and I keep searching for poems to say the words that I cannot, but the poetry inside my head does not exist underneath the pen of anyone else.

So, I will keep writing until I run out of thoughts or breath - whichever comes first.

"Tell me something nice," I type. Send. Wait.
You're busy. That's alright. Okay.
Moving on to the tough decisions such as "Do I eat or do I a shower?"
Because I really only have the energy to do one.
Lifeless hours.
Suddenly, I'm crying. And I promise I'm not lying when I tell you
that I cannot pinpoint why my words taste so sour
inside my mouth.
You see, my mind is never black or white, day or night, it's a constant gray, a fog in twilight.
And I'm sorry that I cannot explain my brain to you or either of us and that you're the receiver of what thoughts spill out of me and tarnish the mood of the room.
I'm sorry that I'm telling you how I feel now because you always in turn feel the need to somehow repair what brokenness you assume is there. Right above my throat and behind my confused eyes.
(1) New Message - tell me something nice.

running through reality
time stops
the world moves
my hands are not mine
no more me than you
five seconds
an eternity
my mind is behind and
**I do not exist

i haven't written much these days
because i can't find anything to say
about these dark days or my odd ways
of thinking
in a way that actually conveys anything
better than a blank page would
so, it should be understood that this essentially
is an empty journal entry and
consequentially
says more than i can, today

it is too late for sleep
and it is too late to be awake
surrounded by thoughts
that overheat my skin
and pull at my bones

for what?