I'm really tired with the sad poems filling up my dash
and i remember the time where the place my heart resides
felt empty because the person living there had seemed
to have packed up and moved out

I'm really tired because thinking takes a lot of energy even though I'm
just sitting behind a computer but I remember when I was really sad
it took me half the day's energy for me to get out of bed and the other
half trying to fall asleep.

I'm just really really tired because I don't want anyone else to feel that way.
And the worst thing to hear was "it does get better" because it felt like it actually never would.
i didn't feel lucky enough to be saved. i never thought it'd be like the movies where i would be slowly drifting down in the water, eyes lost and skin cold while someone held their breath and swam down to save someone who resembled more of a corpse than a breathing human being.

it really does get better and I love waking up early to see the birds call out to their families.
I smile more than I frown and I fear I'm getting wrinkles already but that's okay.
the wrinkles around my mouth are natural tattoos that say "I made it" and "I am okay now"
it is okay to not always be okay but you have to get better one day.

It should not be possible
for my heart to beat its fastest
when it feels as though
everything else around me has stopped.

A shot to Achilles' heel
is an understatement to the way you,
only you, can make me feel.

Can someone tell me,
since when did receiving a smile,
feel like being cast out into
S P A C E ?

because I feel as if I'm floating
and the world
is just
so, so much more
beautiful.

and even though I cannot breathe,
I want to watch the sunrises
and the sunsets
and sit through the storms
and the cloudy days
and the twinkling city lights
at night.

Excuse me doctor, what do I do?
When it is legal to drown these feelings in alcohol
but illegal to drive myself home,
I feel lost.

I fear I'm
drowning in my love for you

Invisible
as it plays my heartstrings,
a song stuck in Minor key.

Invisible
as it sits within my brain,
writing detailed nightmares
for the plays to be held tonight.

Can't you see it?
Can't you hear it?
If it isn't physically there,
why can I feel it?

There's a black hole inside of me
A growing emptiness.
Scarfing down smiles
Absorbing anger
Swallowing sadness.

"Why are the writers always sad?"

"Maybe it isn't the writers who are sad,
Maybe it's the sad who are writers."

The photographs are talking
telling almost forgotten stories
of a happiness that used to be
where my empty soul lies

Sadly,
morphine is the drug, the addiction
that keeps me here today.
Exhilaratingly unstimulating
I'm stuck in a dream world
that has lost it’s color
a monotonous monotone.
Happily,
morphine is my drug, my addiction
that will take my broken
life away.