Its 4 am
Ive been up for 52 hours
My brain feels like its going to explode
Someone save me from my misery
I cant even write good poetry at this stage

Here we go again.
It is 6 AM
The morning has begun its rise to power
And I have yet to fall asleep
I'm ready to die now
Someone tear the brain out of my skull
Please!!!!

If Death was an alcoholic
I'd be a bottle of Beam
Drinking away his sorrows
Like there is no tomorrow
Because life keeps falling
apart at the seam

I AM AN ALCOHOLIC
and my drink of choice is death
day drinking like a champion
and living like a mannequin
the *** and coke rolls off my tongue
with rest of my breath

Yes I have a problem
and Yes I have excuses too
No I don't plan on stopping
I simply love the throbbing
when my throat hits the bottom
so death I'll see you soon

We all have our mystery and worldly ties
But here lies our gravestone, alone in the skies

I admire death,
Although he but a vessel to the nether;
He is the great divide
That humbles the egocentric
And gives peace to the fraught.
Yet he cannot grasp anything but ash
And still brings mortals to their knees
In plee for a life that he cannot grant

Death and I are drinking a beer
while writing the words
to a love song that you'll never hear

We have scripted your eulogy
although you are alive
Its because you are dead to me

Buried inside my lungs
never to be spoken of  
cut off from my tongue

You were the living poison
only killing yourself
with all your pathetic reasons

Because Death and I
are better friends
than you and your lies

I'd rather drink myself to Death
and be his best friend
than be close enough to feel your breath

All I need is...
A poem
A sentence
A phrase
A word
An idea
Something to get me through the day
To take all of the pain away

We celebrate annually a time of new.
Like time itself is a new concept.
Millions of people celebrating one moment
to hold the rest in our sweet memories
As if this one party could capture life's wrath
and life's breath in one glimpse.
Why celebrate now?
When every gasp of breath
is a feat in itself worthy of kings.
When time ticks every other precious moment
we mope around and wait till time ends
for us to spill out our gratitude for what was.
In the end of time, we list what we could fix about the past
when the past has gone into the void of the nothing.
I challenge you to a new resolution,
a revolution of tradition
worthy of breaking.
Embrace each hour
each minute and second
with the same exuberance
as the first, the middle, and last
like no other moment before.
With all the moments you breath;
as the sun rises and sets
and loved ones descend into the darkness.
Do not wait till next year.
Party like no other celebration ever to come,
for no celebration is inevitable.

I have a sentence to life
And the warden is Death.

Death stands at the edge of the valley of man and slowly claps his hands...
Clap...



Clap...



Clap...



"Nice try, my friends."

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

My first memory I told my momma that I was the ugly duckling from her story,
she whispered “goodnight son”, and rolled her head back chuckling
She must have known for a long time that it was truth
But she insisted on tucking me in so I showed her my pearly white tooth
Because I thought she made the world all better
But when she kissed my head she told me a lie, and It was all to stop the bed wetter.
And it worked for that moment of time
I was too young to understand that other people wouldn’t be so kind

And when my daddy read me stories the next night it was no different
I told him that I was the black sheep that cried wolf, but he was indifferent
He just told me his stories even louder to stop my interruptions
From breaking the perfect bubble they wrapped me up in complexions.
My father told me about the three little piggies and how I was the strongest of them all
Because the big bad wolf could never blow down my bedroom wall
But what he didn’t tell me that all along he was the wolf in disguise
He was eaten himself, and I was next to be gobbled up; a pig who won first prize

However, I never got the chance to go weeeee weeee weee all the way home
Like every six-year-old kid dreamed of on their first day gone.
Within ten minutes of being in reality, I was told that Santa wasn’t real,
That stories were just fiction, and broken hearts won’t actually heal
I ran home that day fertilizing the grass below
It felt dead inside the kick to my reality was low
The grass I ran home on had been bone dry for six years
But I never really knew what to name crying since Elmo never really showed any tears

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

From the crib to the high chair, from the training wheels to the big boy seat, I was off
Off to meet talking trains, dancing zoo animals, and bright smiling people lit like Rudolf
I wanted laser guns shooting at me, ninja stars whizzing past my face
And everyday boys like me saving the day from bad guys that I'd have to chase
But nowadays criminals are for the news crews, and fights were for action scenes,
Adventures and joys were six planets away in Pluto’s playful puppy dreams
But I distinguished reality as fake because your fake was my reality
That I so desperately tried to hold onto since it was more lively than gravity

I was told the easter bunny had died and my cat didn’t go to the vet to rest;
the Superheroes were just drawings on a piece of paper destroying the forest
Not fighting the joker nor galactic alien ships; not even raising a finger to save a cat,
But I watched thousands of people die on my kindergarten screen in a concrete grave.
Superman never showed up to stop either of the hijacked planes,
And Mrs. Burger, the only teacher to ever give me a red light, cried for at least an hour in pain.
Before this, I had no idea what death was, but it had become blatantly clear to see
That whatever it was, where ever it took people, I swore up and down It would never take me

Because I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

I do not know what it is about a bed that compels us to longevity,
to slumber eternity in our wildest of dreams.
Might it be the warmth of its sheets that invites us to prolong our stay.
The wholesome tenderness that hugs us tight in its cover.
Tucked into our safety net, a mother's arm to a child,
where we only live to love and let die.

May it be our sheer will to live the day that chains us to our bedside,
a slave to time, a ***** to work.
We are but men comprised of exhaustion and sacrifice.
A time set aside to pamper ourselves for a while more.
A longing to heal a little further, to rejuvenate our spirits a little greater.
To fix the dark parts in our lives with black sunsets underneath our eyes,
hollowed willow trees in late night dreams carved into our flesh.

May it be for a better life, one less bitter and sour,
sheltered from the chaos upon us these years.
Tyrannies upon our souls, bomb brigades and racketeers.
A shelter, a feeding frenzy of tranquility that keeps us grasping onto life.

Is my bed but a place where my monsters hide underneath,
maybe we sweep our pain underneath the covers
and rest shame and guilt on our pillows
hoping to bring a rest to our demons of the dark
when the sun rises the next day,
soldiers forlorn to leave our post till day breaks.

Or is our answer, E “all of the above”.
Our will beaten till death pulls us apart in our night gowns
and whispers “sleep thy will, eternity”.
And temptation rages beyond our control
with a red flag glued to our hearts
tired of the ******* life charges at us.

Death can bite my shiny metal...
It can fall off my thoughts like a petal
And let go of my family tree.

O' please, let my loved ones be,
And the sea of darkness set free
So that i can sleep in peace

And wake with all my pieces.
This life is but a simple lease,
time that I'd like to extend

Push away the invevitable end
That dooms us all to bend
To our knees  and weep.

I have shadows where my eyes once were,
for years I have spent clawing at them
scratching the blood from my corneas
and draining the tear drops from my duct
slowly depleting myself from sight
because I am tired of looking at the mirror
and despising the broken emptiness.

Thus, I see no evil because everything is dark.

Its having air but not enough
Its writing a story without an end,
Its a present left unopened
Its a love kept to one's self
Its a hope unfulfilled
And a dream left to die

If I had your gun in my hands,
I would have pulled the trigger
faster than than you could say
I love you

There are 7.6 billion fools to this day
and I build an understanding to stand among them.
I came to the haven of insecurity to find the unknown
and to worship the word of my Professors like a slave.
I bow down to the, end all be all, grades of disappointment
As if these C's will give me the edge one day;
the sway over everybody else to secure my existence.
I yearn to matter in anyway possible,
In a society that wants to ***** out my contributions.

Thus far,
I can not compare to the greats in their sepulchers,
Nor can I circumvent my disposition of miniscularity.
But one day when I know what those fancy words truly mean
I will reign down from above
And hopefully take my place next to the others...
Dead and in a grave of my own.

The sun is just the devil's tool
To turn the moon into a fool
Exposing a heart so cruel

A poem a day
To keep the insanity away

The world stood still,
our time we had to ****
lives dropped years
like hot wax on chandeliers

splattering our day to day
with matters of silver gray
of red, browns, greens and gold;
the sort of rainbow nobody ever told.

Not in fairytales nor magazines,
hot topics nor fresh cuisines
But in the eyes of trees
and suckle sweet honey bees

Day to day in the wood
where people wish they could
live out their troublesome ages--
freed from their pen and paper cages.

As if a god stopped each pedal drop
each bird's chirp and bunny hop
to be heard on trumpets high
in a day to day look at the glorious sky

a soft second when all is still
birds, babes, and a fawn, frozen at will
lifeless yet has utmost potential
delved in a growth exponential

Dear happiness,
Your memory is a chef's kiss upon my cheek;
A delight upon my tongue
and a blessing to the little moments in life
that glows a pleasant hue of warmth.
You periodically saturate the background
of what seems to be infinite chaos.
You are a little spark of light in a dark room
that fills the soul with satisfaction,
But unfortunately your grasp is fleeting;
in one moment and gone the next,
A whisper of sentiment  
trickling down from the heavens
that bounces off our skin
as we dance in the rain.
Your wealth is extinguished
easily by the  horrors of life,
and I can rely on you no less then
standing on a mound of quicksand.
For most hedonistic tales end tragically,
those who seek your warmth eternally
find themselves wallowing in despair
more often then not.
The suffering of this world is just more consistent
and pours out it's muck feverously.
The extravagant whims you produce
are quickly overrun by plague and famine.
You are delightfully valuable
and undeniably desirable in every capacity,
But you are simply one spice of life.

I wish you upon every one of my beloved,
and your joys are ever so welcome,
but I have found something, someone,
more reliable to stand upon.
Something that exceeds just the moment.
Her name is meaning conjoined to her sister purpose.
Yes, misery and darkness still envelope our plight,
but these two sisters, soften the edges
for which we stand upon.
As we walk our journey upon the shores of suffering
she enlightens our foot steps and guides us forward.
Though the misery still seeps through our toes
we are driven together without heed.
She makes the suffering worthy of life,
and transforms our stumbling blocks
into valiant victories over our demons.
You may erase the darkness briefly,
but she traces the outskirts of pain and sorrow
with an intricate blending tool
that makes walking through muddy sand
a little less miserable.
She scrubs clean life's bitterness on my tongue.
Her ability to transform life into something more,
is a breath of caffeine.
She is the Goddess of exponential growth

HOWEVER, the bliss of meaning
comes with its own variety of cost.
His name is responsibility
and the weight he bares is quite immense.
He is knighted with duty and honor;
Countless sleepless nights working
followed by stressful days a slave.
He requires effort and upkeep,
day after day maintenance.
His effort is religiously monotonous
Sitting at a desk counting numbers;
chopping wood and building fires;
digging deep into the earth of life
in the attempt to develop a garden of pleasures.
Blood, sweat, and tears rain down
his ever muddy face.
He is a knight that fights the darkness daily,
but he knows deeply the horrors of battle.
He is the fire that heats life into fruition.

Although his cost is deep and anguishing
the reward of his sister supersedes.
both the cost and the terrors of life.
Nothing compares to looking into her eyes.
with a childlike love and desire.
So yes happiness do come by,
sprinkle your affection upon my life and I.
Dance together with my beloved
and swing life away for no tomorrow.
But know that even when you are away.
and the darkness hugs me tight,
I stand on a solid foundation.
of meaningfulness and responsibility.
And I will see you another night.

Yours Truly,
Monster

I am sincerely sorry for being an absentee in my own life. You probably don't know me or even care about my existence, nor do you find relevance in my apologetic attempt to reconcile my fruitlessness. But I feel strongly compelled to apologize for my stagnation:

I come from a pond across the way from you. A stowed away break in the trees where the sun only shines for a brief time at noon and disappears for the rest of the day. The birds don't sing their song of sixpense, nor do the fish splash or the frogs belch their symphony. Even the crickets scream as loud as the mimes at the circus. For nothing enters and nothing leaves, so why do you even bother?

I only write to you for what could have been, and pray for forgiveness for what hasn't been. I understand that the act of "what if"s is a waterfall of tears cascading into an abyss, but I find that this journey is a necessary evil.

So what if I made a splash today in my pond, the ocean of things that I can actually control. Sent ripples across the pond and stirred the fish into commotion. The frogs join in the chaos with their symphony  and maybe the crickets, after hearing the low bass of croaking, decide to join in with their rhythm that awakens the birds from their deep slumber. In response, the birds spring up with their joyous melody and the ensemble of nature creates an exuberant noise in a previously dull and dim place. Such a thought that one tiny splash can dictate a tremendous ensemble, such that if you took your thoughts off of your own life for a split second you could possibly be splendidly surprised by burst of nature from an insignificant source. Such small fractions of life can create mesmerizing sound waves that make you a little happier today.

It seems so simple to create, just a whispering splash. Yet I have failed to create a single note that is audible to the outside world.

There are two plausible reasons for my plight: Either the noise I attempt to create is so insignificant to the outside world that more significant amplifications exceed my own capacity to make sound or the world is just simply not listening anymore.

No matter how many times you cry out, jump up and down in the pond and scream your head off at the world; the ripples aren't forming. The waves don't crash on the shore and one is left standing invisible in the center of a drowning amount of commotion.

And if you are reading this, you are the anomaly that has slipped through the sound barrier to hear this silent song.

Death sits on his perch and watches with patience, as the dwellers march on and his masterpiece develops.

I do not wish to be diagnosed,
because that would label
my personality as a mistake
But I do want to be fixed
because there is something broken inside;
a few screws that could be tightened;
a few boards could be refurbished;
a pile of unspoken tragedies piled up
waiting to one day be sifted through.

Shut the lid to my sarcophagus
Let me sink into the abyss
For this world is one I won't miss

Everyday I muddle through
Meandering the waste land, a
Plethora of subsatisfactory
Tasteless apathy
Indifference to the bottomless
Nothingness that thrives
Existing to die
Sleep walking in ---
Silence

You dont actually touch things!
For we molecularly reject everything.
The "I'm not touching you" cliché
Becomes uncomfortable childs play
Because the distance between us
Will never not exist, thus
Kissing her is a game
Of pushing her all the same;
Two lips fighting over the same space
But neither wins the race
Unless she makes me suffocate
And all my atoms relocate
To grasp onto some oxygen
And maybe some nitrogen.
She tells me I always push her away
But babygirl thats part of my DNA.
I can't help it that our atoms wont fuse
Ive tried my best but I always lose.
Being an introvert is atomically sound
Its better that no one is around
So I dont reject them from my life.
Its an ironic kind of strife:
Being in permanent isolation
Because you dont want rejection.
We never truly touch
But that doesn't mean very much.

Death tempts me with a chance to finally fall asleep...


And I chose to decline.
O' the regret.

I just need to be more creative
Have one thought that clicks in everybody's mind
Something  that makes me more special than the rest;
Something that inspires,
That requires those who read it to sit and ponder.
A stir in the air that shipwrecks your mind
On the island of my imagination.
I just need something more.

But what for?
The clicks and the views,
The stars in the night sky
Or the "i love you" (s)
O' nothing that really matters anymore

I proceed to write again,
Feverishly clawing my way
through a leather bound journal.
The floods have been dammed
for longer than I can remember
And I fear for those below,
But I must laugh at myself a little
For I am alone in this abyss.

I never knew what strength was
until I couldn't hold on any longer;

They are stacks of mud--
Splattered filth on the curb
slowly rotting away
like debris of our own path.
Trampled upon leaves
and roadkill rabbits
that pass by our eyes
like the birds of the sky;
Forgotten people of time
and tragedy's aftermath.

Yet these wise wise fools
are happier than I,
the higher and mightier
Begotteb of a son.
Whom dwells in depression
Chained to a society
that feeds off of misery
and regretful deceit;
The comfort and contentment
perceived as luxury and success

For I see them smile
almost a daily occurrence,
as though a new sunshine
is enough of a reason to live zealously.
For I have not unwithholdingly
smiled in countless years,
yet these pitiful souls
have the ability to surpass my own
and thrive in the freedom of their hearts
whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.

If only sleep would come as easy
As the anxiety that keeps me awake

Fervent warriors come upon a field,
A trickle of men storming the grassy abyss,
prepared with shields upon their hearts
and weapons ready at the finger tips.
Their hearts oscillating to the war cries
and to the sounding drummer's march.
A prevalent threat casting shadows overhead;
Awaiting the freedom bell and the open air,
the men charge with their pens cocked
and their ink basins filled to the brim.

The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed  to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But  this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.

I try to sleep, I honestly try my best,
life would call me a mess.
But when the night comes and goes
As though the wind blows her away
I cant help but tear myself to pieces.
You might not understand the sleeplessness
But im sure you all know suffering.
The happy thoughts stuck on buffering
Spinning a wheel of sorry im not functioning.
Not today nor any other,
A constant "why do I bother"
Trying to recover from the last 52 hour
Binge watching of "something to do"
Just To keep myself from knocking a ***** or two
Loose from my scattered brain;
Splattered against the television
For hours on end because delusion
Is a better conclusion than depression.
Stuck in a fantasy that I can be super human
Rather than facing the contusion head on.
Putting a bandaid on the hole in my soul
Hoping that heroism is a contagious scroll
Through the cartoon section of the tv guide.
I hide in bed waiting for my bride,
My perfect life to fall into place
But all I face is static friction
Because the perfect life is fiction.
And ill lie awake till the day I die
Watching the world as my life goes by.
Suffering, like the rest.

Enough said

The past two days were recklessly engorged with alcohol.
Intoxication has become habitual. Each weekend, drowning one's self in an illusion of joy and folly; The jester entertaining not Kings nor Queens, but the ****, the weak, to deceive the empty crowd in my mind that I matter to someone. But matter is fleeting and we, myself and the abyss, understand the plight of today; waking up to nothing-- the empty abyss for which I am well acquainted with. Simply put, I am revisiting my old home from a not so distant past. The only difference between then and now is the relentless bottoms of empty glasses and a false sense of security and composure.

It is as if a wave of tranquility passed over me this morning. Still numb. However, the strenuous longing to feel has dissipated. The wounds have be temporarily cauterized. No empty pain lingers in the darkness like a phantom menace. I felt nothing before, But I knew I was in pain. Now the nothingness consumes any lingering obscure thoughts. I am the hollow man; Such a fragile shell I carry on burden bones. But tis a pleasant day indeed. Thunder storms barrage the sky in open warfare and ominous tear drops soak the battlefield. For once I am not the fool weeping alone; The world takes my place, my pain, my suffering, and I revel in the warmth of it's tears as any good sadist does.

I can pack all my belongings into a single bag
But I cannot condensed my thoughts into a single universe

Look -- O’ look
The books we could be;
Seas of lumber
Slumber in dusty sleeves.
Thieves of the night
Write on our eyes;
Lies in the form of words,
Worlds in forms of home.
Some call it fiction,
Imagination calls it sanity
Gravity of our own two feet
Meet to stay alive.
“Strive” it tells me.
“Be all that you can and more.
Doors lead to windows,
Intros to the Galaxy.
Actually living more lives than one.
Undo the restrictions-
Dictions people have over you.
Few are even close
Most will never get there.
Here there is only you
Through the woods behind the books

I was asked to explain what I mean by
"Dead Inside"
Typically I pawn off a joking motion
waving my marionette arms
to hide the rabbit in the hat
I adequately nick-named misery
because it keeps me company.
But if you sawed me in half
I'm quite certain all you will find
inside is a silhouette of  man
dancing around in a light box
doing the same fruitless jig over and over.
A couple of loose strands
and a few holes in the images
but the end is the beginning
and I am putting on a show for you all now.
The curtain is  my mouth
strung so tight you'd think it was a smile
And the words I say spin round and round
not a genuine frown in sight.
The light may be on inside
but the picture never seems to change
day after day,
collect the pieces off the floor
get up,
fall in love,
trip over the same type of girl
have my heart shatter into pieces
fall back down on the side of the road
remember how uselessly alone I am;
rinse and repeat.
This is paper thin love
and see through expectations that will not fail.
And it doesn't matter which way you spin it.
Its A tragically bad silent comedy
that doesn't need a narrator to explain
Just how miserable the person inside really is.
My heart is just a silhouette of a man
and if you think you can put some tangibility
behind it and not have it shatter into 1000 pieces.
Congrats you too have joined the circus.
and spin round and round in my light box.

Sweet cherry blossoms
Are drowning in your eyes;
Drifting out to Sea

Death is the only little pleasure
Left in this sullen world
For all things have their own
attempt at death.

She doesn't know me, nor recognize me anymore,
as if the trees have changed shades of blue they never were
and dandelions have melted into an orange color.
She stood back in a shocked unacknowledgement
a painful stare right through my flustered skull
taking notice to every little ant but silly old me;
the chilled sizzles in her passionate eyes
passing by my attention seeking debonair,
easier than skipping stairs on her way
out of work every Friday afternoon.
she sometimes speaks to me, but the tides are shallow,
and our depths couldn't even bathe a babe.
Red flakes of the greatest nothing
incapable of breathing the slightest spark in her mind,
but her blazing hair has caught my attention.
Flaking embers that have sprinkled thousands of burnt marks
upon my coarse skin
like freckles stained to my body unable to be brushed off.
Her burnt heart is on my sleeve but I'm afraid not in my arms;
a fire pulsing through my veins like a slightly more addictive ******
because she is my little red, of course, from afar
and that is all I could ask for
no more, no less
because she is my little red