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.

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 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 had a dream to write in dactylic hexameter and so

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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.