What a lucky man I am
For once I saw a group
Of prophets of the godly song
Before them in my stoop.

The man he played a string or two
And everybody shook
I saw him sing and dance along
With the crowds caught in his look

I watched a young girl, dark of hair
Rise and dance, her years were few
Like all those women, good of heart
I'd seen dance while they greatly grew.

Fascinating, the song's effect on
Two lovely young women too
Old as I, yet perhaps more drunk
They danced, I fell, it's true

The adults watched, sadly tired
And I too, though I'm young
Because nothing I could do could make
Me rise and beat the drum

The dance of ages brought about
By the song of years gone by
Organic music, grown from soil
Rich with thought and sly.

And now I play the strings as well
Desperate to see it again
That primal dance in beauty and me
Perhaps I'll know it when

I go back there, that thoughtful square
Where I saw those girls adance
I'll tell them then, I'll tell them there
They broke me from life's ghostly trance.

Someone once said to me
"The sky is sad, just like your eyes."
I've just come to understand this
That the reason the sky is so sad
Is because the heat of the sun
Leaves it's dark depths every night
Just like you
When you left me standing there
That cold winters night
In the frightening depths
Of my own terrifying thoughts
And years of feelings
That visit me every night
In my head
And tear me apart
From the inside out

Being high just feels like a long sigh now
My cries of struggle have just become dry now
While the sly guy is flying way up in the sky now
Seeing all this success around me just fries my eyes now
I feel like not even trying like I should just die now
I'm so shy maybe I should dye myself into a spy now
The end is nigh as I reminisce it's almost my time now
You can try to deny but the hourglass is not so high now

I closed my eyes
and made the decision.
This was the end.
I found the pills,
and wrote my note.
My tears smudged the ink.
Pill after pill,
I began to feel light headed.
I closed my eyes.

I want to
write words
in hasty brush
strokes,
-messy yet
precise and
in its right
place- smear
and blend two
words into one
to create new
hues

How can I
paint a
poem?

How does
one display
indefinance
with definite
things?

Picking at every scab on the scalp,
under each fingernail a thin gluey layer of blood.

pick, pick.

Just like in the old days: 16 years old. 17. 18. 19 years old. 20, 21, 22, 23 and 24 and 25 and then it stopped. A few months pass and I haven't even run my fingers through my hair, maybe it was just the weather drying my scalp, or a harsh shampoo.

So much of my life is simply out of my awareness. Not in any deep philosophical sense, but rather an inane one. Can't seem to pay attention to reality, nonetheless grasp it. I thought I was a dreamer, at one point in my life. Now I see it as daydreaming, the sort of daydreaming symptomatic of melancholia. Relationships become hazy, I'm either abusing someone, or myself it seems. I feel lost in the hubbub, maybe similar to running through an exciting room; ceiling speckled with hanging multi-colored streamers that touch the floor. The intentions seem clear enough, get to the exit. I never do, though. It's more of a mindless plodder, or sometimes a frantic pacing back and forth. It's a bit overwhelming, this is a big room and it's easy to feel very small in it. The lights are bright and distracting, I cant help but feel vulnerable. Somehow I have to protect myself and blot all this out.
and just like that I become ignorant.

Friendships and well-being between acquaintances becomes jaded, confusing, misguided always missing the target.  It's all so narcissistic and self-centered: this whole scenario that could easily dote itself as a complex that esteems oneself as something that which it is not, but under all of that simply lies the fear. Fear paints the walls of this room black and the streamers are blood-red, the lights aren't so bright anymore, they're dim, and not as bright as a candle burning at wick's end. If you're lucky Someone comes along and sets up a street light in the center, and you see the way out.

But what's on the other side of that door? Is it a greater hell than this one? Are there bigger flames and more insults? Or is it peace and calm, is it Okay-ness? Surely there are more people out there, which is a horrid thing to imagine. There's surely so much out there that could harm me, and my pride. If they hurt my pride they'll all see that scared little boy, the weak one, the feeble one with the weak mind that insidiously disguises itself with pride and pretense.  The one that wasn't popular, the one that jokes were made against. The lazy, the stupid, foolish one. The one that tries to hide his deformed image with vanity and "pride."

Go ahead friend, take your light, close the door on your way out. I'll sit here with my legs crossed, it may be dark and scary in here, but at least I've kicked everyone else out.. now it's just me.

and I do believe that candle has just burned out completely.
I can't even see my hand in front of my face.

*pick, pick.

To walk away on Christmas.
I've never felt winter's breeze graze my cheek so sharply.
My heart grows cold as this prolonged night goes on.
I'm frozen.

Four years of my life,
Lost at sea.
Though my heart breaks into falling snowflakes
You had to be free of me.
There was no place left for me in your occupied heart.
This frostbite will sting, until I feel no more.

What warmth that was left in my core has been stolen by this cursed evening.
And as the tears fall from my face onto the desolate ground,
I stand there frozen.
Lost. At a loss.
I can't breathe.
Every breath is like a gasp for air.

The void in my heart fills with gaping streams of sorrow-filled, silent screams.
And all I can see is utter darkness.

It doesn't matter what people think of me, it only matters what I think of me!