What do you know about silence?
Silence on the other end of the phone.
No breathing.
No laughing.
No crying.
Silence.
The white noise of fear.

What do you know about helplessness?
Helplessness in your own eyes.
Nothing you can do.
Nothing you can say
Nothing but watching
Helplessness
The catylyst of fear

What do you know about loss?
Loss of you mind, your friend.
It's too late he's gone
It's too late he's forgotten
It's too late you're crying
The post-mortem of fear

What do you know about me?
Me and my tired eyes.
Numb is my mind
Numb are my fingers
Numb everywhere
The desolation of fear

*The Suicide Diaries

The emptyness is overwhelming, holding my heart in my hand. It beats with a different rhythm than your's and you'll never understand.

I just can't seem to reach you.
The darkness is holding me back.
I feel hopeless and lost here without you.
My lifeless heart fades to black.

I need you so much more than you know now.
You are my only hope left in this hell.
But, how can you bring me back to life,
when you can't even save yourself?

Roses are red, violets are blue
Oranges can't be green and nothing can be new
Green reminds me of camo in countries we shouldn't be
Whilst red reminds me of my anxiety, escaping me
Why don't our boys in blue fairly opress white too
Without ever having to walk a full day in their shoes

If I could make a palette of my own colors and what they mean to me
every childhood art teacher would be out of a job
Blue would be the color of my pills I have to take to make
my rainbow array of emotions a choked out gray
Yellow would be the brick road leading to my cowardly lion and my anxiety smitten scarecrow

Roses are sometimes love, and sometimes they're a thorn
violets never ******* hesitate to remind me of loneliness and my conscious, well worn.

In my palette I'd release the choking hands around thine iris neck
and let it breathe its colors
but only so on the outside I seem fine. The true similarity between this rainbow and I, is that mixed together we both yield the same black.
But whom said black can't mean endless space and endless possibility?
Without my palette I would be nothing;
Per how dark nor how vibrant those colors behold

So roses can be purple and violets can be green
because in the end, it's the same black that they all mean

Some days, I'm a hopeless romantic-
wishing someone would look at me with stars in their eyes
write me the universe in verses
and braid stardust flowers through my hair.
Other days, I'm a realist-
knowing such things only happen in my mind and in movies
and nice words are all I'll ever be accustomed to.
I guess the butterflies in my stomach have died
because I don't really feel them anymore-
I guess the light they kept running into
burned out..