I'm a closet romantic.
Constantly
Writing poetry
About beautiful boys.
But if you talk to me
Face to face
I'll deny that is this the case.

I can't let people know my weakness.

You pull me down
Never letting me go
No matter how hard I try to get away
You always seem to grab me

How
many
people
Am I?!

I'm a wreck, ma
A mess

                                  Alone

and depressed
There are people all around
And there is a smile on my face
But no one heard my cries
No one had seen the pain in my eyes

Everything looks like greyscale
With a twist of red
                                            Red.

It was only on me, ma
My whole body
Was   b r o k e n    and damaged
There were marks everywhere
Small cuts
                             Where the red came from
Does no one still see?

I'm standing on a busy street, ma
Trying to scream
But everyone just walks by
I feel my lungs filling up
      I'm
           d
               r
                  o
                     w
                  n
                i
            n
        g
But everyone around me is breathing

I'm up on a building now, ma
Holding my breath
I'll jump, ma
Do you hear me now?
Are you listening?
Can you understand?
Huh, ma?
I can't hear you.


                          It's too late now, ma
I'm gone.

I'm staring up at the clouds now
People are rushing to my side
Is this all it takes?

"This child must have slipped"
                     No ma'am
I seeked your attention
I wanted someone to listen
I needed your help long ago
And you didn't care

"They were a good friend"
Wait who are you
We've never talked
Suddenly everyone is sad
How come?
Well, ma
I've been sad for a long time
How come you didn't notice earlier?

It's funny when you're not a 'pretty face'
Because then no one cares until you're dead
But then you are pretty
And now everyone cares.

But I'm sorry, ma
You are too late
You should've noticed earlier
Good bye, ma
I'm happier now
                            *Not by your side

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

I was going to write a poem today,
About love and loss,
Sin and gin,
But the motion was buried
By the question of how to drown myself
In the puddles outside my window.