEY WILL BE HEARD.
In the quietest moments.
In the happiest moments.
In the most tense,
And the most relaxing.
But always,
THEY WILL BE HEARD.
They won't let me shut them out.
Won't let me drown them out.
They won't SHUT UP.
They keep screaming.
Keep whispering.
And I can't stop them.
THEY WILL BE HEARD.
Because they are me.
They are the voices in my head.
They are my curse.
And the curse will not end.

I'm afraid of silence.
Actually, genuinely afraid.
Because for me,
It isn't silent.

I can be the center of attention
But be absent.
Emotionless.
Empty.
All I am is a husk.
But no one knows.
I'm good at make believe.
Hiding my emotions
So that when,
Not if, when,
They leave
No one is the wiser.
And no one cares
About my absence.