Not a day goes by that you don’t see me,
Sitting in my bed, alone.
I waste away.
You ignore my screams.
How apathetic can a caretaker be?
Water teeters on the edge of my nightstand,
Just outside my reach.
All I ask is one drop to wet my cracking lips.
Do you even care to end my pain?
You know that my weakness cannot last forever;
I will rise and strike you down,
Ridiculing, beating, forgetting you.
One day, you will be in that bed,
Crying,
Dying.
And I will be
Your apathetic caretaker.

I’ve got those feelings again:
Bubbles and heartthrob and all the clichés.
Find me in your eyes,
And see yourself through mine.
Your touch can melt me to the bone.
Every word you speak is truth.
Each day I spend in your presence is a blessing beyond measure.
For there is power in the smallest things,
And the meaning’s in the details.

You hide behind crystal doors and glass walls,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of what you have only read in storybooks:
Perfection, doll-like and still.
Two lovers, in an embrace of pure harmony.
A young girl, her life ahead and the will to live and grow.
Only happiness and promise of days to come.
Then, there is a crack in the glass.
No more charades. This is real life.
Look to your left and see the lovers battle.
At your right, watch the girl die, slowly.
Straight ahead are the noose and blade, waiting for flesh and life to rip and take.
You walk toward the beckoning Reaper, only to be stopped
At the glass.
Look
One more time.
Your life is before you.

I let myself finally admit it last night.
Twelve years seems like a long time to keep a secret,
especially from yourself.
I wanted to pretend that a friend wouldn’t do that,
That there was some sort of unspoken,
unseen wall.
That wall fell to a small Swiss Army knife
and a few soft words in a dark room all those years ago, and I’ve never quite been able
to put it up again.
I suppose I’m not the first man to have his soul broken for the sake of exploration.

It’s five a.m. and I’m on top of the world.
You look at me and I smile.
You touch me and I shiver.
You kiss me and I laugh—
at the love that almost wasn’t.
But it is, and it makes me speechless.
No poet can explain this faultless love,
nor a storyteller tell its tale.
Just two lovers, loving—
not a care in the world, but for that moment alone.
Just
that
moment.
And in that moment, the two become one—a fusion of souls.

If the world stopped turning now, where would you be?
Would you truly be searching,
Reaching,
Learning?
Or would you be teaching,
Giving,
Showing?
Would you be moving at all,
A constant torrent of change?
Or would you leave this world exactly as you left it?
As for me, I choose to make a difference.
I have decided to disrupt the apathy.
I am unsure of the rest of the world,
But I have chosen to show them more of me
Than anyone has ever seen.
Give me an audience; I’ll give you a scene
Of love, of growth, of
Everything that none have elected, selected
To see.
Give me the world, and I’ll give them
Me.

Love—vulnerability in its truest form.
Nothing to show for it but bare nerves
and a small band of gold.
I push you away, and you ask why.
What do you want to hear from me?
I do love, but for my own sake, give me a reason to hate you.
Our mask of sweet nothings and kisses is but a thin veil.

“How much can one man do?”
Ask me when my time is up, and I will tell you.
I haven’t finished giving, learning, teaching, yearning:
Giving my all,
Learning to love,
Teaching what good can come from a single man’s heart,
Yearning for unity.
I don’t even know if I will reach everything there is to reach,
But you’d best believe I’ll try.
I’m not content with standing still,
And watching clouds go by.
So, “How much good can one man do?”
Feel free to find it out.
I am too occupied with doing good
To find out for myself.

I
Am.
I have no need to be
Enveloped in hypocrisy,
Or write a novel, climb a tree,
Or contemplate a bumblebee.
There is no benefit for me
To finding the square root of 3,
Or calculating the number phi
To digit three-hundred-thirty-three.
I only feel the need to be
The me that I was meant to be.
I’ll find a way to just be free,
And settle down and simply
Be.

I’m told that every day that I live is a miracle,
So why don’t I feel like one?
And who are you to tell me that? What great accomplishment do you count it to rise once more from bed?
Don’t put me on a pedestal.
It pulls me down
Below you.
Your spotlight, brilliant and blinding, prepares the world for a star of the stage. I am merely
A supporting role.
I deserve to be
Just another person.
You think this chair creates a divide. Do you not see yourself in me?
I live, eat, breathe, sleep.
When we sleep, do we not all dream?
I laugh, cry, love.
Do we not all love?
I will one day die.
And when death comes, are we not all the same: frail, weak, timid?
So don’t tell me, “You’re special, brave, an inspiration.”
I’m so much
Less than you make me.
Look past what I am,
And see who I have been all along:
Your reflection.

I looked in the mirror today.
I saw nothing out of place:
Dark circles, pale skin,
Dead eyes, full to bursting with a lack of life.
I did some soul searching today.
Nothing seemed wrong with me:
Self-loathing, depression,
Suicide.
Cause, effect,
And solution.
I saw you again today.
You looked as good as ever:
Same pain, same hate,
Same desire to end the disaster.
I looked in the mirror today,
And told myself that it would all end
With one quick pull.

Talking to walls, befriending floors;
These are the things that get me through.
But now walls shrink away, and floors groan at my passing.
I am not welcome in my own house.
I say “house” because I am aware of the connotation of “home”.
Home is safe. Home gives solace.
I am not safe in this place. There is no solace.
My death is in the darkest places.
You weep at these words, yet I welcome them with open arms.
For the death that I seek is not one by beast or man.
My death shall be a death by will.
As I force the life from my body,
And watch the haze overtake me,
The door will close, and the world will forget.

I’ve seen you and your paper smile,
Trying hard to tape up every rip
And smooth out every crumple.
Careful near that water;
You know how you tend to fall apart.
But the thing about paper is
Everyone can write on it,
Crease it,
Sign it and
Read it
Until it is not a piece of paper,
But a testament
To a lack of self-respect.

Today, I stayed in a cold, dark room.
From inside these walls, not a soul can hear me.
The light won’t come on anymore;
Come to think of it, was there ever any light here?
No. There can’t be.
Why would there be? There is nothing to see.
Just me. Sitting here.
In silence.

In the deep, dark corners of my mind lies a monster.
I try to hold it back,
But it rips apart my life, my love,
My heart.
Then, just as quickly as it came,
It is gone,
Leaving me to explain the damage it has done.
The beast lurks nearby in the shadows, waiting for another chance
To tear me down, and **** my humanity.
This is no mythic dragon, with scales that shine in the sun.
It is all too real.
Blood-drenched, hungry, it stalks my every step,
Until that day when it will finally pull me under and end it all.
And on that day, I will no longer fight,
For with my death will come its demise.
And the world will be better for it.

I have to wonder why
You call your work “Untitled”.
Is it just that forgettable, or do you simply not care?
Maybe you aren’t as creative
As your works would make us think.
Perhaps you are the type to leave labels off,
Hoping your readers will fill in the gaps.
Whatever it is, I’m sure you have your reasons.
This question will keep me guessing for a while.
If I can’t come up with a definitive answer, I’ll leave my musings
Untitled.

Find me,
Not in your world, But in
mine.
In this world,
This solid piece of subconscious,
Time slows down and lets me breathe.
I am in the womb again, secure in the motherly forces around me.
Break through. I dare you to even try
To **** me inside
Just like you did so many times before.
I am untouchable. Take me as I am.

I ride the wings of memory,
Back to the days when there was much to see
There was no hurt, no sting of bees,
Back in the days of memory.

I know the days of memory.
I’ve seen the butterflies float in the breeze
In the days of rest and the days of ease;
These are the days of my memory.

Do you know the days of memory,
Back before innocence was lost in the trees?
The worst thing we knew was the skinning of knees,
Back in the days of memory.

I know that I’ll never be able to leave
And rest in the arms of summer's relief,
But the best thing to do is get caught in the breeze,
And ride on the wings of memory.

Why can’t you hear my silence?
Your ears, grasping at nothing at all, slowly realize the futility of their endeavor,
And detach themselves from your heart.
Now, my soul is shouting for a shoulder
To lay its broken pieces upon.
And all you hear
Is a tiny whimper of “Hold me”.
Please do.