Hmm

No actual poetry. I can promise you that. Spare you innocence. And your brain cells

Wrote them all when I was fourteen >.<
Save yourself pls

Rhythmic chants
And all the dances
Can’t summon hope in our hearts

I always liked to be optimistic in my fiction writing. My characters of course would face all the problems of the world, but never alone. They always had a friend or someone they could lean on. They never knew the sharp, cutting pain of what it means to be truly alone.
I can't read it when I'm lonely. Or ever, really. It stings to know I'll never have what I've always dreamed of.

A conflict crippling beyond my will,
My mind, my own capacity,
Abating to the point of dread
A broken soul, now broken inanity

The words I can't resist to restate
Again and again and about
Can I have the will to keep it--
The meaning, now to saturate

I sit in my muddled state of disarray
Contemplating the worst--
Or perhaps,
Just honesty

I love my scattered, esoteric mind
I love to squirm as I think at night
Alone, I know, not just in presence
But in ethos, judgement, sense--all the rest,

Still who can help but want another
A mind to love for lonely days
Any mind vaguely the same, just wise
Who could think in ways of deep insight

Can both be given?
In my life of ungraciousness
My world of willful sorrow
My feeble ways of petty days

A weight held fast in the heart

That's what my conflict is made of.

Are we all just the same
Confused minds, without a name
With muddled thoughts, upon the loft
Too proud for happiness, just the same
It’s a wonder--I suppose it’s a shame,
To sit as waves reverberate
I’m of particles! I control myself
Yet can’t, it’s the question of doubt
Do I believe? Can I say without fear,
Faith will protect me, dying’s not near
You say you do, and I too hear
The biting echoes
Strumming tears

Sometimes I just want to go to a garden
And take all the flowers I can clutch in my hands
The sweet-smelling, luminous, simple and poisonous (when ingested)
Then scurry away before the gardener knows
Though I’ve taken bits and pieces of grueling work and pride—
To her or him—it’s far more than that, it’s happiness—
And a little bit borrowed from a friendly, flowery neighbor
Is hardly worth complaining about, maybe even worth a smile
And I press the gentle, fragrant ones
In the hard covers of my favorite books
They’ll last forever, I’m certain
And *** the radiantly eye-catching ones
In the places so obvious—
A mantle, pedestal—always in the corner of my eye
I’ll probably put the poisonous
Far away from any man
Hidden in the depths
Still covered yet, concealed to the end—
But the simple things in life
Are what I hold so fast to me
I squeeze the stems and sniff the petals
And know now to truly appreciate them

When is suicide romanic?
Tragic?
Appalling?
These questions bear their wait
In the back of my spinning mind
Here I squeeze the grip of a butcher’s knife,
Not in the moonlight, but the ever-graying sky

When no ears can hear the reverberating echo
From your cries in the lies where you lost yourself so deeply
When no one is willing to think of you
For fear of ruining their day,
Then is it perfectly unselfish to at upon unendurable pain

In the blush of the night
And the rolling, roaring peal of thunder
The dark clouds express the torment
Far better than my pathetic cries for condolence
Yes, I’m cherishing my thoughtful misery
As if it were unalike any other
But I know it will end so quickly
If I’d just jump the roof, ****** the dagger

With the unbelievable, deafening, so blinding silence
I know that nothing can lance the quiet
With my towel in hand
My last plunge in soon to come
In the endless depths
Of sorrow’s irrevocable ocean

When I do cry, while quite a lot
What is the causing agent?
My previous failures,
Uttered with intense shame
My current state,
So dry by everything in its name?
My hopeless future,
A century of pain...

Often in your life of days
You’ll hear them
With that speech they say—
*You are not the mistakes you’ve made; Troubles you created;
Your hope that has faded.
You’re beautiful; of that, do know.”
But here I stand, still transfixed
On the self-inflicted hurt
I couldn’t care to mend—
But why?
Needless pain, so superfluous and gratuitous,
Yet, still ceaseless, interminable—
Hopeless to change

Why are we so set on punishing ourselves
When really that defeatist inclination
Brought us pain from origination?
But who am I to say?
What have I done,
In my self-inflicted grief

Know, that if you committed the unjustifiable sin
Lost what your strong will or your whole life has brought you
Kept that one quality, so awful and deplorable
You will still be loved.

Have peace of mind,
Your cherished life has only begun

All the poems about anxiety--
Never had I understood them until now
I'd warn my relatives and friends
I'm horribly stressed and agonizingly anxious--
And of course they'd nod and tell me
To calm down, it'd be alright
That I was overreacting
It was such a fixable plight

For years I've heard of the pain
Being alone, in an ableist world
**** it up! Don't you know?
You're life's so fortunate!
Some are beaten, some are starving,
Some are trapped in their lifeless bodies
You? You sit there, like a child,
Clasping your arms
Until red, raw bruises surface
Why on earth?
You're older now! Take care of yourself!

So this is what the anxious experienced.
With this, they solemnly dealt.
So much of this I've heard about
Read and dreaded the talk
But now…
The fool I was, to never pay heed,
To never once ask if a friend is all right,
All fine,—of course not!
Still they’d ask for the sake of mine,
And never could I grant the slightest help for good return

Somedays I’ll watch people jest
Even with the severity of anxiety
Perhaps they’re coping,
But many fellows don’t manage the same
Now the public’s ignorance
Runs dry my bottle of patience
I won’t live until they know
The expense of their deplorable actions

I dare not say I am one thing
For fear it might be true
Mindset is the truth in all
Bending mind can bend reality

Still, it’s known that acknowledgement
Is most necessary for fulfillment
The first step to saving the world
Is knowing that it must be

But, in agony, I wait
When should I know? Be certain?
Decide?
If at all, for whom, and why?

Do I want to know if I exist?
Perceive accurately or not at all?
Do I want to know whether he loves me
And for what, but must I know?

Seeing or perceiving
Which do I choose in my life
Happiness is all I seek
But is it fake or not

Some people think
So much about dying
They forget in their lives
They are living

Some people live
So much for their lives
They forget, in time,
They’re going to die.

Some people end the lives of others,
Symbolically or literally
Some, the former initially,
And the latter not much after.

Some people decide to end the lives
Of their flesh, blood, the essence of themselves...
Some say that is the only sin
An all-loving God could never forgive.

Some die before they live.
Some half-way through existence
Most live before they die
But some die to live again, they try

Some die as children, untouched by shame or corruption
Some die with children, hearts swollen with the love their lives taught them
Some pass in their sleep, life with only regrets
Or not a trace of them at all

I suppose I cannot say.
But,
Answer this, if I may ask
When the time comes,

In your place to bask,
When you are about to die
Can you be sure that, once,
You had truly been alive?

Is it common, is it normal,
In its ever present hurdle
To be ever, always encumbered
By awful, constraining confusion

Why can't I ever manage
To speak of what I truly mean and hope?
Why is it so very, dreadfully strenuous
To paint on paper what I saw so well in thought?

Why have I never been able to
Tell the people I love that I really do care
How much I miss them, in their lack
And how I value their precious time in my presence...

Could it be my youth?
Ever-haunting me, in my incapable immaturity
My selfishness--
So overpowering, it controls me--

But I'm fairly certain
To the point of humble shame
The true reason I can never pinpoint my intentions--
I'm a human! The bane of all biology!

Am I to wallow in taxonomic pity
Cursed with powerful, commanding emotions
But a slave to the inabilities, fear,
But most of all--confusion

Still, is that not the beauty of human feelings,
With perplexity through the inability
To pinpoint whatever we truly mean
Comes art, beauty, (still confusion, evermore).

The rumbling of the bellowing sky
Can help to greatly and subtly imply
And omen of the future's promise
Not a symbol or a sigil--
Far more powerful, only daunting
Why'd I say
The ocean's hush
Would be the first to beckon
My stored, molding fear
I've never been in hollow lonesome
For the place I know I was conceived within
But don't ever tell me these phobias don't build--
From shame, lost hope, and aging agony...

I hate people who trivialize any sadness.
If they're suffering, why should they be mocked?
You answer for me.
Don't tell me they're implying
They're suffering is greater than others
Or that they're intensifying
The flighting emotion that need not be exaggerated
Because you don't known their pain,
Get an insight to their thought,
Accept their pain into yourself--
Yes you have suffered, none can deny that
But if you don't respect the man
Comparatively weaker, or sound
How can anyone respect your position?
You are a parasite,
Lost in the host
You feed off sadness
You know it's a drought
Yet you remain cynical
So simple in your name.
Your life is filled with hollow anguish
You'll never learn in time

And in my dread
I know you are me...

I never could bring myself
To cherish, to dwell old things
No matter how precious and incredible
They mean much but nothing at all
Everything--no! If not remembered
It possesses a curse so much worse than that of Satan
For rather than a dark willed essence
From worlds unknown
It's neither malicious nor ugly
No, an irresistible temptress--
I know it.
The old things are no more than
A petrifying, putrefying reminder
That in their memory falling from minds
Everthing and I, too, will be forgotten.
In a decade, a century, or eon past my time
Certainly due to life's laws
And true nature of everything essential
I'm a flighting flick in a sea
A daunted shadow beneath the surface
A face among billions passed and passed.

I never did learn to meditate.
I couldn't clear the mind of cluttered thoughts.
Dark, disturbing, anxious, irritating--
They know no boundaries...
What? You're trying to calm your mind
Of earthy thoughts, temporal things,
Ha! I'll be certain you can't.
And you heave and shudder and pant
I tend to squirm from the sound and blinking lights
Oh heavens--
Why can't I reach you?
You failed. You lost. You're in trouble. You're worthless.
You're soon to die--
And on and on, the voices pry
If I can meditate, I'll clear my mind
Unlock my creative potential
Solve the problems that otherwise have me wish to die
But yet, in the seeking
Of steady thoughts, insight, removal left
I've only acquired
Dark thoughts inspired...
By jostled calm,
Failed meditation.

People often say that the reason for art is to make this lonely world a little less so.
Summers are always lonely.
The sun gleams down in its bright, intimidating gaze
No! Don't expect me to have fun
I'm not being called to do any of the sort
I'll open the shade, and put out a rug
Just for a touch of color
But that means nothing anymore. No to me.
Not in my ever-hazing shades of dullness
All paling--impaling everything I live for
The stupid things I value
In a meaningless collage

But oh! You said I am loved.
Why don't you sample this world I give you now
And we'll see how long your selfless chivalry can trek on.

*I'm sorry.

You live in a world of all black and white.
Not the slightest glint of pigment, not the smallest touch of gray, not an inkling or a semblance of happiness or hope.
You blend in well with the world of black and white, of dullness and lethargy, knowing nothing other than lack of color and eternal melancholy.

e. e. cummings claims the most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
Still would you concur?
With your Duchenne smile and tensed shoulders
Disappointed at the day of somber cheer and grave chuckles
Now you ask me why they suppressing their evident sadness
I want to swoop in, to shine until my death
Oh don’t ridicule me
You know in some ways you envy me,
Even if you still don’t understand me
I promise you in time…
Oh I can’t tell you it can only get better
Life starts not by asking “When?” No…
But at the moment of the second you choose to take it on

While I love the communicable energy
Given from sanguine, upbeat music,
Sometimes the hum of the street
The rushing, dashing, of careening motors
And the leading blissfulness
Is true serenity, just enough.

If I ever woke up in a surreal world
I would saunter into my sister’s room
With luminescent eyes and detached limbs
And feign as if it were the way of life
I’ve come to known and held as true

Then as she'd collapse into an outburst of tears
Her fractured reality abstracted to a menace
Her sister—me, glowering, conjured too
In a world where meaning is defunct, horrifying, lonely
I would laugh, because that’s what sisters do.

Are you truly that thoughtless?
Or quite simple, just the same?
Can’t you see the blatantly undeniable?
Recurrent actions in centuries passed?

In your hollowed, tenebrous whole
Manifestation of isolation
Is there not a more evident proof
You’re a pillar of others’ melancholy
For your awful reclusion and great lack of communication...

I write to convey purpose and meaning
Or for honor (or any notice) to gleam on myself
The prolific of all writers
Had hardly such in their motivation

They wrote in their sorrow,
In the blackness of the night
They wrote not for their revered name—
But for what they truly found *right

Are you ever near the midpoint of a dark, bleak day?
When nothing at all seems to welcome your stay?
When inconveniences overwhelm and obliterate
So you can’t lie and contemplate without
Another hindrance to dim the clouds

But at that fixed point in conditional fatalism
I know that though I was bound to live through distress in its drift
I am being called to call my power and foray
Against the angst, the dark, the grief
Here I bring the day to its end

A new day dawns! In the late of the day,
In my quaking, in my gloom
In everything thing I’ve brawl against to counter monotony and grow
In depression lost, passed, and away
At this time I dawn a fine new day.

Is it just I who awakes
To the pounding buffets on the tambour?
Bellowing howls of the morrow
Faint spasms in the mind?
Does our nervous tension beckon
At the crepuscular beams
Of a pristine new day?
My chest will skip to tremor,
My legs will fail and stumble
I can’t sustain the efforts necessary in this society.

I wouldn't blame a parent,
Teacher or friend are not at fault
None but I, in my strength’s demise
Am to blame for these miseries of failure.

The typical person—
Strives to become better and good
Will always see that they have some advantage in the matter
Enjoys art, in some form (the species-specific expression of humanity)
Seeks comfort, and pleasure in its way,
Seeks love, a bare necessity for flourishing survival
Gives love, by instinct, causation, or personal values
Would give much to have the answers to everything and all
Still, in the exhaustion of panic unearthed,
Constricted chest muscles, proverbial blanching ache
And anguishing doubt
Just them same—
We will only partake
In beliefs without pain

I never did like my non sequitur thoughts.
They bounds and jounce and leap expertly
In their own journey of destruction.
They care more for their attentive
Distraction in reaping imperfection,
And in doing so they mitigate
Every length of my inspired potential
I despise them with a passion,
For in my hope for creativity,
I've only exposed the worst--
Profound limitation.

That's the definition of my thoughts though--
Great exposition, in a myriad of disoriented aberrations.

I'm not a fraud, a fool or a fiend,
But my unsettlingly broken, detached thoughts
Will surely be the end of me...

Can I contain the courage to counter it?
*I am uncertain...

Is this what it feels like to live an empty life?

Really? I've always thought you're beautiful.

You don't tell your friends that suicide is selfish. You tell them that they're loved.

Where's the fine line between normality and depression?

The diverse assortment of enrapturing conviction
Is but cacophony to most other than me,
Discord to the passionate,
Defending concepts they find true
Clamor to the indifferent,
Those value peace and human happiness
Above factual correctness
For years they’ve all, with incessant attempts
Given their utmost to indoctrinate me,
The most easily swayed of all—
But I’ve found in the rupturing of the fervent,
All ideology, ethic, doctrine,
And in the serenity of the agreeably pacific
I’ve found faith, hope—I’m sure that’s my own,
Art is by no means meaningless, I find,
Especially so when inherent by human ability
And ascribed to this lyrical poem I’ve crafted
Consisting of what I, by my means, find true
Diverse conviction is beautiful.

Have you always doubted me?

Rain, rain,
Raindrops fall
Fall everywhere
To the ground,
From the sky,
Through the air.

There was a time that I
Would laugh at the word
Known as the curse
Of the world—
Humanity

Destructors,
Murderers,
Abominations

Heedless,
­Reckless,
Unspeakable

Without any doubt
In grandeur
Thoughts of themselves
Among artists—

Animals,
Innocents,
Irreproachable

Here for but
Love and safety
Nothing more

Humans—
Dreadful,
To the core

They have emotions of greater capacity
Empathy beyond explainable magnitude
Yet with humanity are neglected
In the case of convenient
Vile manipulation

Here I’ll ponder thoughts in nostalgic regret
Why give staggering, mighty, beauteous emotions
To only those who misrepresent
This bestowal of divinity

Can doubt be a faith?

Is it just I who gets that anxious, squirming
Sensational feeling? Like creativity suppressed—
But by what? My faults? The fates? My own self
For I cannot convey how positively debilitating,
Paralyzing, transfixing—
I don’t want to live in subdued twilight,
Sedated by my own ideas of inabilities,
But who or what, or what in me
Can prevent even the faintest of hindrances
From annihilating the depth of my inspirational understanding…
I’m yet to discern any of the undetectable barriers
Or is it that—metaphysics?
So engrossed, preoccupied, wearied by what
The idea that there’s something
Anything at all, preventing the finesse
As here I cogitate
Dimensions past me...

Hey... It’s been a while since the last time we’ve spoken. So, how have you been? I really hope you’re doing well, but—well, I suppose you could guess that’s not really the reason I contacted you. I just wanted someone to speak to. Wanted to hear your voice, to know I’m not alone. Yes, that sounds clichéd, but honestly it does apply… I can’t even decide to put some music on, because the rhythm and the intrusive noise always distracts me, but it gets way too quiet with it. I don’t know. For some reason silence sends some weird nerve impulses through my body that makes me fidget and convulse and squirm. Is there something wrong with me? Yep, I think there’s something wrong with me. Huuu—sigh. I want this day to end. I tried to go to sleep but I figured I could only stop stressing after I told someone how I feel. You were that someone. **** it! You are that someone! I… Can’t live. Not without you. You told me I meant everything to you, that you could lose everything in your life that you love and value and you still wouldn’t be bothered as long as you could be with me. And then, well, I never really felt anything remotely similar about anyone, I was weak and didn't have that capacity... So of course I just had to be an idiot and walk away from you like that. I’m so mind-blowingly stupid. I swear I didn’t even know someone could be as stupid as that. And no, I’m not going to lie and say it’s all right if you don’t forgive me, that I’ll understand—and all those hackneyed phrases because as much as I want you to be happy, I love you so much I can’t even begin to rant and gone on and on for eternity—
*I love you so much.

Trepidation deluges my pneuma in its state
How did I ever ebb this far?
It’s like I never sensed accomplishment
My reason? Such frailty in making.
I can’t ever invent an inkling of a use!
But in the case that I could, here I’ll be
Faltering into a trance
Of conventional panic, but dreadful still,
Dull pain in a rush,
As I know I lost my love,
I’ve never accomplished anything
Because I’ve never had the courage to

Creativity—
The force to construct or obliterate,
Yet always with the beauty of our cursed race, humanity
So cast down among the kingdom of animals
For our groundbreaking minds and fierce vision

Still in the brink in my time due
What have I done so distinct, so new
Remarkable to both praise and criticism
Invaluable to the point of ridiculous attraction

I’ve unearthed nothing!
So little in wide view,
I cannot be among the masters, the innovative, or true

In the (so unlikely to be irrelevant)
Notion where it’s viable
Would it matter in my venue?
I’d notice no sooner than a patrician,

How desperate I am,
To measure beyond measures
Unveil the rare, cherished,
Re-create the treasures

That in all my disheartenment
What would I have seen?
No sooner any creativity
In all of me.