The worst part about my life is
I still dream of you
And when I do
I wake myself up
Sit up slowly
And look to my left.

A metamorphosis she wrote
a little death he hoped
a matter exchange
a frown in the window pane
among a weeping black sky
in the middle of the day time
alone

oh the box is your home
little one you know
ive tried to get you to move out
but my words feel on sour notes
comfort comfort
as you choke

its digusting its morose
its beautiful its enthralling
its the truth its a hoax
its ugly its withdrawing
into your shell your cocoon

though no butterfly promotes
only carcass as your womb
just a shy regret
entombs.

A friend came to me,
and showed me some
genuine kindness.
I felt plastic.
My face wasn't right.
My pounds weighed heavily upon
my stone heart.
The alcohol
which brought some lies
in the form of false facade.
burnt away, thought the mask remained
She looked in my eyes
Smiling,
knowing.
I hate the knowing.
Because I know not myself.
And I know all too well.
It is disgusting.
I wanted to tell her everything.
As I bit my tongue
I understand
I interrupted
I'll think about it
I appreciate it.
I listen but don't hear
I can't.
My life story is a burden
I refuse to place on others
This weight I bear.
This depression, always in the back.
She had seen.
Naked. Raw. Open. Exposed. Defeated.
I feel at a loss.
When I know I should have won.
Someone irreplaceable.
Someone I should not love.
But show me that genuine kindness.
Understand. And I am done.
My gift is my curse.
My heart beats for no one.

If ignorance is bliss,
then I am the sunshine
of a spotless mind.

If self-deception is peace,
then you are the moon
to my bare earth.

If a lie is the truth,
then we are the glimmer,
in the eyes of the blind.

If your love was wrong,
then I thank you
for ever making it feel so right.

I could see the way
Light formed from the opaque
Wrapping around the white whisps,
of clouds long past now.
Becoming solid, filling with mass,
casting shadows, glancing past.
I had tears of a feeling not quite joy,
not quite fear. Not quite empty.
Not quite. It was just the tip.

I thought of a lover.
One I could now never introduce to my Mother.
In more ways than one.
More ways.

Yet, I look across the open field,
Of others vast imaginations,
romantic meanderings,
and dramatic, emotive yields.
I empathize, and oh, I can find a way to feel.
But this warmth is wounding,
This hope, isolating.

There are parts of me that are gone.
And you reading,
And those who have heard,
And those who sit staring,
thinking, dreaming,
that it will come back,
That I will change,
or become as I was in their minds,
once more. That I'll grow up.
Move on. Recover. Become whole.
Feel human. Be an adult. Find a real reason for being.
Not just existence, unforgiving you.

That just a little religion,
some art, or expression.
Maybe a girlfriend,
wherever or whatever that is,
Can somehow complete me.
Bring me back.

But I smile, fondly,
Melancholy.
It is now a part of my  being.
I am that I am, said God.
And I am the God of my own choosing.

Depression is the worst of all diseases.
IT never leaves.

Poems can be like prophecies;
walls on the heart can build themselves.

Oh Jericho, what I want is what I fear.
The horn that will never come.

The words you say to yourselves,
can mean more than those to others.

A truth you spoke in a lie,
Is just your insecurities, crumbling.

A light in her eye,
Fading, now with time.

Your mind is weakening,
your love is perverted.

A poem is prophecy, he said...
I wrote Macbeth; and now I die.