"I am so lonely
and alone
my sadness
is my tomb”
Said the 12 year old girl
that watches shows of suicide
but only has a 1/6250 chance of
dying like the girls on those shows.
Even if she attempted to go through with it
the odds of succeeding are
1/25.
Oh boy,
it’s hard for young girls
to die.
I myself
usually only deal with odds of
1/1,000,000
but i’m more of a thrill seeker
than a mathematician.
But a lot more recently
i’ve been thinking about
odds
much more along the lines of
one in
6250.

Do you remember
That day before the day
You died.
I had yet to cry
And yet already cried.
How would I know
It'd be the last time.
A kiss upon your nose
Barely a goodbye.
I didn't know
I didn't know it'd be
The last time.
If I did I would've stayed
And waited for the time.
To too quickly slip
Beyond your mind
And take you away from me
As I held you close
Forging your soul with mine

I seek fulfillment
while I
die
trying to deny
these demons.
People use the phrase
“It’s all in your head”
and
what if it is?
What if it is?
Is that any better?
Inside isn’t a place to hide
it’s a beacon
to our reality
everything we see
is simply reflected from the outside to the in
endlessly.
Unless I end it.
Unless I think of a way
to fend them off.
I can’t
but I will.
All I’ve got left is will
will and that
half filled bottle of pills
but not the ones prescribed
the ones that tie my hands behind my back
and leave me ******* the **** of life for more.
It’s ok
don’t worry
it’s all only
a metaphor.
All except the title
I’d be dead
if not entitled.

I riddle my lies and empty my ties in the river of tears that i’ve cried as i lie in bed in the midst of the night
kissing my fright alight.

Sparks fly
but I can’t end it.
My dog Sparks died
but I pretend he didn’t
As words float around my mind
sounding (a lot like)
schizophrenic.
I end it.

I've been abused
Bla bla bla
My life's been *****
Bla bla bla
Nothing's the same
Bla bla bla
I tremor as I sleep in chains
Bla bla bla
My waking dreams and nightmares are the same
Bla bla bla
Last night I tried to **** myself in the rain
Bla bla bla
The trauma might get better but will never go away (fully change)
Bla bla bla
My brother died last week
Bla bla bla
He left me this ring
Bla bla bla
I wore it straight unto the grave
Bla bla bla
And never once told I'm gay
You're gay?
Oh god...
Anything
But gay

I've been abused
Bla bla bla
My life's been *****
Bla bla bla
Nothing's the same
Bla bla bla
I tremor as I sleep in chains
Bla bla bla
My waking dreams and nightmares are the same
Bla bla bla
Last night I tried to **** myself in the rain
Bla bla bla
The trauma might get better but will never go away (fully change)
Bla bla bla
My brother died last week
Bla bla bla
He left me this ring
Bla bla bla
I wore it straight unto the grave
Bla bla bla
And never once told I'm gay
You're gay?
Oh god...
Anything
But gay

The trees
used to sing with the wind
before He got here.

The salty ocean water
would gently shush us
all to sleep.
Now that He’s here
ships are sinking like
our dreams:
immediately.

Ever since He arrived
Candles no longer light the way,
They burn bridges
and build unimaginable walls
in their wake.

Plutonium
is no longer
radioactive.
Radioactivity
is relative.
Everything now glows a
sickly hue,
brought on
by His discolored
rotting views.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

The eternal marriage
of Air
and the Earth
has faltered
under the guise of
conversion
“therapy”

Water has now
made itself undrinkable to all
but the chosen few.

Fire is now
Only Orange.

The Aether
is no longer empty.
It is filled
with all our memories.
It is the only place
for all of our bodies to go
now that we’re bound for soot,
inhabitable soil
and eternal
nuclear snow.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

are now

GreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgain

There are lots of avenues
through history
to travel down “again.”

Many views of former greatness.

Slavery
Holocausts
Massacres
Cities Lost

and it all starts

with an immigration ban.

Signed on the day
remembering
my dozens of dead family.
My millions slaughtered endlessly.

Here we are
At the beginning.

History supposedly repeats itself

Let’s not let Him

days go by
like drunk children in their
mothers womb.
I’m fishing in a pond
filled with nothing but alcohol.
It feels good
but I haven’t found any fishies yet.

I guess this is what
transitioning to your 20s feels like:
three weeks of settling into your new place,
thinking you have quite a few opportunities ahead of you
and then settling into your slightly bigger than before bed
only to stay there for hours upon hours a day
scrolling through nothing on the computer
hoping for more to come your way.

I’m trying to eat like a poor person
but I’m only poor in spirit,
financially i’m fat as a double sized donkey.
I’ve got a big ***
but it’s a nice ***
but i still wear
baggy jeans
and all black
to hide my
assets.

I wonder if i’ll look back on this transition period
with regrets.
The days fluctuate
some are
time so well spent.
Others are
just as dry as paint,
the stuff of art
but probably just as useless
as recoloring a picket fence.

I reigned down a
million little planes.
I fought in all the wars.
Once I was done with my
enemies
nothing was ever the same.
I terrorized.
I was the face of real evil.
There were no ulterior motives.
I was the face of pure evil
for evils sake.
There was no reason. I
Killed all of them
every last one
I watched stone-cold
emotionless
absolutely neutral
as each of them
grimaced
at the horror
that was
the end.

And I opened my eyes at my cubicle desk
stretched a little as my
five minute break came to a close
and started once again
typing
feeling slightly better
but still waiting for 5 o clock.

I see a sea
Gradually creeping up
On me.
I feel a fear
stiffly forging
A path to my (mind).
I hear a high
Can only bring you down
So much before
You die.
These terrors keep creeping
As the crypt keeper keeps crypt creeping,
Trying to find a sign.
Trying to find A sign that
He's alive.
He sees nothing but
Resemblance
Between his life
And the mortified faces
Of the no-more-mortal morgue men.
The crypt keepers life is mortifying.
He'd **** himself but
He sees the same
Between the dead
And dying.
He rides his dead eyed
Horse between his house
And the morgue.
Little does he know
He has no home anymore.

The cryptic crypt keeper keeps keeping me awake.
The mortified men are just laughing at their stake.
I arrive at the door
The pearly gray gates.
Knock in hope for more
Waiting out my fate.
Ding ****, the bell tolls
Throughout this
Measured mystic landscape.
Death as in a dream,
Answers immediately.
Why am I here!
I chime out solemnly.
You've been here for years
Death responds to me.
For as long as I've crept and
creeped anyway.
Death is the crypt keeper
I question, exasperated
What else would I be
Doing here
He sighs slovenly
He pulls a chord
Opens the door
And steps aside
Waiting for me.
I died?
Only if you walk inside
The one way gates
To the other side
Of this miraculous night
He cries.
I walk the line
Between there and life
Free of fear
For the first time
Finally.
He smiles,
And says
"I lied"
Through his Death filled
Shroud, all smiley.
"You've made it son"
He says as he pulls back his hood
Revealing
Not Death
But Light.
.....

The most beautiful sight
I've ever seen?
It was a
White light sort of day
And I was walking through
A small passageway
On the sidewalk
Put up for construction
With the
Beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline
Suddenly sitting within
The view of my eyes.
It was the
Stillness after a long day
That really enraptured me
As I was finally free
And alone with the view.
For I had just come from hell
And had to go back there soon.

I seek fulfillment
while I
die
trying to deny
these demons.
People use the phrase
“It’s all in your head”
and
what if it is?
What if it is?
Is that any better?
Inside isn’t a place to hide
it’s a beacon
to our reality
everything we see
is simply reflected from the outside to the in
endlessly.
Unless I end it.
Unless I think of a way
to fend them off.
I can’t
but I will.
All I’ve got left is will
will and that
half filled bottle of pills
but not the ones prescribed
the ones that tie my hands behind my back
and leave me ******* the **** of life for more.
It’s ok
don’t worry
it’s all only
a metaphor.
All except the title
I’d be dead
if not entitled.

I riddle my lies and empty my ties in the river of tears that i’ve cried as i lie in bed in the midst of the night
kissing my fright alight.

Sparks fly
but I can’t end it.
My dog sparks died
but I pretend he didn’t
As words float around my mind
sounding a lot like
schizophrenic.
I end it.

I drink the
Liquid light within my life.
I down the
Serum
More seamlessly
Than the ******* thing is made.
Oh boy I am
So fearfully afraid.
Two fears don't make a positive.

I've already been by this drink.
Most my life I've been beside these sips.
Lately I've been considering
Just one taste
To touch tongues tip.
The anti-River Styx.
I decided to
Go through with it
Took one drip then downed that ****
Bottom of the bottle hit
Wanted more so licked and licked
Till I saw myself
As an addict.
And between you and me
And between that day and this
That drop was bad
But so was the
soberness

Help

SOS
Somebody
come down here
and save me
immediately.
I am stranded
on an island
called “the rest of my life.”
Last night I went to sleep
as a child.
I was a beautiful boy named Brandon.
I loved myself.
I loved the world.
Every door
was waiting for me down the hall.
No passageway was locked.
I could go
anywhere
everywhere
but now
i’m here.
Help
Last night I went to sleep as a child
and this mid afternoon
I awoke
as someone
I never thought I would see.
I’m staring at a screen
with the faint glare of my
reflection
staring back at me.
Help
Oh my god
Help
Is this
hell?
To have every possibility
for-never-more?
I look a certain way
and whether I like it or not
that is what I will look like
for the rest of my life.
Even worse
this’ll be
the look of me at my peak
for only a couple more years
then it’s straight downhill from there (for me).
My chosen life
my chosen relationships
my chosen bed
is not the one I fell asleep in
last night as that
beautiful boy.
I was in a rocket ship
bed!
I could soar to the moon
and could shoot through the stars!
I woke up (this mid-afternoon)
and my blinds are all closed.
I opened them
with these
fully grown fingers
that I was oh so shocked to see (didn’t quite feel like me)
(the nails were all crusted
and wrinkles were starting to peek)
and beyond the blinds the sun
didn’t shine
for any reason
except to be able to see.
What’s the point of daylight
if the suns rays don’t
put a sparkle in your eye?
Is this what death feels like?
Are there no signs of sparkles
in eternal darkness?

I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge
no longer needing to put a chair in front to reach
the top shelf.
But it’s not
sweets i’m searching for this mid afternoon.
I take a bubbly
bottle
so much lesser than soda
and crack it open.
It reads
“Corona”
across the front.
Why am I drinking this?
The taste feels
fouler than fizz
but the lack of sparkle in my eye
becomes less prominent
as I sink down on my sofa
thinking things I don’t comprehend.

Strings of words like
“Why didn’t she ever call me back?”
and
“I AM normal”
float across my mind.
I don’t understand what either of them mean
but as I take my fifteenth sip
of this
“Corona”
I feel the urge to cry.
Yet for the first time in my
yesterday-eight-year-old-life
my sighs stop my cries
from ever coming out.
I feel them
become buried so deep down inside
that the tears turn to ice
but i’m already cold so I
never seem to mind.
More and more thoughts float around my mind,
I’m surrounded by screens
(so many screens
phone screen
computer screen
TV screen…
they’re all floating and scrolling nowhere
endlessly)
and my fake fizzy drink
as these thoughts I don’t understand float faster through my mind.

The room starts to spin
as I realize
bottles are all around me.
My head dips to rest on the sofa
as I see a faint glimmer
of sunlight
flitter through the crack of the blinds.
The sun goes down
and darkness surrounds me.
I have nothing
more to drink
but the thoughts still won’t cease.
“He’s just better than you,
you have no talent.”
and
“If they thought you were good enough
attractive enough
charismatic enough
and not so ******* weird
they would’ve emailed you
and given you the job.”
I don’t understand
what any of these thoughts mean
but a realization strikes me suddenly…
why am I not out to play!
It’s already dark out
and I haven’t  been in my sandbox
once today!

My eyelids
droop to a close
as the image of life
slips from my sight
wondering how many nights
I’ve fallen asleep on this couch.

Wondering how
I fell asleep among the stars
in my eight year old bed
(with my beautiful eight year head
resting snugly
on my pillow
with the last words I heard
before I went to sleep being
“I love you.”)
last night
and how so many years
feel as if they’ve flown by.
I wonder if i’ll ever go back to being in them.

Suddenly a light starts to shine
from behind the lid of my eyes
and I hear a familiar voice
beckon me awake.
My
mom
says
“Brandon! Wake up
it’s time for school.”

I bolt up
with a smile on my face
with the faintest feeling of a
very bad dream
lingering inside of me.

But I don’t remember it.

It’s today!

And what a beautiful day!

Time to play!

I hug my mom
meet my friends
and live my life
for what it’s meant to be
a sandbox
for everyone to play.

I’m not in my twenties
I don’t live on my own with roommates I don’t know
I didn’t drink Corona last night alone until I passed out on the sofas foam.
I don’t have my childhood behind me with cold in my heart and no direction forward.
I’m eight.
I’m eight years old
and my world still feels like home.

I went to
Standup today
And the guy said
"No notes"
But I went up there
And I did my notes
And I did my set
And the first half went well
And the second half was ok
And I got laughs
And I got offstage
And the guy threatened me
And did it in a passive aggressive way
And said some people get banned
And I left right after my set anyway
And went on the subway

the homeless guy is getting on with me
And is begging softly for money
And the happy ending masseuse is jerking
And the orphans walking back to his "home"
And the annual tenth black women's being shot
And the illegal busboys wiping his 87th table
And the bitter son lost his father yesterday
And there (really) is a child in Africa starving
And a girls being *****, for the second time
And the blocked composers cocking his gun
And the muse is lying on the beach of nonexistence

And
And
And

The homeless man, exiting the train, says,

Thank you
God bless you all
I'll probably see you all here
tomorrow
And

“Love is hard” he said, as the edges of the beach and the ocean gathered together in on-the-ground clouds brushed up by the wind.

“What’s the hardest kind?” she said, staring out at the clouds, the ones on the ground and up above.

“Self-Love” He said.

“You’re right,” She said smiling but still not looking at him. “The kind I feel with you, is much much easier.”

The clouds subside
She puts her hand in mine
Our hearts walk out with the tide
Leaving nothing but our minds
To think about the times we had.
That’s all we have ever have.

“Tom?” She asks.

“Celia?” He replies.

“I love me.”

“I love you too.”

Once i wished to be the last person on earth
so when i would sing
no one would do it better
but then i realized that the wind
blew more beautifully than my voice ever could
the birds chirped from their trees tunes
sweeter than all my songs
and the stillness of the air stopped my breath
silently singing
more freely
than me