Hell is not made of fire.

A lot of people believe that hell is a world covered in flames, with heat that sears through your very being, scorches your soul, and inflicts terrible agony. They say Hell is a place for fiery torment, where fire is a vicious serpent that winds through your existence and seeks to quench every feeling except anguish, but at the same time refusing to let you be conquered by nothingness, keeping you wide-awake so you can feel every blistering sensation.

They're wrong.

Hell doesn't look the same for everyone else. Hell is a multi-faced mirror with countless reflections caging you inside the hollow of a diamond so you can see the glaring facets you refuse to look at. Hell is not always a place; sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an event--sometimes it's a person.

Hell shows itself not only in death. Hell is everywhere--it's just somewhere around the corner of the street, hiding its face behind a newspaper, waiting for you to make the wrong choices. It's just somewhere behind you, an invisible fiend watching your every step, waiting for you to stumble. And once you do, it will laugh at you. You won't hear its sinister laughter, nor would you notice the subtle shift of the ground beneath your feet.

The odds are no longer in your favor.

Hell is cold. Hell is calculating. Hell is terrorizing.

Hell is reaching inside yourself, searching your heart, trying to find out how you really feel--but ending up finding nothing. Hell is opening your mouth to scream but nothing comes out because there is nothing left inside. Hell is the immovable boulder weighing down on your chest, it is the desperate need for the ability to cry, it is the panic and anguish that comes when you realize you can't.

Hell is watching him with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect smile, knowing he isn't even aware of your plain existence. Hell is realizing for the first time that unrequited love is not as romantic as people say. Hell is waiting, waiting, waiting for something you know won't come. Hell is finally getting the nerve to say 'I love you' but only receiving silence in return. Hell is laughing it all away and saying it's nothing, I understand why, all the while wishing you could run to someplace where you can cry and scream without being heard. Hell is falling in love.

Hell is the red mark on your record, the frowns on your parents' faces, the pitying looks on your friends' expressions. Hell is the star you failed to reach, the shaking heads, the consoling pats on your back. Hell is the mocking laughter ringing in your ears even after they've long ended. Hell is the condescending voices echoing from somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you who you were, who you've been, and who you are now. Hell is laughing at you. Hell is disappointment. Hell is trying and trying over and over and never succeeding. Hell is failure.

Hell is building your life with damning patience, with meticulous thoroughness, with painstaking care, and having it all knocked down to the ground. Hell is desperation, hopelessness. Hell is the blooming rose standing amidst a bed of withered blossoms. It's the touching beauty of life at its most exquisite, the surging anticipation, the reckless triumph, and the next day when you look for the rose you only find a withered stalk. Hell is hope.

Hell is the silent night torn apart by raging screams and flying furniture. Hell is the deafening wail of a child accompanying every insult, every furious, careless word that escapes your mouth. Hell is the empty threat he took as a promise. Hell is holding his hand and realizing it's no longer as comfortable as it used to be. Hell is the sadness weighing on your apartment, so palpable you could wrap your fingers around it and try to snap it--but you can't, because hell is already there. Hell is the silence, the eternal quiet screaming in your ears, as you pack your suitcase, as you stuff in old photographs trapped behind the cracked glass of their picture frames. It's the painful need to sit still and concentrate on breathing because you suddenly forgot how to. It's looking around you, seeing the stripped bed, the empty closet, the unsettling dust floating along the light filtering through the misted windows. Hell is falling out of love.

I could go on about hell forever, and I would never be able to enumerate all of them because there can only be so many words that can describe hell, and there are too many people in this world who see different kinds of hell. I cannot accurately define hell, I don't know much about it. I cannot claim to have seen hell, because I've never been to a place like it before.

But I know that hell is cold.

Because hell is not always made of fire.

An old woman sits down in the wheelchair.
A small child takes her first wavering step.

A million fireworks dance into the air, flash, ears hear songs of celebration, awe takes hold.
A million mortar shells leap into the air, flash, ears sing the ring of confusion, shock takes hold.

A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a child's shoe.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a noose.

A woman in white walks down the aisle alongside the man she loves.
A woman in black walks down the aisle to the man she loved.

A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of cold medicine to an ill infant.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of pentobarbital to an ill canine.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of ****** into her own arm.

A father raises his hand.
. . .
A child receives a reassuring pat on the shoulder, his team having just won the tee-ball state championships.
A woman takes aim, her lens coming into focus on her subject.
. . .
A man that has been psychologically abusing her for several years collapses to the ground.

A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the skyscraper they have designed and built over the course of several years. This accomplishment towers above all else humankind has created.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the mushroom cloud they have engineered and constructed over the course of several months. This weapon towers above all else humankind has created.

A million lives wink out.
A million eyes open for the first time.

A manuscript is penned, the author sets down his pen and takes a sip of tea.
A pile of books burns with black smoke, the cult sets down their torches and takes a deep breath before screaming.

The infant screams sharply after taking its first breath.
The old man wheezes after telling the last of his stories to his grandson.
"That's it, boy. That's everything I ever did."
A tear rolls down his cheek, the profundity of his statement dawning on him as the breaths become harder to take.
"That's everything I was to everyone I met."

Under every rock a thousand secrets shimmer.
Beneath every tree, a hundred promises have been made.
Some of them have been broken.
Remember the promises you made? You know the ones.

You can become the architect of someone's dreams or the shadowed figure in their nightmares.
You can put down the gun. You can pull the trigger.

You can.

A billion men and a billion women before you have lived out their lives, have wasted, have wanted, have sunk to the lowest depths and risen to the highest peaks. A million have set out to become the best at something, and a whole lot of them have succeeded.

I wasn't always so easily discouraged.
I used to bristle with enthusiasm.
I glowed with it.
It didn't matter if the task was simple, or tedious, or daunting, or boring.
As though on rails, I slammed into each and every task with terrific force.

But I got older.
Things that used to come easily grew slippery.
What I used to do without thinking twice, I found myself over-thinking.
I threw the brake. I ground to a halt.
Finally, I became idle. A left-over husk of a kernel that's already been popped.
I drowned myself with doubts. Hypothetical situations that might never happen.
I lived in fear of what might go wrong.

So I began to watch everything go wrong, as though I was helpless.
I was no less able. I was no less compassionate.
But I had grown wary. Of what?
What was it that, out of nowhere, caused me to slow down?

I guess I looked down and realized that if I fell, I would not be getting back up.

When you're young, you have no worries, because nothing is relying on your success.
So you mess up a math problem. You'll get it eventually.
So you botch things with that cute girl who sits across from you. You're young, you'll get it.
Re-assurance, faithfully, unwaveringly. A safety line should I fall.
But I never really fell, did I? So why am I laying down like I have?

Get up.

Get up.

I worry about everything. I worry that I will fail.

I dread what comes, what I can't avoid. But time, and time, again, it comes, and I miraculously don't die when it hits, because I've been bracing for a train-wreck impact, a force that will really, truly, finally, definitely lay me flat for good.

I close my eyes, and brace. But the crash never comes. The silence that was continued to be.

I turn behind me, but there's no train there.

I'm starting to realize, with relief, (with horror), that maybe all I needed to do was step off the track.

I look down, and realize, with a first-creeping then-howling laughter that I was never on the track to begin with.

I look off where the track is. There's no train there, either. Maybe there never was.

Maybe there never will be.

Credits to the people,
who worked hard and stayed.
To those  who never gave up,
stood up and made way.

To those who had patience
when some have none,
who gave up all their wants,
for the needs of some.

to those who sacrificed
stayed awake with all efforts.
without a token of recognition,
Never a special mention

Power to you my brother,
you deserve a toast.
for a dedication,
and a principle to boast.

for accepting the facts,
though sometimes quite brutal.
lowering the gauge of pride,
opening the human portal.

Credits to the individuals,
who trusted their wits.
Despite of the weight,
Despite of the agony,

Despite the hesitations,
you have chosen to be certain,
though your core is weak,
but never faking.

Kudos to yours,
you have made your mark,
summoned, your bright needs,
whispered, but never barked.

You had complaints,
but had picked the silence,
for the sake of the many,
to cover up the wicked.

to stay with the trash,
tough times have cranked.
I salute to you,
heroes of the Unsung.

There are so many colors in a crayon box.
Everyone has their favorite.
Mine just happens to be you.

You're the pink to my hearts that overfill the page with your name written inside.
You're the blue to the tear on my stick figures that I draw every time we say goodbye.
You're the red to the fire I doodle when ever I remember our last kiss.
You're the yellow I shade in the smiley faces as you make me grin.
Your're the green to the color of nature, that has a beauty so very close to yours.
You're the orange that shows our warm hugs like the suns light reflects the sea shores.
You're the purple when we're apart, there's loyalty there that I trust with all my heart.
You're the black to my night sky, surrounded by the twinkling stars of our outrageous memories.
You're the white to heaven's clouds, and its not as far as it seems, i'm there whenever you're with me

But most of all,
You are my personal color.
A color no one could use or borrow
I'll use you yesterday, today, and tomorrow
And never get old.

In a sixty-four pack box,
You are my crayon.

our love was formed

under the cover of fallen angels’ wings

it was ashes before

it ever hit the ground.

the rain, the rain

comes down and down,

a killer’s heart

is bound and drowned.

and even on the most brilliant of days

there hangs a sullen haze

over the beauty of all the world.

poetic words,

and my red love unfurled.

the euphoria faded long ago,

with the last intake of violent air.

all that’s left of our ancient love,

is emaciated and pallid,

cold, dead and decayed.

and I wish you never would have stayed.

I sometimes wonder how a home can at one moment feel like one and then at the next be completely devoid and decrepit of any homeliness. Is it the emptiness within myself that does this or is it simply just a broken home?
      The window beside me provides my eyes with a somewhat bittersweet beauty that in many ways, reflects what I feel inside: the trees are traced with white linens and shades of red-browns and greens, they seem to mingle well with the thin layers of snow that cover their branches.
       This window, this scenery is my only solace now; my one and only confidant. No one else seems to be around, it’s just me and the few flurries that linger in it’s transparent frame. To the touch, the window is cold, much like the way I feel, with the exception of my hunger. Though, my hunger, a physical matter, a need, I find it’s insatiable appetite extend out to regions far removed from food or water, it begs for mercy, for company, for a quality of care that only a mother or lover could provide, but my life has been bare of all these things just as the trees outside are now without compassion.
      A new beginning is coming and I am leaving what I know behind in hope to find something other than the fruitless views of my second-story solitary. I've heard from writers and actors alike that some people are meant to just live their lives riverside with just their thoughts and land to look after, and that some are meant to be artists…there are others who hear music all their lives and live by it, I on the other hand am one of those people who pray they have the strength to start all over again.
      It’s hard to accept that all I've ever done has not and will not come back around to serve me, if anything at all, my actions have been degenerative. I've seen my life go from light to pitch black darkness. I've walked along righteous paths before and without ever really understanding what kind of mistake I’d be making, have walked right off into the wild brush with no sense of where I was going or how I was getting there. My needs then were simple and selfish. For years drugs, *****, "good times" and women, bars and nightclubs all became more of concern than they should have been; they ****** the life right out of me and to this day those mistakes trail behind me. Even as I look into the mirror they work themselves into my frame of mind as I see my own two eyes glaring back not truly understanding what is standing before it.
     It is a sad and cold story just like this window frame and the frozen rain behind its seemingly placid transparency. Soon though, spring will present a fortuitous rebirth and maybe then, just maybe the view from this window will be more vibrant, fervent, and abounding with both warmth and life.