sometimes there's this buzz in your mind.
the clock reads 2:09 AM

but oh this buzz.

golden flakes of pure ideas
and dust of ambition.
sometimes there's this clean inspiration
that would become polluted if you slept.
amidst the scribbles of a pen
minutes have fluttered by.
sometimes you forget there's a world
and a life you've built.

there's this buzz
and it's gorgeous.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

A group burial ground
Is much like *******:
A pile of bodies stripped of dignity
But not being in a state to care.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Dear Diary,

Today I saw a kid,   who I knew really well,
He’s a straight A student, and…    man you could tell.
He’s laughing,     and joking,      with three other guys.
But something’s not right,      there’s a look in his eye.
That look that you get when you don’t feel alright,
He said he was good,  but his eyes were full of fright.

There’s a girl in my class who does nothing but smile,
Who makes everyone else feel like they’re worthwhile,
She’s tall   and she’s kind,   and runs track as a sport,
And never,   ever,   seems to fall short.
But again, there’s a look,  I know I’ve seen it before,
From that boy that I’m friends with,  well...    not anymore.

Dear Diary,

He’s pulling away,    shutting everyone out,
But nobody knows what this is    all about.
His eyes are glazed over,   He’s stuck in his head,
There’s a lot that he thinks of,    that’s going unsaid.

She’s losing friends fast, and just dropped out of track,
Because of some “Family Reason”, and how there’s no coming back.
The friends she has left say her family is fine,
And that there is something else going on, behind the front lines.

Dear Diary,

Today I see a boy,    who’s sitting by himself,
One I used to know, not speaking to anyone else.
His grades are falling, his health is    too,
And if you try to talk to him,    he’ll just ignore you.

The girl that I mentioned, something’s really amiss,
It all started when I saw the,    scars    on her wrist.
Her sleeve started to rise, and she quick covered her arm,
No one else seemed to notice, but I saw the   self harm.
I wonder what made her do it, draw on her arms with the knife,
Like a pen drawing on paper, what could have caused her strife.

Dear Diary,

Last week,
She took her last breath, his was three days later.
In her letter, she said that we’d hate her,
That if we knew, we would call her a traitor.
That we’re not “real friends”, we were just trying to bait her,
Into caring for us, and making her think we were caring for her, to maybe help keep her afloat.
“But for the few of you...    who actually care,” she wrote;
“You couldn’t have saved me,    even if you wanted to.” I quote.

He didn’t leave a letter, or a text, or a call,
No one will ever know why he did it, or what caused the fall.
As he sat in his room,   alone,   as he felt the lone bullet,
No one know’s why the trigger...     why he pulled it.

Dear Diary,

When I saw those two suffer, it tore me apart.
It ripped a big hole,    right in my heart.
What happened,    it really did pull me to pieces,
How they handled their pain, the only way it releases
Was,
By scarring their skin, and cutting everyone off,
By starving, and blaming only themselves and they scoff,
When I ask,   if they’re ok,   and say that they..  are...     fine.

I was once told to speak the truth, even if my voice shakes,
So I stand here talking, as my lips quiver, and hands quake, saying that
Depression is a problem, that needs to start getting noticed,
As a real mental disease, not just some kid being unfocused.
It’s happened before, and it will happen again,
It could happen to someone,    you call your,    best friend.