Be weary of the boys
that show that they care,
for those are the most
dangerous ones.

They slowly work their
way into your thoughts
until they envelope
your heart with an
iron grip that won't let
go.

And when you plead
for them to just forget you,
they do. But the problem
is that they've left bruises
and scars imprinted on
your skin and in your bones
and all throughout your mind,
permanently etching themselves
into everything you do.

So while the caring boy moves
on exactly as you asked, you're
left to pick up the pieces of
heart you begged him to break.

it's back.

the weight.
the fear building up between my eyebrows.
the tears constantly threatening to show.
the breathlessness between each breath.

i'm tired of fighting this alone.
i don't want to be strong anymore,
i don't want to hold it together for one more second.

every heartbeat is a miracle.

A breath caught between her
lungs and her lips; she's unwilling
to say the words that could set her
free, or further imprison her
in her own mind. A stutter that
reflects her brain whirring at
impossible speeds, unable to
keep up with her emotions.
She tries to let you know how
she's suffering, but the syllables
never quite fit together and the
letters can't seem to form the right
sentences; and so she seeks solace
in herself when overcome by the darkness.

People always clap for the wrong reasons,
And the best at ****** are those who preach against it.  
Evil is not intrinsic. It’s fashioned.  
I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.  
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out.  
I talk to God but the sky is empty;
This love is silent.  
It’s exponentially bigger than you think;
It’s what you feel, but can’t articulate out loud.  

Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.  
And neither the angels in the heaven above nor the demons down under the sea
Or the ghosts inside of me
Ever told me that grief felt so like fear.  
It’s easier to floss with barbed wire than
Admit that we love evil too well to give it up.  
Youth is a blunder, old age a regret;
But you cannot find peace by avoiding life.  

Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
To struggle against this stupidity,  
I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.  
The troublemakers are just a handful,  
And if our times are difficult and perplexing,
We become what we think.
The earth has music for those who listen;
There are times when the wolves are silent and the moon is howling.  
Nature is a haunted house—but Art—
Is not a thing, it is a way;
A parasitic on life.  
It is easy to fool the eye,
But art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.  
We are killing a part of our souls
Every whisper of every waking hour,
And none of it seems real to me,
But everyone’s to blame.

The wind gets colder as the sun recedes
And marks the first sign of the ending day.
Minds go numb and people’s thoughts will decay.
Slip to bed and let their bodies concede
To the dreams and nightmares that come with greed.
The stars emerge as memories replay,
The constellations are now on display.
As minds lose focus and the night proceeds,
The attention shifts towards current troubles.
And rather than help, we choose to ignore
The simple answers that solve the struggle.
The birds laugh as we argue and quarrel
Over issues that are petty at the core;
We can’t see past the lining of rubble.

I'm scared of so many things right now.
Like if I'm making the right decision about my future:
Am I independent enough to leave my home and seek adventure?
What if I'm not living out my life to the fullest?
I don't want to regret these years but I can't seem to change myself.
Am I just as bad as what I complain about?
I'm terrified that I am my biggest pet peeve
and that I will never be able to escape myself.

I'm scared that my newfound anger isn't just a phase.
And how am I supposed to overcome my problems
if I instinctively shut them out before I have the chance to try?
I'm scared that second chances don't exist and
fear that I've ****** up the only one I get.
I worry that true happiness will never come to me again
but I know I'm probably just being overdramatic.

I'm terrified that I'm wrong about her and that
I will be too late to do any saving.
I know she doesn't want to be saved but I still fear
she'll choose death over us.

I fear that I'm wrong about everything.
I'm scared that nobody cares.
I'm terrified of being lonely.

I'm not going back to that place.

I can feel the darkness fighting to take over
but I'm stronger now.

That's what I tell myself these days.
I am so tired of fighting.
So tired of trying.
So so tired.

A silent night with distant screams,
she swore someone must have heard her pleas.
But still her nightmare stumbles through the door
filled with rage and grief and more.
One drunken step from side to side,
and in this moment she tries to hide.
A day filled up with laughs and light
has transformed into a dreadful night.
His voice bellows from outside her door
words slurred together, fright restored.
She can smell the whiskey and *** on his breath
and so she leans down and prays for death.
She knows too well what is coming next:
one more bruise along her neck.
Some children collect coins and silver dollars,
while she keeps these bruises around her collar.
A prized collection, he takes much pride
in leaving his mark and leaving her to cry.
People asked about the shadows on her arms and face,
but she covered them well with linen and lace.
It's been five years since this all began
and she can't bring herself to trust a single man.
His presence still haunts her, even though he's "changed"
nothing can erase those hits exchanged.
Her will to live is now slipping slowly,
why should she live in a world so lonely?
So the girl who cried out for help that time
now sits alone and makes these rhymes,
quietly waiting on her time to die.

I haven't prayed since you left us.
I remember the phone call like it
was yesterday, and I still get anxiety
whenever I hear that ringtone or
feel a buzz in my pocket.

"Their car what...? Oh my god.
Crushed? What about them?"

I was so naive.
I remember thinking that someone
had stolen your car, trying to
piece together fragments of a
conversation I relive everyday.

"She's gone. Her and her dad...
and her mom? They're gone."

I was so ******* naive.
My worst thought was that you
had been kidnapped. The fact that
you could be permanently gone
had never crossed my mind.

As I watched my mom cry sitting
in that front seat, I began to do the
same without knowing how truly
agonizing this would be.

"What happened mom?"
"They're gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"No, Annie. They're dead."

My dad's hands tightened on the
wheel, no doubt wishing it was
the neck of a bottle. My brother
gasped next to me then became
very occupied with the wrinkles
on the back of the passenger seat.
Mom turned back around as her
body was overcome by silent tears
at first, then very loud heaves of
grief. But I knew she was grieving
for herself, because the family that
had come to be my own was now
gone and she had to take care of
her own ****** up kid.

I remember one tear falling, from
which eye I don't remember, then
another, as I stared out the car
window. They silently fell until
we arrived at our destination,
which was our last "family" trip.  

I don't remember much except
for how I didn't sleep more than an
hour those couple of days, but instead
tried to find a song that could come close
to what I was feeling.

I haven't found one.

Then the funeral service came and
there were girls sobbing with lines
streaking down their faces who didn't
even know your favorite time of day
or how you winked in between silent
conversations or the way your laugh
rocked your entire body and I sat there
unable to form a single ******* tear.

An emotionless corpse.
Just like you.

Someone told me what the last words
were in the car. I didn't ask, but of course
I found out just the same.

"Hold on..hold on and pray...pray."

I don't pray anymore.

I'm tired of feeling alone every time I
open my eyes and overwhelmingly
lonely whenever I close them. I blink
in the hope that happiness might come
in the millisecond between the two but
it never does and I'm left with something
stronger than disappointment.

Late September nights filled with
hushed voices and hand sanitizer
instead of essays about Romeo and Juliet.
You fell asleep in plastic chairs to the
melody of a constant beeping lullaby.
A walk to the cafeteria where you found
company in the doctors with circles
under their eyes. During these months
you redefined a "midnight snack" and
the journey was always longer than
the walk to the fridge at home.

Then a change of scenery came, but
the same routine remained. Days
blended into nights and soon you
were in the hospital on Christmas
holding back tears.
One foggy winter afternoon became
the date after the dash on a man's
gravestone; you knew because those
screams only ever mean one thing.
You wondered who would be next
and heard those cries for days after.
Your friends wondered why your
face grew cold when someone's
voice got too loud-you blamed it
on lack of sleep. But you weren't so
bad after a week, you were better right?

Well you were better in the sense that
your heart still beat and you knew the
exact cost of a grilled cheese and chocolate
milk in the cafeteria. But you were worse
in how you always forgot a straw to take
back upstairs and you didn't know her
room number, only the that it was the
third door on the right.

Your mom knew the security guards like
they were old friends but you didn't even
know their names because you were always
ashamed to be leaving. You saw the different
stages of grief on the faces of people in the
elevator and could tell when the last time
they cried was (it was always the night before.)

You knew her medication better than the doctors
and that scared you so you focused on the lines
on the monitor that you barely understood.
You grew used to sympathetic looks from familiar
faces in the halls. You hoped the families on those
couches would only be there for the night and not
the month like you were. You took on responsibility
you never wanted and that nurses didn't acknowledge.

You've grown into someone you don't want to be anymore;
filled with anger and grief. You laugh at everything hoping
you can force yourself to be happy, but it never works.
You don't allow yourself to think about anything other
than the bad and you don't know how to stop.
You can't tear down the very wall you built.

A girl with the world on her shoulders;
her brother is her saving grace,
except when she's alone at night.

She refuses to look in the mirror,
as she is still unable to face
the grief and trouble reflected in the glass.

She has been forced to hide her family problems
beneath the linen and lace,
accompanying each day with a new excuse.

She yearns to leave the responsibility
and disappear without a trace;
to succumb to a place that only knows peace.

A glimpse of light travelling through the air,
while chased by time, it can never quite win.
The morning ends and the day can begin.
Shadows that are shifting from here to there,
move on the walls in the shape of despair.
The lies that the sky tells are a sin;
promise forever but have never been.
The whispers among the trees seem to swear
and curse about action and destruction.
We fail to notice the impending end,
caught up in the money and corruption.
Between dawn and dusk the city awakes,
but it can never seem to comprehend
its future of infinite construction.

Four years.
Countless tears.
I miss you more
with every breath I take.
My chest heaves and I
crumble under the burden
of living without you.
How am I supposed to make
it when the only person who
kept me going is gone?

Just like that. Gone.

No heart-wrenching scream
or desperate plea will ever
bring you back.

And I hate myself for that.
I hate myself every
******* day.

The guilt eats me alive
and tears at my will to live.
Regret fills every crack in
my body that formed
since you died.
Grief doesn't even begin
to describe this hollow
feeling that I can never
chase away with any amount
of alcohol or drugs, no matter
how hard I try.
And I try, oh do I try.

I'm sorry I didn't try that night.
I'm sorry praying didn't help.
I'm sorry.

Don't fall in love
with the boy who
stays up until
2 am, for he
is thinking about
too many things.

He's contemplating
how the world works
and trying to figure out
what makes each
person tick.

He's searching for
answers in the depths
of the ocean when he
should be looking in the
your eyes.

He focused on knowing
something about everyone,
so he'll never have time
to know everything about
someone, even on those
sleepless 2 am nights.

My mother taught me how to
doubt myself; now I look in
the mirror with hatred and
see a girl who's an expert
at disappointment.

My father showed me that
alcohol turns you into someone
you swore you would never be,
yet I drink it now to forget
what he did to me.

I see my parents reflected
in myself, two people I
promised myself I would
never resemble, yet here I am:
an identical copy.

What is a home that
relies on strangers to
keep the peace? It's
barely even a house,
with foundations collapsing
leaving nothing but
broken memories and
empty promises.

A house that had
doubt hanging from the
ceiling and grief dripping
down the windows.

Angry hallways and
insults screaming from
the scales and mirrors.

Rooms with lying walls
that told you all of this
is normal.

Addiction was waiting
at the door for you,
ready to take you just
like it's swallowed
everyone you used
to know.

She lies in the corner after he
hit her and screamed, but
his touch is still the only
thing she yearns for.

She’s become dependent
on a love that can never
support her; a narcissistic
excuse for caring.

That’s the worst kind,
when the one person
you should be able to
trust, is a stranger.

Yet she stays because he’s
promised her the world, and
eternity with the wrong one is
better than forever with no one.

She quiets her mind with
bad decisions and liquid courage.
Her thoughts slow down along
with her breathing, and her
heart misses a couple of beats.
The veins in her arms now
carry a death sentence
as her eyes lose focus.
She's found the perfect
formula for self-destruction.

Would you be able to
tell that this was a
poem
if it was not spaced
out like so?
Is it even a poem
now?

Poetry is not simply
rhyme schemes and
counting syllables,
it's raw emotion
that leaks out in
words.

Poetry is self
expression, placed
on a page for the
world to view.

Poetry is the
deepest thought you
have, kept to yourself.

Poetry is a trivial
conversation brought
to life by a rearrangement
of letters and phrases.

You are a poet,
and in the same moment,
you are a poem.

Lie to me and tell me you'll never leave,
that you love me and forever is a reality.
Promise me that everything will be alright,
when we both know it never was and never will be.

Be my knight in shining armor, and let me
discover the aluminum foil and the dents.
Become a professor, but instead of teaching biology,
help me learn how to love myself.

Ah, loving oneself, what a daunting task;
but so is loving someone else.
So when I confess that I just can't do it anymore,
please lie and tell me you know I'm strong enough.

With thoughts as scattered as the morning sun,
the impatient breeze dances in my lungs.
The melodies of birds spoken in tongues;
wisps of clouds are constantly on the run.
The leaves are the signs of a battle won
between the laurels and the air that hung.
The fading moon tells a story unsung
and the sky awakes as the lonely one.
Constant movement becomes reality.
Consumed with both the future and the past,
Disconnected from present mentality.
A broken relationship with nature;
it’s the one thing we hope we don’t outlast,
trust to withstand our own brutality.

She wrote a note to him
outlining the way he
made her heart beat,
and why, because of
this, she couldn't stay.

She wrote a note to him,
slowly and methodically,
carefully planning
every syllable and
letter that graced
the page to him.

She wrote a note to him,
and realized how
much she cared for
him, and knew she
had to let go before
it was too late.

She wrote a note to him
and when she got
to the end of the letter,
she artfully signed it,
*insincerely yours.

Sorrow flows in her veins,
anger runs in her family.
She yearns to cut off every relative
and cut out every capillary,
to forget every moment
she was surrounded by the
hatred that seeped into her skin
and settled within her bones.
She's sick, she claims, infected
with an invisible disease capable
of killing her from the inside
out.

alone
a ripple in the ocean,
a single leaf in the forest;
part of something, yet
completely overlooked.
insignificant
an eyelash on the sidewalk,
a step in the right direction;
a tear that falls at night,
and is dry by morning.
gone

Your sorrow cries out
and breaks every bone
I have left in my body.

There's not much left
after you cracked my ribs
when you said goodbye,
And after you tore my
skin apart when you
said it was all a lie

But I will pick up the remains
of my broken skeleton
and bury the pieces six feet under
the swing you claimed was special,
when you told me you loved me.

Maybe when you bring your next
girl to the same place, you'll hear
my voice invading your every thought
and haunting every inch of your body.

I hope you do,
and I hope it kills you too.

It's 12:01 am and you're crying.
It should be the beginning of a new day,
a fresh start, a blank slate.
But instead you're sitting there
unable to control your breathing,
victim to the way your sobs rock
your body and how your thoughts
invade every safe haven in your mind.
You want so badly to cry out for help,
but you know your voice isn't strong
enough for anyone to hear anymore.
And so you wish for sleep, whether
temporary or permanent, and wait
for the tears to subside so that you
can finally close your eyes.

It's funny how memories work,
some are nice and soft like
the sweater you clung to in the
fifth grade when your family
stopped giving out hugs.

But others feel like they're
ripping out a vital *****,
typically your heart, and you
don't know what to do because
you never went to med school
like your parents always wanted.

You're sitting in your room on
the phone and then all of a sudden
a tornado is outside your window
and your ceiling is leaking and
you can hear the wind screaming
for you to just give up already.

The only time you've ever picked
up a hammer was in woodshop in
seventh grade but instead of making
a chess board, it's banging against
every wall in your head and a
chainsaw is cutting up your thoughts.

And so you get through this daily
hell the only way you know: by
counting breaths and dripping
tears on the coat of man's best
friend as you drift to sleep.

I have been learning how to die:
My ribs are poking through and my coat is getting thin.
Love lies hidden in every rose,
It’s a restless hungry feeling that don’t mean no one no good.
Nothing is permanent in this wicked world;
You must let them go, they were born to go.
There was never meant to be clarity.
Let nothing disturb you; let nothing frighten you.

When the wind blows, the grass bends;
There are so many fragile things after all.
The earth has music for those who listen,
But those songs and bells were the laughter of guns
And their echoes are truly endless.
You said I should learn to sing along,
There’s paranoia in your veins.

Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be,
The world is filled with broken things.
You must have chaos within you,
You can turn a phrase into a weapon.
Words are the most powerful drug used by mankind;
I always have to justify how my tongue dances.

Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple:
When you cease to exist who will you blame?

I miss your thoughts breathing
down my neck, and your comfort
crawling around my feet. The
temporary release from living,
and just being; but that's all we
ever were: temporary, unstable.
A ship that I took control of as
we were sailing into shore,
we never had a chance to change
the course or our time spent
together. And now we've finally
docked and I knew that as soon
as your feet hit the warm, grainy
sand you would be long gone.
And I was right; I glimpsed back
and all I could see was your shirt
flicking in the wind and regrets
and passion falling behind with
every rushed, forceful step.
So this is my farewell to the boy
I used as a stepping stone, the
casual forever that will never
be fulfilled.

Her house hasn't been a home for months now,
filled with ghosts that are burdened with life
and whose words scream with built up tension.

She goes unnoticed in a room full of chaos,
only looked to when the mood needs to be lifted.
How does she tell them that she wants to be lifted,
not in spirits, but from every thought and burden.

Her heart aches with every breath
and she feels her chest might collapse,
leaving her heart dark and untouched forever.

It's been four years, yet it feels
like it was only yesterday
that I heard your giggle erupt
from behind me while we ran.

We were running from everything,
there was no one to chase us
except our pasts and our futures.

We were running from old age
and sickness and responsibility.
We were running from rules
and friendships and love.

But we didn't know that the
further you get from one thing,
the closer you get to something else.

We were running from joy and
youth and didn't know we were
headed straight for fear and grief.

That day you ran away from me,
our paths never crossed again
and they never will.

That day you ran towards peace
and forgiveness and acceptance,
and I ran straight for sorrow
and a life filled with heartache.

I don't run anymore.

Arms too thin for her already
frail body, a frame that is so
unbelievably weak, yet still
stronger than her mind.

A couple scratches on her
arms from when her thoughts
took control, a few clumsy
bruises from her parents
when they tried to fix her.

And she still has the crooked
grin, that smirk that just
screams self-confidence.
Or maybe it's simply to distract
anyone from looking at her
eyes, where grief and pain
attempt to hide in between the
shades of brown and green.
Eyes that have seen too much
but don't want anyone to know,
part of a face trying so hard
to be perfect enough for the
people who are so imperfect
themselves.

This time last year I choked on every
breath I tried to take and I broke down
at every other 2 a.m. that came along.
Nights were the only time my eyes were
dry because I didn't want to cry at the
hospital. That would be too cliche
and too much for you to take.

You were supposed to die that night,
nobody expected you to live a couple
more hours and now it's been over a year.

You scared us again that December.
I didn't go to my soccer tournament
because I was too emotionally unstable
and I was sure you were going to die.
You didn't.

You were still in the hospital in January
and now you were hallucinating.
A man died in the room next door and I was
convinced that was a sign that you were next.
I'll never forget the screams of his family.
I prepared myself for that to be us.
It hasn't happened yet.

You got back your remission, but you
lost your ability to walk. You have
become the ever present voice in my ear
and your eyes beg me to save you from
your own personal hell.

But I can't save you. I've tried.
I've spent countless nights thinking about
what I could do better and what I had
already done wrong, but the lack of sleep
never inspired any solutions.

I'm sorry that I'm not your hero.
I'm sorry that he couldn't be your savior.
I'm sorry he couldn't even keep himself afloat.
But most of all,
I'm sorry that I'm waiting for you to die.

People always clap for the wrong reasons,
And the best at ****** are those who preach against it.  
Evil is not intrinsic. It’s fashioned.  
I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.  
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out.  
I talk to God but the sky is empty;
This love is silent.  
It’s exponentially bigger than you think;
It’s what you feel, but can’t articulate out loud.  

Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.  
And neither the angels in the heaven above nor the demons down under the sea
Or the ghosts inside of me
Ever told me that grief felt so like fear.  
It’s easier to floss with barbed wire than
Admit that we love evil too well to give it up.  
Youth is a blunder, old age a regret;
But you cannot find peace by avoiding life.  

Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
To struggle against this stupidity,  
I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.  
The troublemakers are just a handful,  
And if our times are difficult and perplexing,
We become what we think.
The earth has music for those who listen;
There are times when the wolves are silent and the moon is howling.  
Nature is a haunted house—but Art—
Is not a thing, it is a way;
A parasitic on life.  
It is easy to fool the eye,
But art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.  
We are killing a part of our souls
Every whisper of every waking hour,
And none of it seems real to me,
But everyone’s to blame.  

I have been learning how to die:  
My ribs are poking through and my coat is getting thin.  
Love lies hidden in every rose,
It’s a restless hungry feeling that don’t mean no one no good.  
Nothing is permanent in this wicked world;
You must let them go, they were born to go.  
There was never meant to be clarity.  
Let nothing disturb you; let nothing frighten you.  

When the wind blows, the grass bends;
There are so many fragile things after all.  
The earth breathes melodies in the wind,  
But those songs and bells were the laughter of guns
And their echoes are truly endless.
You said I should learn to sing along,
There’s paranoia in your veins.

Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be,
The world is filled with broken things.
You must have chaos within you,
You can turn a phrase into a weapon.  
Words are the most powerful drug used by mankind;
I always have to justify how my tongue dances:
I bite my tongue and torch my dreams.  

When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time;
To live is the rarest thing in the world.
The fear of death follows from the fear of life,  
And sometimes I can hear my bones straining under  
The weight of all the lives I’m not living.  
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to
Not let your fire go out.    

Love is always open arms;
Hate is too great a burden to bear.
I leave my heart open but it stays right here empty for days.
I still want to drown whenever you leave,
But in the end you can’t always choose what to keep.  
Everything must be made as simple as possible,  
Yet fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.  

We must be careful about what we pretend to be,  
The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.  
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored,  
Everything you can imagine is real.  
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live:  
To those who will see, the world waits.  
The sun only comes up to humiliate you,  
But the planet is fine. The people are ******.

You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope,  
They can make your thoughts as heavy as branches after a storm.  
He had preserved the best part of her  
And made it his own: the principle of her scent.
He told how “the heavy smell of flower petals stroked the walls of my lungs.”
But ghosts have a way of misleading you.  
We are all haunted, all of us, by things we can see and feel and guess at,  
And many more things that we can’t.  
We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.  

You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning, do you?
Your hands went cold in mine and I’m still searching for warmth;  
Nothing burns like the cold.  
For when all else is done, only words remain. Words endure.  
The future depends on what we do in the present,  
The time will never be just right.  
Question the world and don’t wait for a reply
Don’t be fooled by the words of deceit,
Don’t let her stick it to your heart so hard.

Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple:
When you cease to exist who will you blame?
Everyone I know is gone, and I barely know myself.