I keep on writing
to continue hiding
myself from the fears of failure and regret

but I've been fighting
while agonizing
over what by now I thought I'd forget

like those stupid moments
the disappointments
when each word gets more stifled than before

it's evanescent
the coalescence
the sinews carrying my heart have torn

were we ever happy?
I'm just asking
because I don't know if we ever were

just placating
the soul from hating
but it never really seemed to bother her

What's another sleepless night on the path to infinity? Here's to the pills to make me chill but still don't do anything. So I'm just staring at the inside of my eye lids watching the scenes of my life play out on my internal movie screen.

I see in vivid colors the memories that I thought I had let go, but were continuously burning from within me. Like the time I spoke venom and rhetoric at the loss of my notebooks and it was probably then and there that you fell out of love with me.

Or the moment you got too close so I shut down and refused to speak. Those times got more frequent and fraught with the fear to be open and honest but a liar I'd never be. So we sat in silence in the car like a sad film scene where it would rain, but we wouldn't cry, and so you fell out of love with me.

And if there's a demon in me, he's learned to speak in silver lined tongue and in prose and in rhyme and to paint pictures with words so he can pretend he's free. But I'm still haunted by the actions and the fears of a scared and tired little heart housed in chain and ice and it's when these fears came to life: I learned I'll never be free and so I fell out of love with me.

My whole generation is getting laid down in caskets. We're leaving the scene in body bags on our road to Damascus. Being buried by parents while grandparents attend service. And I can't help but to think that the future makes me nervous.

We're just waiting for the world to end but the world's not ending.

My whole generation is getting lost in translation. Between these ******* self help books and ******* antidepressants. At one time the future seemed bright but now I'm just too ******* tired. A generation that feels nothing; coldly embraces indifference.

I know you wanted more than feeling empty

I'll never know why I didn't answer. I just needed some time to pull myself together. And I was fine just for the moment. You were quick to hope but I was faster to anger. And now you're gone. Headed northbound. And I was hoping you'd stay but now it's time to move on.

The ******* in me says I'm not good for anything. The liar in me knows it's true. I was thinking last night about my purpose for being here. I spent all night thinking of you.

So here's to you. And all the fall out. And the fears you left behind in your desertion from this town. And I'm still here. In my parents' basement. Singing song after song about my discontentment. And all my friends- they feel the same way. But we're not giving up after these disappointments.

I want to break you with a jaded memory. I want to leave you like a faded misery. Fading quickly, but you won't break me. And if this world starts collapsing, I'm sure I'll be okay.

She said she's got way too much blood in her bloodstream.
She said she'd let a little out and she'd feel fine.
She said these razor blades are the closest thing to best friends.
And she's just rehashing all the same old lines.

She's not one to quit but now she's giving up.
I told her that I love her but it wasn't enough.
If nothing has changed, then why aren't things still the same?
If nobody was listening, then who the hell's to blame?

What the **** are we waiting for?

Her tattered skin is a testament to old friends.
And the hell they put her through before they left.
She said of all the things she loves, she loves those knives best.
She said it was a love she wouldn't ever second guess

You've been silent now for days on end.
And I just hope you're happy with all the hope I can give.
But I still think about you every single night.
And I wonder if I'll ever get this right.

I write too many sad songs.
I think too much about death.
And these feelings so familiar
And how she'd cut her ******* wrists.

Everything I've known has just disappointed me but I can't let these disasters keep on defining me.

To,
Who knows? For everything. And nothing.

I was asked to write a poem about insecurity.
And how to get over it.

Like a poem could supplant the search one has to do of himself.

And I was told to be subtle.
To be symbolic.

I had to make sure that the poem had direction.

So I decided to write a letter instead. And to be blunt. And to be literal.

But I'll keep the direction.

So, to:
Who knows? For nothing. And everything.

Stop thinking of insecurity as a transgression against yourself. You dwell too much and I can't imagine it's healthy.
Everyone is riddled with self doubt and the worry. It's the human condition. And by it, it means you are human. And you are, thusly, conditioned.

I think you lack ambition. And not that you're lazy. Or don't have high hopes. I just think you're content. But aren't we all? It's the human condition. And by it, it means you are human. And you are, thusly, conditioned.

I think we confuse self doubt, that feeling with which we feel we are incapable, and lacking ambition, that feeling with which perhaps we are too tired, too empty, too busy, too over simplified, too overly complex, too full of excuses. It's the human condition. And by it, it means you are human. And you are, thusly, conditioned.

And maybe that's not true. I'm not a philosopher. Not a psychiatrist. I'm not a self help book. I'm not even really well adjusted. I am woefully ignorant of most things. It's the human condition. And by it, it means I am human. And I am, thusly, conditioned.

Perhaps, it's not about getting over insecurities. Perhaps it's about how to make the world a place where we aren't conditioned to feel so insecure.

If there is beauty in humanity, surely it is in the imperfections and the fears and doubts that coincide.

I believe that we are meant to change in the world the things that terrify us. The things that break our hearts.

Find that.

From,
Chagrin Masked as Empty Bravado

I used to play you songs when you were feeling down. But now you're not around. Now you never hear a sound.

I've filled notebooks up but I trash them every fall. You never ever call. No you never talk at all.  

And if we're honest for once, I don't think that we could call each other "friend." What a stupid way to end.

But I've got no more ***** to give.
I've got my life to live. And I can't help but to hate you. And I know I should move on. But I still write you songs. And I can't help myself but to love you.

And if I've had hope then I guess it's gone and it's not ever coming back.

You left and now you're gone and I am all alone. But now alone just feels like home. And alone is what I know.

And I remember times, when our hopes were all alive. How you set my soul on fire. How you never said good bye.

And if we're honest for once, I don't think we could know: just how things go. That was a long time ago.

And I know that there's no need to stay, I might as well just go.
But you know that I know that I just want say that I've got