Its not you
Its me
That was cliche
Don't you agree?

It hurts me more
that I caused you pain
by rejecting everything you do
You've got nothing to gain

I don't like you
Not the way you do
So walk away
What I say is true

I don't want to upset you
You have to understand
This is better than false hope
I know this isn't what you have planned

I am not the one for you
We are not meant to be
Don't make this difficult
Just stop fighting for me

Stop trying to convince me
I don't feel the same way
Just let me go
We aren't close friends anyway

Please stop
You're hurting yourself more
Its all wishful thinking
I'm not the person you should adore

I'm sorry
That's all I can say
I'm sorry
That it has to end this way

My sole confidant
In my darkest times
While everyone else is asleep
Is near by the church
I grew up in.
He played trumpet -
They carved that in the stone
They placed in the earth,
Nearly a month after he died -
3 days after I turned 13.
It rained that day.

When I reflect upon, the most pain ridden..chest tightening, disturbed memories...they nearly cause my heart to cease from beating.
Yet, I cannot conjure up the strength to cry.
I've poured out  the regrets, the torment, the sleepless nights and panic attacks that have induced *****...to the point of self paralization.
I've drank and inhaled..to the point of near death..attempting to numb..in a frantic frenzy to run, hide, drown or bury, the torturous memories.
I do all of this... To sober up... And realize...that it's still There.
I'm standing at the base of a pile of life's stench ridden...dark, gloomy, shockingly disgusting memories.
They are stacked as high as I can see..to the proverbial sky. Fuming...as if a train wreck had just occurred.
Yet...I'm still here.
Simply standing.
Arms loosely draped to my sides..shoulders back..lungs still taking in every breath..heart calmly beating.
I gaze up at the wreckage.. Aware that I will have to pick through every portion...and last foul piece of agony, affliction and wounded heart scraps.
I will have to learn from the life altering chaoses and saturate any ounce of joy...then move forward.
Allowing this past to remain...to cease to direct my future...and slowly disinegrate into the soils.

HOPE; The feeling that what is wanted can be had.

I'm certainly not
exquisite in how I word
out my true feelings.

I can't paint a Van
Gogh of my emotions for
you, nor would I try.

I don't even know
why I feel the way I feel,
it simply spews out.

It's as though there's just
one little string holding me
back that I can't find.

If only I could
figure out what it is I
want out of this life.

Maybe then I could
stop writing poems I don't
like and start living.