Words are an engine,
Our minds are the fuel.

Lets take a trip to a imagined place
Let us travel roads of thought,

Words are an engine,
Our minds are the fuel.

We have the power to take us,
Take us to any given place.

Secrets drowning in blood
         steeped depictions,
cunningly smothered
  of familial tied executions,
heredity oft an unkind
     sacramental entanglement,
deeply rooted in
   disparaging divisions,
disintegrated 'neath ashes
      of unresolved deliverance

with my craftsman skill
a huge wall between
what I portray and who I am

Inner Weather Report:


The silence weighs heavily around my ears and it is difficult to focus

Stare at the ceiling but it moves as I end up head-first on the floors





My heart doesn't stop racing as I wonder and double back to crossroads left behind. Self blame is a slippery ***** which I already slithered away on. There wasn't much left and I feel like the hollow impression of smoke of an extinguished candle. My enthusiasm lurks behind corners as I run behind it but I tire out and stop for a drink at the stream of cynicism and depression. A sound resounding throughout my head as I imagine the worst and maybe that's not even the worst. College might not even pay-off.

How can I confide that I am worried because I don't see myself alive and going there means to sign a contract saying that I will not die?


It is a difficult reality and I worry so much.



A girl told me that I don't deserve to be forgotten the second I leave the room; that I deserve people caring and thinking about me.

She forgot everything the next morning.



As someone else sinks into depression, a whole group launches into discussions to help and I launch myself into it, a smaller part of me wondering where they were when I had asked.



It creeps onto me every day- an old friend. I've been comfortable living inside its haze for this long. How can I live without you my dearest friend? You have given me insight and clarity, given my feet direction even if just to throw myself off cliffs and I don't think I'll be me without you anymore.


How can I bid you goodbye? I was never good at those, preferring to walk out leaving bitterness and unsaid hellos and farewells behind me.


No promises and connections.

I've survived in you this long. How do I move on from you?


You are the only thing that has ever been mine, dancing in my tears and depression, asking me to cut a bit deeper, a bit more to the left. My four walls, ceiling and floor- you are my Home. Organically, growing, nestling in the veins of my sins, my existence. You are not a cancer but my closest well-wisher, you are me. To know you is to face myself. How can I breathe without you?

My OFF switch is off,
Which means it's on:
I may have brushed it,
Flicked it in full sight;
I didn't throw a shoe at it,
Or ***** during the night.
But that's how my switch works
When I'm not attentive.
The OFF goes ON,
And then I'm done,
I head towards the cave,
Alone and dark,
With my finger on the switch
To flick, when feeling fit,
When I've had enough of it.

isn't it odd
how we can know
human nature
well enough
to write poems
that move others
to tears
yet must hear
the words of others
to cry
alone
.