i wake up
and i'm not so sad
maybe
leaving the house
isn't as bad as i've
made it out
to be
it still hurts
the sun
the stares
the voices in my head
mingling with the ones
outside
it gets bad eventually
always
but in the morning
i can breath
the jar is open
the air is fresh
how do i keep it up?

this is how i die
i guess
my legs are stiff and my back pops whenever
i try to get up
my face is dry and
itchy
i can't remember the last time i ate
and tasted the
food
it's a sneaky descent
that's just how it goes
i thought that these bruised knees and
swollen knuckles would
keep me afloat
i was wrong

this is how i die
i know
rotting alive

sometimes
my mind forgets my body
and the pain i've put it through
it trudges us along
the path of bad choices and damning denial
it drowns us
in false hope and sickening pleasure
beats us with the harsh
metal of reality
someone
put the **** thing to rest
let us rest
we are falling apart under the pressure
of it's tyrannic commands
something
something has to give
as it continues to take

i am losing my mind
maybe i already have
and it's just taken me a long moment
to realize

either way
things aren't looking up

all messed in the head
scrambled eggs
in place of a brain

call a technician
my electrodes are on the fritz again

other people don't think like me
don't see the images that haunt me
do they?

there's been a break
a snap
a loss
i don't know how to go back

nothing is right aymore
and i'm drifting
will the current bring me home

i'm seeing death
my old friend

i think i'm gone

I know that I haven’t always felt this way.
When I was younger, I was nervous.  I was quiet and shy and it always took me a while to warm up to people, even those I saw on every holiday, birthday, and graduation.  But I wasn’t like this.  I wasn’t like the other kids, but I was happy.  I could go about my day without an onslaught of questions running through my head without any reprieve.
I could ******* breathe.
There was a breaking point.
I know that now.
I was sad but I wasn’t like this.  Yet.  I was drowning but still unaware of the fact.  I could get by if I needed to, wanted to, and I did.
Now, a hangnail can plunge me into darkness.
I don’t know how to get back to the before.
I don’t know if I will.
I don’t know if I can keep going on like this.
Hopeless.  
Lifeless.
Every rise and fall of my chest takes a tremendous amount of effort.
Every morning makes me sick, and every night reveals more that needs to be fixed.
Fixed.
They gave me pills.  I went to therapy.  
I talk about it. I talk about it with anyone that will listen.  I know that somehow it helps me, even if in the moments, it makes me feel like I’m helping dig my own grave.  It’s heavy.  It’s tiring.  It comes spilling out of me like a ******* wild fire.  All it needs is that one spark.
God, I’m sick of the natural disaster metaphors.
I know that I’m not a disaster.  I know that this is normal.  I know that there are millions of people around the world that feel just as bad as me.  A lot of them feel worse than me.
But right now, I feel like I’m the only one who has ever known this kind of suffering.
I know that isn’t true.
It doesn’t help.
The air conditioner sounds like a rainstorm.
I miss the rain.
Last Christmas, I got really bad again because the days were so short and my job kept me in the dark and out of the sun every single day.  I forgot what the day is like.  I forgot what it meant to be awake.
It didn’t let up for a long time.  
I had to quit my job to get out of the bad place.
I ended up in another one, though, because then I didn’t have any money and I wasn’t eating enough because I was too anxious to leave my room and I couldn’t focus in school and I ****** my grades up.
I don’t know if I’ll get into Cal Poly.  I kind of doubt it.  
My GPA is average.
I probably had a better chance of getting in in high school, and I still got rejected.
I know I wouldn’t like it there because the people are too normal.  Too white.  Too rich.  Too blinded by their privilege and the pretty bubble they live in.
The happiest place in America.
We’ll see about that.
Maybe.
I used to be like them.  I could have thrived among them.
I’m different now.
My life is divided like that: then and now, before and after.
That’s how I know there was a break.  A shift inside of me.
I can’t see anything the same way.
I hate the people from high school that I used to so desperately want to be popular with.  I can’t eat steak.  My hair is green.  My skin is pale.  Football just doesn’t do it for me anymore.
They’ll tell me it’s loss of interest, a common side effect.
It’s not.
I’m just different.
I don’t eat eggs.
Where is my life going?  Do I need a purpose?
I suppose.
I don’t really want one.
The whole idea of being here on earth for a reason is terrifying.  Angering.
I don’t want to have to do anything.
I just want to live.
But even that isn’t enough for me.  I can’t keep going through the motions.  I love my routines, need my routines to keep from falling apart, but I think they are killing me.
I don’t know any alternative.
Routines keep money in my bank account, good grades, enough food in my stomach, strong legs.  
I would be nothing without them.
They are the ******* replacement for the purpose I loathe to discover.
I know where I am headed.
I will get bad again.  Just in time for the holidays.  And I’ll lose my grip for a while.
The anticipation is a *******.
I can feel the pressure building inside of me.  I can feel the vibration.  I can sense the change before I can recognize it.  
A volcano.
And then what?
I live on my own.
If I go down, I go down alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Maybe that’s what get’s to me so much.  I know that I need human connection because it’s basic biological fact.  I know it I know it I know it.  I refuse it.
It’s too hard.
It’s takes more energy than I can spare right now.
I hate that I have to think this way.
Because it’s a need, not a choice.  I can smile and laugh and tell myself I love life and all the little joys it has to offer me, but it doesn’t change how I really feel, what i really know about life.  I’ve felt the pain.  I’ve ******* made it my wife.
It’s raining again.
I can hear every whisper in this **** library.
I can never find a book.
The medication is plateauing.  There’s only two more doses after this one, and I’ll have to try something else soon.
I did this to myself.
I know that,
It doesn’t help.

what am i doing? here? with my life? where am i going? why do i always want to die? am i one of the people meant for longevity? am i one of the people meant for young tragedy? am i meant to be here? why do i have all these questions? and why do they never stop pestering me? is this my life? does this qualify as living? as existing? will i be gone soon? do i want to be? does this ever end? what is wrong with me? what is right with me? will it always be this way? why? WHY?

i don't have a ******* clue.  but you smell like vanilla, so i'll hold onto that.

how to write
a book about
depression that
isn't about
depression
that's some
sylvia plath ****
i am not her
i do not want to be her
i want to be me
i need to find it
i feel it beating
i still don't know
if i am alive
there's got to be more to this than
that
that stupid ******* bray
**** her
i need more than that

greasy hair
sticky legs
prickly
sweaty
burning in the rays
of their stares
she's ugly,
pretty,
smart,
******* weird,
invisible
(who is she?)
where is her place in this world?
(away from us)
God, it's hard to speak,
breath,
be
she wants to go home now
(where is that?)
tired eyes
ragged nails
messy messy messy
(take her to the landfill)
her chariot awaits
calloused hands
hold on tight

i guess this is how it's supposed to work
i keep writing
and writing
and spewing worthless ****
that's been said thousands of times before
but i can't do anything else
i need to empty myself
i need to feel something
i, i, i, i, i,
always about me
that's all i know
and even that i don't understand much at all
me, me, me, me, me
***** me
i am loved
i am worth it
but ****** do i want to be?
all these ties are supposed to keep me from falling
but they're dragging me down
little bows and red strings
from my heart
i wish i was alone
i wish these thoughts would end

what am i doing
playing pretend
waiting out life
going through all the motions
but not very well
i feel like i'm dying but i know that
i haven't begun living yet
i am scared
life is a monster
all it wants to do
is **** me from behind
put teeth in my shoulder
rip out my hair
make a ***** out of me
i used to be senseless
i used to not question every little thing
i miss that
but i could never go back
enlightenment
hate it
but can't live without it

no one is reading my **** anymore
it's not generic enough
not sad enough
not happy enough
not ******* insane enough
not sadistic enough
not self-deprecating enough
this is why the best writers always ******* **** themsleves
or drink themselves to death (because somehow it isn't considered suicide if it's done over a few decades instead of in an instant)
i'm not mad that people aren't reading
i'm just confused
what am i doing
they told me anyone could be a writer
and i've seen enough published ******* to believe that that is true
i'll write about cats
about cats ******* cats
is that crude enough for you
i'm screaming now, and you can't hear me
you're to busy with the spectacle-boy with a vape pen and brand new perfectly shredded shoes
this is why everyone hates themselves
and why everyone who doesn't always seem so unaware
is this how the world divides
the blissfully dumb
and the dying intellects
not intellects
pessimists
that's what we are
if i could live in your world i would
but i'm stuck with incessant thoughts
and loud, depressing music to make them sound less appealing

I'm writing again
So does that mean I'm
Getting bad again?
I thought the pills were working
I always hope they will
(stop ******* yourself)
Things are looking familiar
Maybe in a different light
It's sunnier, warmer
But more callous all the same
(the perfect illusion)
Things are rough
Rough enough to make me new
Keeping rubbing up against it Big Bear Baloo
(it's the itch that never stops)
Pain changes people, right?
Every good thing comes from
Terrible, terrible evil, right?
(keep rubbing)
Let it rip you apart, stupid bear
New docs, new meds, new
Reasons to stop this - whatever this is
I am tired
Not ready to die
But barely hanging on.
(my knees ache)
I must be getting bad again
I keep seeking out sharp edges
To haphazardly maneuver around
Just to circle back for more
When the job isn't done
A ******* life down the disposal
(i'm not supposed to think like that, he he)
Wait a little while more
And you'll see the blood
Mine
Yours
(it's all the same)
We're all ****** the same

here I am writing about boys I don't even know
that I have never known
that I will never know
just because I want more to scream about
I need another volunteer
another silly boy who think charms work on witches,
on the charming,
on the weird girls who don't say much of anything
who's looks aren't much of anything
silly boy
I will get you
and you'll hold on tight when it's time for you to go
just another experiment in heartbreak
and love
and all its placebo effects
we make winners into failures here
underdogs into the stars of our hearts
they told me I'd be a heartbreaker
they could see
me
without the pretenses
because pretty girls die young,
smart girls age poorly,
and the average get played by silly boys
in the worst kind of way
a trifecta is a man-killer
so come closer, silly boy
let's play

I want to be a fucken poet.
I want to spend my whole life writing meaningful things that touch no one and indiscipherable codes that every claims to get and so now they do.
God, I want to die sometimes.
What would a life of poetry be?
Boring. ******* depressing. Lonely and anxiety-ridden FO SHO.
I'm downing now. Heavy head like a dead giraffe and slow hidden eyes.
I could do it.
I'd just go mad.
Is that why God made me this way? Never a fucken second of peace and quiet that isn't accompanied by loud and tiring.
I want to write the books that change the world, but all those books have already been written.  
Bukowski wrote a whole fucken genre.
Drugs are old. Depression is mainstream and covered by insurance (except for all the times it really should be).
Pop a pill, go to rehab, all done.
Right, Nurse Jackie?  Oh? Oh, yeah, **** the pharmababes, too.  If you're gonna do it, do it good. Do it right.
Why won't he let me tell my stories? Will they hurt him, hurt them, hurt me?  I'm sure the answer is me. I hope the answer is me. I guess that's why I want to write.
**** me.
I can't do it on my own.

I am a walking disease. I am angry and hateful and full of sharpened spite and I may never forgive you. I want to hurt you but that means hurting me, too. It just takes longer for me to feel it.  (All good things take time.) I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I was a happier, nicer, more loving person. I wish I wasn't so ****** in denial. I hate myself and I hate you. I am rotting. I am killing my soul. Yes, I have one. YES, god is real. Yes, YEs, YES. SHUT THE **** UP already. Hit me so I can hit you. Feel it so I don't have to. I wish I was different.  I wish I was dead. Don't help me up.

she died in the garden that they built together and raised with separate lives He called her home through the glare of the sun and the evergreens They left the maple tree in her place

is there anything more lonely than having everyone you love less than a days' drive away?  because they are so close, so easy to find when needed, but far enough away to maintain distance.  is there something worse than that? i can not imagine a more terrible thing than being able to have contact and yet never acting on it out of practicality.  funny, really, how the world makes it so easy to close in on those we love and still so hard to finally touch them. it's as if we are meant to die alone, and so the road hints that to us.

the myrmidons never cease
their eager fights
to claim more of
what they are
not owed

but they no longer
carry swords

need and want -
that is where they gain
both their power and
motivation

what alone
is more powerful than
the survival of
my own body
once my limbs
have left me
there is nothing
to call mine

where ever could I go
without the
reassurance of
my own hand
resting
in my other

this is what they
wish to rid
us of

our agony is the
elixir they gorge
themselves on

when was the last time i woke up and didn't feel as if the day was already over?  i know the sun is out but it might as well be the moon.  both are the brightest when i'm trying to fall asleep.  and when was the last time i cut myself and didn't question if it would really stick this time?  sometimes the blades don't hurt as much as they should. they never scar dark enough to remind me later. and when was the last time that i looked up and didn't wish it was the floor beneath me?  i've always wanted something dense enough to fall through.  i'm so sick of standing.

and i don't want you to look at me that way anymore because once the time is gone we'll never get it back and after you scrape your knee once the skin will never be the same and once i leave you will never see me again.  because the world isn't the place they told you about in high school.  it's not a place for cotton candy clouds or smiling face or hands like yours that grip too hard in all the right places.  don't you understand?  we're living in a time capsule buried beneath the earth and sooner or later someone is going to find us, let the air infiltrate us. then you will have nothing, and still, i will have less.

i only wash my hair every four days
and i never shave my legs unless i'm going somewhere that requires a dress-
         or no clothes at all.
                            and i never remember to put on deodorant in the morning.

i only ever brushed my hair after practice
and reapplied makeup
and made sure to douse myself in the perfume you like so much so
                  you could run your fingers through something more than steam,
                                              you could let your eyes roam without hesitation,
                  you could call me at two in the morning and tell me your clothes  
                                                       ­                                             still
              ­                                                                 ­                          smelt                   
                                        ­                                                                 ­         like                                      
             ­                                                                 ­                                           me.

i only ever did anything
                                       for you.

i like my new journal
because
the cover is of
soft leather that
i like to rub
my hands over and
pretend
it's you
that i am touching.

i must say,
i really did
love
your little friend
down
         there.

he
was always wanting
to jump
    skip
    hop
          into my hands
                         my mouth.

and you
were always so willing
                           and wanting
so very much
to give me a
play-by-play
                    a reenactment
of all the shooting stars you saw on the inside of your eyelids.

your lips
were never quite firm enough
but it felt all the more
better that way
when you would lick down and around
                                                          ­        and then further down-
kisses of a feather.

and it made
                    the *******
feel that much
stronger,
              that much more ******.
it was the only release from so much anticipation that you could truly
                                                           ­                                                      give me.

our nights
                 in the back seat
of your truck
were
        well-spent:
                          full of **** and *****
                          and steamy windows
                          from showering in each other
                          and two whole people
                                                          ­     free from expectations.
                                                   ­                                                   a real rarity.

we both
found
something close to safety
in the pores of each other's
                                            skin.
       ­                   
                                             ­        i wonder
                                                          ­          if it all feels the same
                                                            ­                                            when
                ­                                     you're with
                                                            ­her.

because
when it came to you
it was always incomplete thoughts
because no one
in their right mind
wants to be logical
when in the presence of a
connection so supernatural
some people don't
believe it even exists.

when it came to us
and keeping promises
and planning forever
nothing was as solid as the doubt.

we were living ghosts-
and loving every second of it-

acting as if hands can keep a  firm grip on love
                                                            ­                  hope
                                          ­                                           mist and
never know longing.

everyone tells me
"people write what they know"
sure
okay
whatever.

******.

i guess that means i
know heartache-
though i don't recall
ever
meeting him
personally.

interesting.

i guess i know more
than i think
if i have
so much to
say.

dangerous
territory
i'm trekking here.

so here we are.

it's been three days and you already forgot how to keep this thing
              this monster
              this dying tree
                                        alive
              even though I've been doing it for years     on my own.  
                     sometimes people mix up the permanent
with the
air they exhale with every new touch.

                        silly us
                                     trading stories like buddies
but
      hurting like lovers.

empty cups
curtained windows
and a bible that hasn't been opened since they told you there's a chance.
clusters of papers-
                             rejected-
                                          coupled with
that old journal you vowed to never open again.
the orange bottles need to be
                                                refilled.
unma­de bed
beat up tissue box.
                                                            ­                  no one gets it.

this is sanctuary.
                            this is how you start to live again.
                                                          ­                             no one knows about
                                                           ­                                            the used to be.
the full cup
the bolted windows
the brainwashing
the attempted letters
and the pages decorated with a different kind of ink.

they don't know about
the thoughts before the pills
the never-empty bed
the fits of anger.
                                                          ­                       this is how you start to live                        
                                                                ­                                                    again.

something about the way i can
feel more confident
with less clothes and
something about
the way i have an
easier time looking in the mirror
when i know you'd
be staring at me like
you hadn't touched another body
in ten thousand years.

there's something wrong about the way i can only feel
                                                            ­                                hot
                             ­                                                                 ­    worthy
                                                      ­                                                        accomplis­hed
                      when i know you're looking at me with more emotion than you've ever known to be possible because
                                                         ­            you can't see me without thinking about the fact that my body will never be under yours again.

                                                         ­                                                 there's something wrong about the way people can walk ten galaxies away but never leave us.

how many threats does it take to equal a follow-through?

ten shattered plates and
a burnt piece of toast later
and she still can't
do it-
she still can't
make her words
be anything more than hot air.

she'll stay awake every night for the
rest of her life
imagining
a world where
everything goes her way.

she'll never realize she's the problem
                                               solution
                                               point of origin.

they said Bukowski was not a poet
and that if he was
he was a ******* awful one.
but there's something
to be said about a man
who can **** ******
and come out of it
with more respect for them
than for the rest of the
human population.
there's honor to be given
to a man who could
drink all day and
be more than what
all the medical books
said he could be.
and there is credit to be given
to the man who could
unite the displaced
with who he was
as a human being and nothing more.

Bukowski may be
one *******
horrible poet
but he sure
as hell
knew more than we will ever be able to comprehend.

every time my candle flickers,
i think to myself,
                             maybe this is God, maybe this is God telling me that he    
                               is real and i am not alone
                                                          ­             but then
                                                                ­       the flame stills
                                                                ­        i go back to work
                                                            ­            and i think to myself,
                              *i knew it was too good to be true

all these people
writing about
and looking for
and craving so whole-heartedly
love
in the form of another person.

they don't know what it is exactly,
just something that
has to do with sharing
labored breaths
and not wearing any underwear to the movies.

these idiots think that love
is what they need
in order to be
happy.

do they not already have love?

the sun shines and the trees grow and grass cuts their bare legs and lets them know that they are still alive.  the earth is continuously apologizing by giving flowers with petals so soft you could mistake it for someone you
once held
in your arms.

love is not the answer-
the aftermath is:
destruction.

the only good
and pure
and completely
true things
in this world
come from the
ashes of the
generations before
them.

we have been born into love
but mistaken
       tricked into thinking that destruction
                                                   utter obliteration of the soul
                                                            ­                         the mind
                                                            ­                         the heart
                                                           ­                                         is not the answer.

love is not found in people
but places
                 and their hills and valleys and flowers and water that refreshes the eyes of every tired man.

love is found in the
people that have been broken down.

only they are then able to look at what has been in front of them since before they were born,
only they are able to see what the content will never know exists.

only the lost will find happiness.

his **** is
nothing spectacular
but it's hard-
for me-
and it's smooth
             and soft
             and ready to be held
                                         tempted
                                         shown how to stargaze while the sun is still out.
but he
grabs my hand,
pulls me up,
                up and away
from the
only part of him
that will ever beat for me and my blistered hands and chapped lips.

"i don't love you"

and i know.

he lowers down
and kisses my chest
and *****
         licks
         bites
         my ****
and rubs my ****
and that
is all i want from him.

i used to think i was "that girl"
who was destined to
live a life
that only amounted to **** buddies and
loves that i drove away
because who the hell wants to get close to a person
                                                          ­             a human
                                                           ­                            born imperfect
                                                       ­                                                         and therefore unable to promise to never leave you or never hurt you or never let you get too far into something that they know will never be capable of lasting as long as you need it to.

but here i am
                       ****** up
                       anxious
                       irritable
                       downright depressed
but ready and prepared and on the way to not being such a ******* idiot who thinks another person
                    another boy
                    another mouth is going to make me happy.

I'm already there.

how many times will i write variations of us
that never get a
happy ending?
sometimes i think i am destined to forever
remember you
and that summer
with that one kiss
and the promise i made with no intentions of
keeping it
because i don't know how to love with two hands
                                                           ­       one heart
                                                           ­                        fully
                                                           ­                        unafraid.
                                                       ­                             everything i write is about you and the
different people
i could see
when i looked you in the eyes
and let myself think
                         embrace
                         appreciate
                         and enjoy
every part of you without any sense of anxiety.
and i wonder
what we could be now
that i have a way to cope
                              and live without questioning everything except the ugly.

i wonder if one day i will be able to give our characters
an ending where
we can both by happy
                           not broken
                           or longing
                           or forever regretful
and every stack of cards doesn't mean more than it should.

dense as fog.

she couldn't
look past
him
but she could
walk
straight through
him.

every day.

in the hallway
as if she
was the one
that no hands
        no ropes
        no hearts
could ever fully grasp,
could every fully keep,
could every fully convince to stay.

she walked
                    past
                    through
     ­               away
from him
as he
continued on to
his new girl
      new **** buddy
      new toy to distract from how he could never stop himself from killing
      everything
         he loved.