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.

I'm a sinner, since I'm a liar
A hardly describable swirling, sickening, stifling feeling
Seething air in my lungs, and my diaphragm
I holler "I'm fine!" What a lie.

I stare at the white, flawless lambs on my sacrificial alter,
unclear about their place in life.
How was it supposed to know
that it would be scarred by something
supposedly mightier than a sword?

For now it lay half finished
stared at by me, a small girl with curious eyes.
Pessimism stood close behind me,
biting my neck and draining me of
Blood red love and inspiration
Shivery, sleety, snowy, stinging breaths of depression
Caused my ideas to slip between my fingers.

She thought, "Sometimes I wish I could right my wrongs
And fix all the broken hearts and evaporate the tears,
But for now all I think I can do,
Is write poems."

Bubbly memories that leave
A sticky residue of sadness.

What could've been if
It turned out differently?

Black, reflecting my negative emotions
And yet, also reflecting soft dappling light -
White light, reflecting my optimism for happiness.
Clicking cameras' clinging onto frozen moments.
Curved lenses
Capturing, condensing,
concentrating, and compacting.

A vaguely comprehensible collection
of inconsequence.

It's a track race,
Beginning at the finish line, to die where you have started.
Back in the hospital, just in a different room.
Holding up handmade signs of late-night prayers...
But exactly for what?

If you were to win, you'd be in pain forever,
If you were to lose, we'd never see you again.
This is the first time we were ever together,
As one whole, silly family, tearing up and tearing apart.
The cries are like those from a suffocating puppy,
Depleting, breathless, and fearfully depressive
You'd rather not know, and not feel.

Sure, everyone is sad, but they won't share the times we had.
When you left that meet, a part of me left with you,
And a part of me stayed, but my memories fade
The lines between joys and fears.
A part of me stayed to keep my family strong,
but who's to keep me strong...
When my biggest hero is gone?

Water. Words.
Slipping through my fingers when I want to catch them.
Relieving me of my thirst... brainstorms.
Unstoppable when emotions take hold of the reigns.


Girls. Poets.
The words that come out of your mouth,
are not ones you simply mean.
They wear masks, hiding away true feelings.

It's not when we met
because nothing comes to mind.

It's not all the times you made me laugh
you, me, us, we, rolling around on the warm beach sand
because nothing comes to mind.... right?

The faint kisses on cheeks and whispers
of sweet cheesiness...
nothing. comes. to. mind.

What I do remember is the present, not the past.
It's the way we pass each other
without saying a word,
memories locked away, greetings and questions
kept in an air-tight chest.

I've gotten a taste of my own medicine,
you could say perhaps.
A heartbreaker with a brokenheart.

The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.

Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.

It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.

on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.

Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.

No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.

There is a land I am told,
that changes seasons by the day
(very uncontrolled)
or even
by the hour.

Sitting in your tower,
your eyes scan the wondrous land
The spectacular land where
invisible monsters jeer, at you, un-aware...
The nymphs and shining faeries
send your heart soaring
to cloud nine.

Apparitions of love echos in dark caves.
Brave souls who dare venture into it
Sometimes never make it out.

The shadows are your secrets,
following you wherever
and whenever you go.

A land that we all live in.
We're just too blind to see
because it's your metaphorical, philosophical, and romantic
silly heart.