He asked the professional, the mature, & the kind-hearted for consult
All of them told him "it's not your fault"
But he could not get that through his head
He thought that something was wrong with him, so many articles he read

Sadly, he was psychologically affected by the psychologically conflicted
Although their effort to demean him went in vain
Although their goal was to make him go insane
It wasn't accomplished because he ran away from his problems

They thought this game was funny
That the prejudice would not consume him in endless depth
Everyone thought his last words before he left were "help"
But all he screamed to the sky was "I want to understand, why me?

He never got his answer from the bullies
& he left behind a lot of things when he ran away
Could you blame them? For no matter how hard he tried, he was criticized
Was the decision he made correct?

Why him?
For he was one of the kind-hearted
Mercy was all he deserved & mercy only did he see when he was broken
He lost all faith in God for he was broken
& this developed a new kind of prejudice in his long list  
Judge not what you have not lived

I am tired of all the injustice, the prejudice
But I will not be like you
I will do something...

there is a bed that you haven't slept in twice. i should have asked you who taught you to
lace up your shoes in an instinct
that feels just like a memory,
your luggage is always packed.
you love out of a suitcase, always
ready to pick up and move. your hands are stained with their last
names you have boarding flights tattooed
on your palms because you're so used to
leaving, there is never a good-bye it is
always departure gates and terminals, and i'm writing this in on connecting flight over the ocean because close to nowhere is
the closest we've been in months
just to tell your passport that i understand
how you cannot love me. i could
taste it in your gas-station coffee breath i could
feel it in the hesitance of your fingertips
you are always close to the highway you are always waiting to hitch a ride with a new girl who will write poetry about how badly you feel like permanence and i
am always trying to unpack you, begging
you to stay one more night.
i understand how you cannot love me, i stay on the ground and you buy plane tickets with spare cash, with a turbulence that makes me
want to fasten my seatbelt.
there is a bed that you haven't slept in twice and i whisper to the sheets
"i thought i could've made you stay."
your face is always towards the
humming of the window and
i like to imagine you can hear
me if you can hear me, you can leave all you
want. you can travel across the world and exchange your
heart for currency, you can walk through
security and stuff your belongings into the closets of cheap
hotels. i understand how you cannot stay because you're always too busy leaving,
but there will always be a place for you to
unpack in my chest.
there is a home that remains unoccupied.
there is a bed that
you haven't slept in twice, i keep it unmade in case you
ever feel like coming back.

your hand sifted through the typed pages
as if you were discovering
each word
for the first time.
ink poured from our mouths
as we whispered haikus
into the depths of novels and scripts.
you unraveled the cursive in my hair
and wove your accents and characters in instead.
fill in the spaces in my book that are left unwritten
with every idea,
every thought
that fills your head,
and i'll turn them into something beautiful.

Then I would wisk away all doubt,
Which is to say,
That I would mix it in with all the fears I'd rather forget about until it congealed into some edible manifestation of my whole life's worthless purpose baked into some half-crusted pie.

Eat it half-heartedly or else starvationally die.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,"
Said the blind cyclops in his customer review,
which is filed in the Physically-Disabled-Yet-Still-Insightful folder of our Customer's Reviews.
A folder seldom perused by our super,
who seems to prefer deferring all menial mentally-unstable issues to those who are new to the feild.

I hesitate to inform them that "field" is the type of word that I've always been notorious for misspelling.

The thing about being cool with everything is that sometimes people will try to chill you into freezing a frame that you've only ever enjoyed in motion.

Ideally, I'd've gone home already.
Done the dishes.
Wished that all of this had never'd happened.

Anyway, I've a feeling that I'll feel ****** tomorrow.
About it.
And this.
Bliss is offset by unpreferred circumstances.

Meanwhile, the Peter Pan version of myself who lives in the back of my head is mockingly bleating like a sheep.

Stomach plummets --
Cold blooded fear
Expressionless eyes
Open wide, mechanical
Blinking -- quit thinking
Go about your business
Don’t even nod
One foot and the other
In a perfunctory march
A slip and it’s over
They’ll turn and then stare
Raise up a finger,
Eyes bugging, mouth hanging
Expectantly before it comes:
Loud distorted ringing
The sound of your demise