It's either
you stay up until 2 am
allowing your mind to twist and turn
allowing the loneliness,
the darkness
to take over

Or you lay down at 7 pm
and you sleep
for hours continuously
until you wake up
at 2 am
only to drown in your own sorrow
again

And I can't figure out which is worse

We're all mad here.
And perhaps,
those who deny
are the most mad
out of us all.

If I asked you for your name,
would you hand me your birth certificate,
finger and footprints inked in your first breath,
in a manila folder?
Would you hand me your diploma,
edges slightly torn,
creases bending your first, middle, and last name?
Would you point to a pile of bills marked past due?
Or would you look me in the eyes,
reflection staring back at you and show me.
Show me the map that led you to where you are,
lend me the book who's stories inspired you,
whisper the words that charmed you.
When I ask you for your name,
I hope your frigid hand cracks and I see the morning dew
upon your skin, your soul touching your lips,
your lips kissing the passions hidden in your colorblind eyes.
Eyes that see the shades of grey literature resides.
When someone asks you for your name,
hand them the birthday cards signed, "thank you for always being there,"
the rough drafts marked in red ink and the final glazed in gold.
Hand them the photographs, the memories.
When someone asks you for your name,
paint them a picture of the nights you didn't sleep,
the days you didn't eat.
Tell them you are not two or three words on a diploma
but a dictionary with 2000 definitions.
When they ask you for your name,
look them in the eyes,
your reflection staring back at you,
And ask them,
Which one?

And it kills me
to know
that you would much rather
open a bottle
of raspberry *****
than open up yourself
to me.

How can you look at me
and hate me
every minute of every day?
How can you tell me
to shut up,
And shut me down
every time I open my mouth
to speak?
How?
How do you feel good
about making someone feel so low
so done,
so lost.
How can you ignore me?
Repent me,
despise me.
Why do you hate me,
every day and every night?
How can I care so much,
but have no one
care at all?

It was pitch black when I lost myself
in the arms of the one
who held the earth by it's core.
Leaving a trace of seashells and flowers,
I followed him to polluted water
and barren wasteland.
I held him while he cried hurricanes and moved mountains
for his friend whom was violated
by the hands of the human.
I held him while he stirred the tides
and tried. Tried to understand the hollow crevices
upon his heart,
the taint taunting the surface.
I cried as I felt him slipping from my grasp;
I felt his absense when spring and summer never came.
And when my nights got darker and my days shorter,
the Earth,
the Earth got sicker.
In a fever of 18,000 degrees,
I lost him.

They say pain writes the best stories
But I can't seem to articulate
All this agony
Into sentences

So sentence me
To my own despair
'Cause I fell in love with Bukowski
by his line:
My dear, find what you love and let it **** you
And my dear,
It did.

One sip, two sip, three sip, four
Is life that miserable?
Is life that poor?

This house isn't your home
It's a glass filled with *** and pineapple
And sadly, I can't pay your rent
With words of wisdom or kindness
Because if I do
They get thrown back at me
With the dishes and papers
In an empty room

I haven't seen you all day
Yet, I've done everything wrong?

Tell me,
Does that make sense?

I wonder
how the night sky can be so vast
Yet, make me feel so compact

A disc that's been scratched
for years now
Yet, continues to play each track

I wonder,
what makes the night sky so scary

Is it the darkness?
The silence?

Or is it the story the darkness tells?
The pain, the loneliness
The heartache

The unknown frightens us all;
But I wonder,
what makes the night sky so beautiful?

Is it the stars?
Or is it the story the stars tell?

I wonder
If it is not the night that makes the sky beautiful,
But the person looking at it.

I have a roof over my head
clothes covering my body
food in the kitchen cabinets
So, why does it feel like I'm dying everyday? ©

And as long as I live,
I will nev'r understand the comfort
in a lie.

Lying through the teeth
that once spoke such promising things

to me.

But I don't think we were speaking the same language.