being lonely is different
then being alone

you can be lonely while surrounded by people
but to be alone is to be truly by yourself

and when you are truly alone
the worst kind of lonely sets in

How far would you love me
if I stripped it all away,
sold off all my attachments,
achievements—
would you love, love me at my most plain state?
With no strings attached?

Would you hold my hand
and tell me:
"It's okay, you're more than your accolades"?
Look at me straight in the eyes, you accept me,
and my cracks, in my skin.

Would you help me get back
the map to who I want to be—
go on the road trip to finding
my true self?

When the sun sets down
and I heal,
would you still keep me...

if I had nothing to give you,
only able to give the things
that no one ever wanted?

Would you hold my hand
while I break down
and say I’m nothing
without the things
that I gave away?

Would you still look at me as—

Enough—

Enough to help me clean up
this mess I've made?

Today, tomorrow,
would you still—
love me,
still think
I’m smart,
handsome—
even if I have nothing
to show, to give?

Would you still look at me
like i was different,
even though—
all my trees are chopped down?

Brush, and hold my hand
like nothing ever fell apart,
the grass wasn't as green—
as it used to be.

Hold my hand,
never let go
while we hike
up this mountain toghther.

Unlit Hours

Late nights—
they’re the worst for me,
bringing out the worst in me.
Mind racing,
like it hurts to think.
Not a moment of peace—
fighting myself just for a second.

Fighting peace like—
there is no hope.

I wish I could help,
but it’s hard—
when I hate myself.
Can’t stand who I am.
Lately,
the only relief I find
is in causing—

more pain,
more defeat.

These late nights,
they make me feel
like I’m not worth it.
When I get love,
I throw it away—
feeling undeserving.

Cold, alone, I shiver
at the thought
that night is coming.
It knows how to find me.

Dark thoughts consume me—
every night.

I don’t want to die,
I just want relief.
But I can’t have it.

I’m a broken record—
but I let it play.
I’m used to this feeling.
Is this what I was meant to be?
How I was meant to feel?

Every morning, it’s me—
looking through the glass,
waking up in this body—
wanting to throw it away.
I sell myself lies
that things are getting better...

and I still buy them.
But they’re running out of stock.

Knee-deep
in the darkness that I made—
of my own actions.
The night controls me,
makes me feel worthless,
hopeless—
I hate myself.

Like there’s no daylight in sight.