I finally decided to talk to someone
a trusted been-here-before adult
he opened the door, I did the asking and now all that's left is for me to open my mouth and speak
But I'm scared I won't know how when I get there
So I'm going to run a little practice conversation here, for myself

I guess you've noticed I've been a little off lately, what with hiding in corners and falling on floors I'll start

I'll be looking anywhere but his eyes
He'll probably nod and let me continue

I wanted to ask how you keep doing this, day after day

To which he'll hopefully give me the secrets to life, but before I can escape
Maybe he'll stop me and say

Have you been thinking about not?

And as I've been raised to tell the truth, I'll swallow my pride and nod

I can't stop thinking about it. It's not that I want to not be here, it's just that my brain says a lot of things I don't want to hear.

He'll be encouraging. It's who he is.

Like what does it say?" he'll ask

I'll bite my lip, and try not to cry

Sometimes it'll tell me that behind the smile, there is nothing left. Sometimes it'll say that we're all going to destroy ourselves. And sometimes

I'll hesitate before continuing

Sometimes it will tell me that I'm failing you as a leader

I may actually cry then.

But he will hug me, and he will tell me that I am strong, that I am enough, that he will not let me slip away

That is what I'm looking for, what I'm living toward
All that's left to do is open my mouth and speak

It's been a month.
My ultimate failure looms behind me as I try to keep walking.
I still haven't called you to Tell you what happened...
The truth is I can't.
I modeled my life after yours.
You taught me everything I know.
My morals.
My ethic.
How can I tell my mentor I failed at the one task he prepared me for?
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't do it.
I'm sorry your attention was wasted on me.
The truth is...
I'm just a boy.
I had to sell the red Chevy truck.
And now I have nothing.
Except a mop of muddy brown hair
To match the dull eyes on my face.

There's flowers by my bed

One red
A rose for my mother
A token of appreciation
For the car rides, the dinner times, the silly dances, the fights
That somehow slipped itself back into my room
A return of sentiment, I guess
A petal falls, it's edges turned brittle and hard, slightly torn
Worn
A rose like my mother, this is

Three blue
White carnations with dye inside
In their peak of bloom but there's die inside
Two are the same, but the middle one is small
They are
One for her, one for you and one for me
Blue for water, blue for sadness,
and blue for the winter season that never came to be
The lean towards each other, those three
Sisters

There are white dotted flowers, of which I don't know the names
Like all of those I've yet to meet

There are flowers by my bed
There are flowers in my head
In my life and my death,
it will be the flowers that mark my way.

How can I dream of living forever and want to **** myself all at the same time?

How am I supposed to keep doing this?

Everyday, forcing myself to breathe instead of cry
Pushing away sleep's soft kiss of unconsciousness
Deciding to be good, be there, take care of other people
Smiling, always, always smiling
Even when it's so tremulous it might just flutter itself to pieces
Fighting to keep it on my face, where it belongs

Please, I wasn't meant for this
None of us were
Our backs ache
Our showers are full of bottles of recipes that somebody made
That go down the drain
And will **** a river someday
There are stars, and minds, and an infinity of nothingness
That extends out to both sides of our timeline
I wasn't supposed to think about that
I broke the mechanics
And I'm not sure how or how to want to fix it

How am I supposed to keep doing this?

I keep my eyes dancing towards the future, I take one step, then another,
I will fight dragons in my mind
We may not have it yet, but we will find a how to fix it guide
I can do this
We can do this

I have to believe because otherwise I will die

Be it white tile, hard wood or polyester mat
I can't help but stare at it a second too long
It's calling me
I just want to collapse into the floor
To sink down as low as I possibly can go
And to let my limbs go, to not have to get up
Would you see then that it's all a pretense?

The floor is to death as depression is to life

To write real poetry
You have to feel something
So I'm sorry

i will scream until i have no voice, even if i have no chance of anyone listening