I'm so unhappy
being this being
of unresolved
uncomforts and broken
unrealistic dreams
of wanting to be a new
something without a way
of becoming
it's this pain so deep
even I can't reach it
in a place where only I can feel it
and I smile and wave
while people say
"wow, she looks so happy"
but I fake so much
I almost think it's real
and then I'm reminded
with a tear stained window
that I've never been so unhappy

all the pretty people
with pretty little faces
fake little hearts
and interrupting gazes
laughing away empty tears
loaded guns whisper in their ears
bottles of pills, personally filled
fake pretty people in millions of pretty pieces

Touching the
     curves of my mind
   Fabrications of
        missing pieces
Too many
    troubles left behind
            Filled with ugliness,
   and bitter diseases
       Thoughts are somewhat
scrambled
             Yet I know I'm thinking clearly
        Sometimes
Life is a gamble
         Gotta roll the dice
     To reach your destiny
I cry too much,
           Of that I'm sure
     I could blame it on
            Anxiety
         Or all the unjust hurts
****** upon me
      But in the end, I know
It's not what you can see
           It's where you go
And what you believe



I'm gonna start believing
         *in me

She cries late
                  every night
     Turns off all the
                           lights
         Sits in bed
bawls
             her eyes out
      in the dark
Cutting out pieces
      of her heart
No one can see
                          the scars
           of her sewing
back up her chest
       Soon she will be
             an empty shell
        Hopefully
                    putting her soul to rest
If her heart
                    is no longer there
It can't get broken,
              right?
If no one can see
                          the tears
Then she never cried,
                     right?

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.

With veiled excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eye despairs above the stairs, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how his world will end -
to die unknown, forlorn, alone? No use a farewell penned!

And soon the boys chase phantom joys then, presto when they’ve gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features wan,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
(like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, though fairy dust's withdrawn).  

With twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

I found myself in the music of
the Beatles --
In drastic rise and sultry fall of
John Lennon's voice.
In the rhythmic sound of
Paul McCartney's bass.
In the hauntingly beautiful chords of
George Harrison's guitar.
In the solidity and beat of
Ringo Starr's drums.
They helped me find
the life
that I thought had
drained out of me
long ago.
All four of them
pulled my heart
out of my chest,
patching and healing it
until it was whole again.
For them,
I am grateful.
Because of them,
I am alive.