They told us that we could be anything
So we became an empty shell of aspirations
And shards of broken dreams
Sharp enough to cut through the daydream
The fantasy that everything happens for a reason
And nothing is hiding under your bed at night
And you are invincible

It's been awhile
since I wrote
but it's one of those nights
that my words take shape
in a silent scream.
The poet can find
inspiration in almost anything
but we find the most satisfaction
in the dark and the dreary and the hopeless
when we feel ugly
or unwanted
or alone
because we can make something beautiful
out of something that is broken
and even though there are tear stains
on my face
and on my paper
I can turn those streaks of emotion
into a gentle rain
that whispers that
love does exist
and dreams do come true
and life is worth living

She sat up, drenched in sweat, panting. A cursory glance out of her window presented nothing but darkness beyond the fluttering white curtains, the cool night air seeping into her bedroom. She shivered and pressed herself further into the blankets, wrapping layers of warmth around her like a fluffy cocoon.
With a forlorn sigh, she tried to coax herself back to sleep, trying her best to ignore the bright red numbers of her alarm clock that flashed a disappointing 4:00 AM. She knew this would be pointless. She could never sleep on this night- this night where she was annually plagued by a steady onslaught of nightmares on the anniversary of that grim event. To fall into the foreboding arms of sleep meant to curl up in a flurry of gaunt eyes and hollowed skin among other things- terrible things that slowly slunk back into the light, try as she might to push them into the back of her mind and deprive them of memory or existence.
The worst thing she dreamt about, though, was his face. It rushed into her consciousness like an angry dark secret with blinding clarity and startling vividness. She counted several prominent wrinkles on the yellowing, sickly skin. His hair was thinning, falling out in wispy clumps. Perhaps what bothered her most was her recollection of the eyes. She had looked into those eyes much like one would peer down into a chasm: knowing that there was a place down there deprived of light or joy or laughter, simply an empty void. It had been painful to look into those eyes and realize that there wasn’t any hope left for him. And so she had held the withered hand connected to the emaciated excuse for a body, and the eyes looked towards her one last time, remorseful and hopeless. Then they had closed and he was gone.

I haven’t been able to sleep for the past couple of nights,
something I wish that could just be classified as a typical case of insomnia.
But I know the reason for my wandering, rambling mind
extends far beyond a simple medical diagnosis.
As I lay awake tossing and turning I've deduced that I have two possibilities to explain
my current misfortune.
My first option is that I’m nearing the brink of insanity -
which I’m trying to convince myself is true-
because I don’t think I could come to terms with the other reason.

And yet there’s no evading it.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face and inadvertently find myself submerged in her perfection. This is then accompanied by a pitiful pang of longing.

The truth is, I didn’t come for her.
It was never about her.
In fact, right before I got myself into this mess I had constructed a mental compilation of things I wouldn’t allow myself to do.
  I had reassured myself with a definitive firmness that if I broke her heart,  I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

Of course, that was when I still could sleep.
That was before I developed a stupid conscience.
That was before everything changed.
And now I’m running out of options and running out of time.

DON'T READ THIS POEM
................................................
...........­......................................
..........................­........................
........................................­..........
..................................................
...­...............................................
For as you can see
it represents the effects
of reverse psychology

I've always yearned to taste the golden and shimmering sunlight, dripping steadily down the sides of my cheeks. I’ve licked my lips in anticipation, and with intense imagery I've found myself basking in the warm glow, enveloped by a soft blanket of light, savoring this tantalizing prospect. Each day I would wake and press my palm against the cool, hard glass of my bedroom window and gaze at the bright yellow blaze in the sky, the light dancing in my eyes. And as I watch the sun one last time, a melancholy prospect, I fully appreciate the sight. The orange rays filter through the ridge in the distance, the dusk permeating the entirety of the valley below and I hardly dare to breathe. For so long I've concentrated on the sun rising. Never had I given much thought to how it sets in the heat of the day. And so I’d lived my life watching the sun rise and die, much like my short time spent in existence. I knew that each day I would rise, neither focusing nor caring on those last dying rays. I could live with the knowledge that someday I would have to die. In fact, I knew fully well of this imminence.
I just didn't think it would be so soon.