If you refuse
To be a drop
You can't become
A deep sea
Also,
If you aren't lost
You won't be found

As a child,
I used to run my hands
on the walls as I walked

Adults around
would warn me
about the filthiness
of those dust, graffiti,
*****, and poster covered walls

But touching them gave me
a weird sense of accomplishment
Like physical proof
that I was once here

moving forward

Today
I will not worry
what bacteria
this wall holds
what molds
have aged on its corners

Instead, I'll run my hands
with every step I take

smiling
because I am,
once again,
*moving forward

Write
Write it all out
Put it down in a paper
Make the paper feel even if its numb
Put the ***** you hold back in a white lined wood
Call it the stroke of a hand
Or the confusion of the hands
Put it in and leave your misery on it
Let it slay the rocking heart of yours
In it are written thoughts you hide to peek
Its an art
A dangerous art of making a sense out of the confusion we hide
Write It in the paper
Read all it and leave it in your sheets
Publish your minds disease
Spread the plague of words to their hearts

Who am I?
What does it mean to be me?
Shackled in this cage of a body,
I’m trying so hard to break free.

Cross my heart and I hope to die,
I say a prayer as I look to the sky.
It's time again and I don’t wanna get high,
but my will, it flickers and falters,
I just wanna escape, find sleep for a little while.

In a self-pity of distress,
I’ve created another mess;
trashing my mind, sometimes I couldn't care less.
I can feel the vultures tearing at my heart;
well, can’t ask them to leave now,
it was me who gave them their start.

****** to the bone.
Rapid with rage like a dog on a leash.
Forget the existence of time
and the nature of reality.

Time to get off of this train,
these thoughts spill out,
press play and hit the brain drain.

I’m not sorry,
it’s not about apologising.
One day at a time.
Is that only a cliche?
Is change only transitory?
Let’s find out.

there is something to
picking up my father's old guitar
and feeling it fit perfectly in my hands,
responding to my touch
the way it once did for him,
and playing chords to a song everyone knows,
but having it turn out somehow different,
my style and voice,
mingling with the echo of my father's,
to take someone else's words and music
and give them a new life.

I wanted to call in sick to work today
and tell them that i just couldn't do it.
and its not the sickness your mom can make you soup for
or the doctor tells you to rest and drink liquids.
It's the kind of sickness that makes you feel like
if you take one step out of bed the ground is going
to crumble beneath your feet.
It's the sickness that caused you not to eat for days
or weeks.
It's the sickness that makes everything in the world
feel like absolutely nothing.
The doctor can't fix you
Your mother cant fix you
No one can fix you.
Only you can do it.