He was the type of boy
to search for the meaning of his life
in the cracks of his hardwood floors.
As if anyone can find anything
in those imperfections.
As if anyone can begin to fathom
the intensity at which they try
so hard to mend itself.
The cracks remind him of
his cracked glasses which
render his eyes useless,
causing him to use his hands instead.
He uses his hands to see and
to see is to touch in his mind.
The cracks remind  him of the
lightning shaped crevices that
appear in his bones and lungs
whenever his words get stuck in his stomach.
How can he find life in the cracks
when all he can do is think
of the sadness that comes with them.
Finally he stands, and his hands break.

Happiness.
Laughter.
Carefree.
Enlightened.
Fearful.
Skeptic.
Une­asy.
Realization.
Tears.
Blood.
So much blood.
Blood.
Nothing.
Repeat.

It's so cold here.
There's no wiggle room
for me at all.
I know I'm not breathing,
but I miss your breath.
It's so cold.
It's winter time and
the dirt seems to have
gotten the memo
and turned as cold as ice.
The dirt became my home
and the mice that play in
my ribs became my friends.
I still miss you.
I wish you could
warm me up again.
I miss sitting in front
of your fireplace
and whispering love letters
in each other's ears.
I still think of you
even after my skin has decayed
and my muscles have
become part of the earth.
I'm sorry I had to go like that.
I'm sorry I took that jump,
and I'm sorry you found
me like that, all broken and ******.
I was just really cold on Earth too.
Down here's not much
of an improvement.

It's so cold down here.

I'm writing this as I fall I suppose.
There was an intriguing building
far off in the distance,
and I just decided to go to the
very top and jump.

At the very top, I looked down
and saw myself.
I was beautiful.
There was a scarlet halo
that surrounded my cracked skull,
and my arms bent in a way
that made me seem like I had wings.
I climbed striving for that perfection,
and jumped.

In the beginning of my journey to the earth,
I had been content with knowing
that I was about to achieve oblivion.

They say that before you die,
your whole life flashes before your eyes.
My God were they right.

While feeling the wind
rushing past me from behind,
I saw a glimpse,
a sliver of light.
I saw my first sunrise.
I was thrown back into that time,
and I remember feeling
at peace and re-energized.
The sun had given me
revitalizing strength,
to look forward to my day
and to survive.

I saw you.
I saw you looking at me.
That one night when
we forgot about the others
around us, disturbing
every single sleeping creature,
I remember your laugh.
I remember consuming it
with every part of my soul,
and I remember laughing along.
I remember the look you gave me.
You stared at me for a while
and I asked
"What?"
You turned around and said
"Nothing."

I remember my future.
I remember all of the good things
that I could have gained from
living just a little longer.
I remember smiling
with the one I call mine,
and being content with the sunlight.
I remember sitting in the ocean,
and feeling the moon's push and pull.
I remember sitting on the moon,
feeling the tides pushing and pulling.
I remember hearing all of the
creatures of the woods,
laughing and giggling,
and sometimes crying.
I remember the oneness with the universe
that I once longed for.

In the air,
I turn around to face the ground.
I can see my burial.
I can see my coffin.
This cement pavement,
will be my ceremony.
It looks up at me
and salutes my life.
It cries at my brave heart,
coming this far, and ending
all of it.

Oh God...
I don't want to die.

I remember seeing
my first sunset.
My eyes were filled
with color again,
and they were amazed
at the setting sun
and how it always
managed to rise and set
without fail.
The light danced in front of me.
I saw it.
Trust me, my fingers
looked at it for me.
In the past, with our
child-like mentalities,
our eyes were filled with
thought and wonder.
In the present, this world
slowly coaxed the wonder
and color out of our eyes.

I remember my
first goodbye.
In goodbyes,
our eyes flood
as if a dam broke,
letting all of the
**** water in.
In goodbyes,
our eyes lose vision and
our eyes become empty.

Eyes are windows to expression.
When our body and
face say one thing,
our eyes tell otherwise.
But we are blind
to expression.
We are all blind.
It’s as if the world
scooped out our eyes
and threw it in the ocean.
We can only see water and darkness.

Why is there no spark
in your eyes?
I miss the brightness
with which you lived.
Where is your heart?
Why can’t I see it
through these windows?
Touch my heart.
Pierce my chest.
See my heart beating
with your fingertips.
You blind, blind boy,
your eyes have been
replaced by the ocean.

The blind can see
more than us.
The blind don’t have
what we have,
yet they can see
with their fingers and hearts.
Close your eyes and
you’ll see explosions of color.
You see,
there is no darkness without eyes.

Love is violence,
blood shed for the people
we hope to be in love with.
Love is thrown around like
leaves on a stormy autumn day.
We bleed on our love for each other,
hoping that something will be born
from the elixir of a human being.
Why are we so concerned for this
nonexistent newborn?

Why am I so concerned for him,
and why is he attacking my heart?
I guess he doesn't know does he?
He doesn't know that every day
I can feel my lungs collapsing
from the lack of his breath,
and I can feel my eyes losing sight
from the lack of his guidance.
I feel heavy.
I feel my bones being filled with lead,
and the culprit is him,
filling me with the love I’ll never have.
Who is he to make me feel like this?  

Why does each individual letter
of this forsake word
cut so deeply into my arms?
I want him to stop leaving
bullet holes in my stomach.
Once I am bled out,
he will bury me deep
within the ground,
and I will call the dirt
my home and the creatures
my friends.

My hands are old,
and they long for your touch.
I just want to hear your
voice, full of honey,
call my name.
I can’t stop thinking
about the way your
heavenly eyes bore
into my soul.

Love is obsessing over
his eyes and the darkness
that it holds.

Love is not real,
and neither are you.

The cliché,
"Every song reminds me of you"
is so wrong.

After spending a day
with your carefree mind
and your child-like hands
that are always searching
and always taking,
I've come to realize
that every song
seems to have been written
for the purpose of you.

Every love song seems
to have been describing
your perfect golden hair
that was crafted by the sun,
or your mysterious ocean
of the night sky that is resting
on your head.

Every breakup song seems
to have been attacking
your painfully empty eyes,
hollowed out by your
very own demons,
or your cruel words
filled with vice
and fiery spit
that seemed to have been
born from the
deepest pits of hell.

See,
every song does not
remind me of you.
Every song is made of you.