i guess you have to feel to write poetry, right? maybe thats why im in such a rut such a empty shell void of feeling therefore void of imagination. creativity.
feelings.
i used to write well used to scream out my hurt write it all down.  turned my brain off too long. learned how to do it and obviously abused it. im trying to turn it back on, get the wires to spark. too much empty space is how it feels. too many disconnected wires.

12:48 am
**** god and religon **** presidents and their ******* **** school **** laws **** normality **** clothes **** ***** **** drugs **** love **** sexism **** rascism **** blood **** words **** suicide **** murderers **** rapists **** knives **** guns ******* **** this poem **** this aint even a poem **** this

11:58 am
its like everything in the world is so beautiful and i am in love with everyone and everything and theres so much beauty and so much love that i cant function because theres no way for me to experience it all and theres no way for me to love all of it back

12:07 am

this is my first time writing since may. i dont really know what to write about. ive written about pain, ive written about guilt, ***, abuse, drugs. it seems thats all there is to be wrote about. i could write about love, but **** it thats so cliche and trust me ive tried it once and it turned out rotten.

i think this is a very bad time in my life. it feels as if rock bottom is one hill away. (lost all my friends, lost familys respect,cutting, getting fat(startingtostarve), snorting percs). ive thought ive been at rock bottom so many times. but every time i thought it, i realized theres more to come. (every overdose i exposed to mom)

but this time i think im farther down than that. im to the point that i realize dying is a bad option, but i can feel, as the seconds go by, it seems like the best. i know i thought about dying before, but never in this sense. ive never thought of it as a real option, ive always thought "yes, i will take these pills, but they will not **** me. i will get help after they see im suffering"

honestly, i dont want to overdose and end up back in the hospital. its a bore, a endless circle of routine. (take the pills, confess, hospital, pumped with fluids, drink the charcol, talk to doctors, pack my bags, long drive, 1 week stay)

but i dont want to die either. im terrifed of whats after death. (heaven/hell?, rot in the ground? come back a bear?) (worst scenario: stay on earth as a ghost, watch my loved ones suffer)

and i do realize there are people that love me, not many, but enough. and for some ****** up reason thats not stopping me from my selfishness. its not convincing me to let my darkness out.

im so confused about life and about who we are and what were suppoused to do and how everything ended up the way it did. im thinking too much nonsense, not thinking enough commonsense.

anyways, i guess ill keep living for now (probably keep cutting, keep snorting pills, and keep starving) and pray (towho???)that things get better

This morning I awoke clutching your name
with such reckless devotion that it turned to dust,
each letter fell to the floor. I know where you went,
long before you vanished inside of your name,

long before the grave. You sank into your body
like a river, guided by the low light burning
on the horizon. I know how you found us:
the pipe is a beacon. The pipe is a lighthouse.

You wanted to know how to remove the emptiness
from yourself. We never understood it cannot be
removed. It is not a pulsing seed in the gut, or a peach pit
run into the mud. We weren't drug addicts, we said

we were scientists. We experimented each day.
Sent the smoke down into the deep mine of the chest
as though it were a rope with a hook at the end of it
to pull the emptiness back out. We partitioned ourselves
away to the dark piece by piece, we did not remove
the emptiness but further became it.

The mind of the addict is cunning enough
to convince the body it is not dying.
Houdini doesn't have **** on an addict,
he was able to convince everyone but himself
he had vanished. Addiction is the ethereal art
of forgetting that you are still here.

I know where you went, before the syringe perched
in your arm and whistled through the vein
like a steam engine, before the crack rock broke apart
in a blaze of light as though it were an egg hatching fire.

I know what it is to walk down an unlit street at midnight
and have a gun cocked in your mouth. I know what it is
to discover the gun shaking in your own hand.
The most dangerous neighborhood
is the one in my own head.

This is a game of masks.
A Rorschach test of the mind.
QUESTION: what do you see?
Anything I want.
This is the magic of perception.

The difference between an addict
and one who is drowning
is the one who is drowning knows it.
The addict will drink the sea until it becomes him.

Even now, five years sober and when I smell whiskey
from across the room my mouth still waters.
I have not fed my skin a blade for nearly a decade
for fear of what I might let out.
What sleeps must one day wake,
even when you sneak through your own life like a thief.

I having spent whole nights lying awake asking why
I made it and you didn't. I can still hear death pawing
at the outskirts of town, as you vanished inside
the needle in your arm and I swayed
from the edge of a bridge, neither one of us
was any more deserving of this life.

I feel ill to even think it, but I have to thank you,
some days your death is all that stands between me
and a drink. There were days I went as far
as to hold a bottle in my hand,
but couldn't bring myself to swallow
because your name was stuck in my throat.

There were weeks I couldn't walk two blocks
from my door without being asked
if I wanted some kush, some glass, some white,
some snow, some jack up, some jelly beans,
some dust, some rock, some good ****.

And each time I heard your voice ask me,
"how badly do you want this life?
you didn't deserve it then, but you got it,
so what are you willing to do, to keep it?"

And I'll cut my wrists
Straight down to the bone
And carve flowers
Into the body
You've wilted.

half past 9 the sun just went down. the burning of the stars reminded me of her.
i found her in the bathtub.
as soon as i walked in i knew something was wrong; the curtain was closed.
i open it.
oh my god

the water was red
her wrist; displayed on the edge of the tub
you could see her veins
*oh my god