She told me to write
So I did.
But now I'm left in a pile of poems and prose
That no one will ever get to read.
Feeling more emotions than I have in years
Too afraid to let them see that side of me.
My lies are bigger than I am now
So I walk in their shells
Attempting to pretend that I know what I'm doing.

She told me to write
Because what I make is beautiful
That the way my words twist and contrast
Make her interested.
That my raw emotion speaks to her
But she only saw my most prized pieces
Would my average work disappoint?

She told me to write
To let others see how I feel
Express myself in a way
That maybe they can comprehend
And attempt to understand.
But how can they possibly understand
When I'm too afraid to show them
What I actually feel like.

She told me to write
To work towards being okay
To continue putting one foot in front of the other
Because it was the only thing keeping me alive.
So I tried.

I didn't even know that I was dead
That my empty veins held no life
And my heart
That engine of my life
Had sputtered to a stop
And become cold
That my bloodied hands
Somewhere in the climb
Had faltered
Lost their grip
And let the rough stone
Slip
My hand suddenly clenching
Nothing
Just an empty fist
I didn't even feel the fall
The rushing wind
Nor even the impact
I didn't even know
Until I looked up at the sky
And it's pearly blue
With quickly fading sight
That I was dead

I'm falling apart (again)
and the tight seams of my mentality
are quickly fraying in this silence.
This silence is more than simply just that.
It is built up of sudden unemployment combined with
the empty spaces around me (that once held friends)
and the lack of motivation to do anything (caused by the overwhelming listlessness of my Depression).

The hardest things are really quite simple:
go to sleep
eat at least one meal a day
shower
go outside once in a while
breathe (deeply)
get out of bed
wake up
call someone (to temporarily fill the empty spaces)
feed the cat (which I manage to do during the few moments I'm awake)
clean up a bit
breath (once more).

The Depression has one outlet (that works)
but for once there is not even the urge
to engage in that self destructive action.

The search for a job is needlessly difficult,
for each time I find that the scars on my arms,
all over my body,
make me "ineligible."
The ones that seem not to care about such things
are either paying minimum wage and are part time
(neither of which pays the rent, car insurance, and other bills that always, always add up),
or I do not have the certification or degree to have them
(school is expensive and I will do whatever it takes to never live in the same building as my parents- even being homeless).

And friends?
How can one make and keep or even briefly have even one,
when they themselves don't have even the faintest idea of how
to let others in?
To trust them (any more than one would trust a person holding a gun to the back of their head)?

every time I let the memories back in
I lose her again
every time I think of now and then
I've just lost my best friend
all over again
and I roll over again
tossing and turning in bed another night
making a night's sleep another fight
hiding my eyes under covers from the morning light
knowing that nothing now can make it all alright
and my heart aches and my chest squeezes tight
and I lose hope, and I lose my desires, and I lose sight
of anything that could make me whole now
of what could help me relearn to be proud
and I cringe, and I scratch at the sores, and I gush pain aloud

what can ever make me whole now?

true, I gave her up, I cast her like a stone
just to watch the ripples and to be myself, alone
but they never explain the solitude of the throne
or the anticipating the mail and the waiting by the phone
or the feeling of no arms around you like losing your home
like watching the fires of your greed burn down all you've grown

I'm sorry for every time I yelled
I'm sorry for all the bad memories her stories have to tell
I'm so sorry for her pain ringing like a bell
not fading fast enough like she can't forget me fast enough for it to quell
because I broke our spell
I'm sorry for the distance and the personal, inflicted hell
and the feeling of nausea that is nothing can make either of us well

with the depths of this consuming hole as I fall, not proud
and the pains that make me wince aloud
what could ever make me whole now?

Whispers of death
   crawl through the protective cloud of smoke,
and pierce the worn armor
   built to protect all dreams and hope.
They funnel in their doubts,
   silencing the crow.
Whirlwind round and round,
   while obfuscating home

A quiet voice at first,
   like a stranger shouting fields away.
Yet still it steals the focus
   and turns the sharpest hues to gray.
There seems to be no plan.
   Crowned chaos rules each day.
One by one they come and go,
   but still the voices stay

They are masters of volume,
   calculating for the optimal strike,
like when they scream during sleep,
   keeping the children up through the night,
or softly during work time,
   counting all that isn’t right.
They reach out their hand,
   but it’s nothing more than a vice.

Now laughter’s no cure,
   but it sure can help the pain.
And if no one’s telling jokes,
   three tall bourbons will do the same,
No one ever wins this war,
   but they can be kept at bay.
Oh the fight to cling to sanity
   is enough to drive a man insane.

This feeling, my heart bursts.

Pumping through my vains, happiness in my hands.

The secret smile that you hide

Just seeing you brings me to live

But this life has become different

in my eyes i run to you but you're so far

"come back" i say to myself but you keep walking away



Where have my days gone..



Working with the thoughts of your eyes makes me fall to my knees.

Listening to all the words of wise men..

Still i find my heart searches for you.


I can still smile through the days,
but when I close my eyes to sleep all I see is you



Where have my days gone..

Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.