If only I had a chance.
To do something meaningful.
To save a life
Or inspire greatness.

But I'm not that kind of person.

I'm not ambitious enough
To do something meaningful.
To make a difference.
To have the world remember
Not me, but what I did.

I'm not helpful enough
To save a life.
The world is too full anyway.
I'd never make enough sense
To even save anyone.

I'm not good enough
To inspire greatness.
I'm not a good person.
And I hate public view
So I don't think about standing up.

I'm not that person.

I haven't been since lower school.
When I still dreamed big.
When I still loved wonder.
When I was afraid of storms
And the boogeyman lived close by.

That person no longer exists.
If only I could go back
To make sure that person lived.
But by doing that
I'd erase me. And everything I am.

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.

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.

The first humans ran from it.
They made fire
And found lights
So they could keep it away.

And now we run towards it.
Turning off lights
And cloaking ourselves
With shadows, so we can hide in it.

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

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

I live in a place
From which no one can return.
But who ever willingly comes?

No history of abuse.
No bad family life.
So what happened?

I could not tell you.
How would I?
I do not even know.

It's funny though.
They search for symptoms
But I don't show.

I've fought for so long
I learned how to cope.
Maybe even too well.

Is that it?
The big secret?
Be happy.
Be friendly.
But why should I be fake?

Society celebrates inclusion.
But it burns progress at the stake
Like a witch that has to die.

"Don't worry.
Be happy. "
But why?
Why should I?
I'm not.



So I won't.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Let's get one thing straight.
I'm not an organized person.
Which is why it's there.
A calendar that reads January.
There's 4 days left of July.
I think I'll leave it.
A memento.
Of the beginning.
This year or the next phase of life.
But time is running out.
It'll be gone soon.
At least come next year.
And then it will be the end.
Of January in July.

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.

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.

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?

I had a dream to write in dactylic hexameter and so

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

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.

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.

Do I know?
Know what?
Myself?
My friends?
Who I am?

I don't know.

Do they know?
Understand?
Pity me?
Praise me?
Know me?

I hope not.

What do I feel?
How much do I feel?
Am I broken?
Am I whole?
Am I even still here?

I can only hope to know.

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

And so it ends.
The success, the thrill
The pure unbridled power.
The feasts and the parties,
The business supreme,
The darkness behind the scenes.

And so it ends.
The emptiness, the pale,
Half dead from rain and hail.
The empty hands
Finally making peace with the end.

And so it ends.
There is no escape.
There's no way to run.
And yet when she comes
We do not accept.

And so it ends.

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.

Why do we believe?

We don't know.
We have no proof.
We just believe
Because belief begets reward.

History is lost.
Lives are destroyed.
But we call it a victory
Because there's more of them dead.

If you say you believe
Then why do you uproot?
They believe too.
Just a different version.

Why believe
If belief begets conflict?

So I don't.

Ingested or injected
But that's not what it is.
Leaching, diffusing
Corrupting what is.

It's in the air,
It's in the water,
It's in the soil 'neath our feet.
It's in our blood,
It's in our bones,
It's in the food we love to eat.

Though we can't see it
It's always there.
Hunting, preying
On the unaware.

The curse of the humans.
A curse that will last
Until the last human is dead.
So many of us seek
But so few see.
Immortality is no gift.
No boon or saving grace.
It is a curse.
And we cursed ourselves
By trying to take it.

I don't know.
Should I?
Maybe.

Fear is powerful.
Experience is too.
Both say no.

But there is always hope.
Hope fuels progress.
Hope says yes.

It's two to one.
I trust the two more anyway.
But still,

Should I?

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 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.

Why am I still awake?
Cause I'm paranoid.
I have to be awake in 5-6 hours.
Normal amount of sleep.
Why am I writing?
And why on HePo?
Am I bored?
I should sleep.
I might make this a series.
No. Don't bother.
People won't want to read this.
People don't typically like me.
They sure as hell don't get me.
How can they?
I don't even understand,
Sometimes,
My own thoughts.
And since the a/c just cut off
The world got deafeningly quiet.
Painfully so.
I hate the quiet.
They start screaming.
They don't like to talk.
They just yell.
Make noise.
I'll have to ignore them.
Likely.
Likely likely likely.
I qualify for almost everything.
Except for substance.
But no one knows.
They can't see the symptoms.
I've gotten good at hiding them.
Good at pushing others away.
I've had a couple years to practice.
I should get something to drink.
Water maybe.
I don't want to wake them though.
Maybe they won't.
And it's a legitimate excuse.
They won't really care.
I should be listening to music.
Why wasn't I?
Did I really not think of it?
Did I forget?
Why did I only just notice this?
Doesn't matter.
I'll be asleep soon.
I won't want the music.

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 don't want to sleep
But I'd rather not be awake.

I'm too tired to care
But I'm not tired out.

You could say I'm confused
But it isn't truth or lie.

I'm not happy or sad,
No anger or peace.

Maybe it's a hole.
Maybe it's Everest.

It might be a brick wall
Or even a tailwind.

But one thing it is,
The one thing it can never change.

It's empty.

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?

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.

Sanity is relative.
It depends on who has who
Locked in what cage.

And it's that relativity
That keeps us alive.

Well. Most of us.

People try to understand.
But they aren't wired the same.

They're wired to accept.
Not the "crazies."
We see past.

Past the veil which you can't see.
Into the void of curiosity.

And we find the answers.

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?

Sitting and standing apart.
"Join us!" But they do not know.
I'm happier here.
Away from it all.

I'm used to it.

"Are you okay?"
"Is something wrong?"
Deflected so much
They no longer ask.

I've learned to cope.

"You look so lonely."
Don't worry, I'm fine.
I'm used to it now.
I've learned to cope.

I chose this for myself.

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.

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.

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.