Often people hear the name Michael
and are drawn to the depictions of the archangel.
Vanquisher of Satan.
Hero.

My Michael is more in line of a fallen angel
lost of grace and devoid of that serene light
drowning and suffocating in his
darkness.

My father
Who art not in heaven
has abandoned long ago any family ties and remains
untethered.

9 years and some change
since I have had any contact
other family claim similar stories yet
question.

Every gathering of these people
whom I do not know
constantly compare me to his
shadow.

Imagine getting compared to the myth
of a person or being
that you have barely met and fail to
understand.

So, today, I woke up and decided it would be my last day alive.

I went to work, did my job (I teach math) and I went home.
Afterward, I stopped by the local shop, purchased rope and decided to hang myself in my garage.

It was a pain in the *** to set up. YouTube searching videos on how to tie a hangman's knot, and set up a system.

Well, here's the thing. I'm a big dude (6'6", 250 pounds) so I had to put the rope up high and have a huge counterweight (a couch).

As I stepped onto my table to get all the way up into the noose, the table broke.
Okay, time to get creative. Propped up four or so chairs.

Get in the noose, lock it in.

knock the chairs away.

wouldn't you believe it, I'm too tall, I could barely breathe, but my feet landed on the ground.

Now I have a broken table, rope hanging in my garage, and rope burn on my neck.

All I want from you
More than anything at all
is your happiness.

In a perfect world
You would choose my happiness too
But I am afraid.

That fear holds me down
Sears scars deep into my flesh
Burns my entire self.

Numbness brings solace
A familiar comfort
Constant escaped hearts.

Emotionally
Closed off from all stimuli
Until recently.

That opening like
A storm of swirling rawness
Complete destruction.


So choose. Choose me. Please.
Make being vulnurable
Worthwhile. I love you.

I am 6'5", 250 pounds with a shaved head and a goatee.
Believe me, Im an intimidating man.
If i furrow my brow i even bare a striking resemblance to my old man.
Stern. Angry. Mean. Cold. Calculated.
So how can my gruff exterior be so
Nonchalauntly punctured by her and her five feet of fury?
If i am forced to look like Mike, why cant i also inherit his ability to severe all ties?
Ive tried so hard to be careful
Keep people at my long arm's length
But there are some cloak and dagger blows
Even a mighty shield cannot protect someone from

I went for a run at 3 am to clear my head
Or maybe just to outrun my pain
Even if that metaphor is as tired as my legs
I meant to come back
But the farther i got
The more i realized i didnt want to return
And be constantly reminded of the agony
Disappointment
Frustration
The farther i got
The more distant i became
The safer
The very real sadness
Could be chocked up to more imaginary
Concerns
When i went to turn back
Its as if my brain screamed go
Yet everything else remained perfectly
Still
So here i wait in the blistering cold
Because even subzero weather seems
Warmer
Than what permeates inside

While countless lean their problems on the cane,
he can never complain
for this is his purpose.
To help those in need.

The reliability has become a trademark
within an epidemic of self reflection and focus
having this built in reliability to lean on when things get tough
becomes paramount.

Problems fade away,
de facto the cane's issues
for the tool has bailed the same person out
time and time again.

While no one would notice relying on the stick
repeatedly,
its the accumulation of everyone else
also taking advantage.

For it is not the cane's place
to lean somewhere else
it must stand strong as a guiding force
sacrificing for everyone around.

Until the once solid oak
has been withered thin, chipped,
eventually snaps.
Only to be replaced.

As time goes on
humans adapt in many different ways
as all living things do.
We grow intellectually, emotionally, spiritually
but more often than not
fears, doubts, insecurities, envies run rampant in our expanding minds.

Toxicity, too, develops
rippling out, engulfing anyone near in a flame of hate
charring them beyond recognition.
Adapting, hand in hand with survival, dictates we raise walls
barriers to protect ourselves
if only to withstand even more punishment, then repeat the cycle.

But the thirst for animosity
has to be quenched, leading to rampant searches for more and more
ways to hurt each other.
A propensity for cruelness overrides any potential
at reformation, reconciliation
or any sort of repairing all the tethers that have eroded away with vigor.

Random, wild, brightly colored birds
flutter in
Joyous, fun, expressive, exciting
Free.
The hectic, crazy little spirits
So full of life, chaotically entering the mix.
However
One thing always remains constant
Among this breeze of random sponteneity.
No matter how many vibrant essences mix
They eventually all leave.
The old, withering, dull tree remains
Firmly rooted in pain
Rotting from the inside.
Alone.

In some ways,
You were always someone I looked up to.
I may have been older,
But the respect I had
For your innate abilities and skills
Was unmatched.
Unparalleled.
Without equal.

We often
Interchangeably
Took the lead
Its what made our friendship special.

But now you've gone on ahead
To a place where I cannot follow.
Hiding my feelings from those closest
Its just easier than seeing the pain
Rush over their face.
For they didn't know you
So they can remain sheltered
From the eternal agony left within
That almost seems to consume
More and more of me everyday.

As opposed
To cherishing your memory,
I almost feel like I'm tarnishing it.
I could remember all the late nights,
Too short of summers,
Endless laughs,
The good times go on and on
Seemingly unending in the context.
Instead,
I lay awake,
Crying all the time
Missing what used to be.

Its been two months
since I broke apart
and my heart was pierced
by a thousand arrows.

My dear friend
writhing in emotional
and psychological torment
made a decision.

He decided
life was no longer worth living.
That the pain, sadness, sorrow
overwhelmed indefinitely.

I think of him everyday
there seems to be no end in sight
and to be honest
I'd have it no other way.

Blake was one of my best friends
and forgetting him
would be the biggest injustice
for someone who had the impact he did.

The people and the friends
that we have lost
or the dreams that have faded
should never be forgotten.

I have a theory,
that the reason "entertainment" is such a big industry
is that people want a distraction
from real life.
The proverbial escape from reality
even if it is just for a fleeting second
anything could be better
than the truth.

"YOU have a problem.
YOU have to learn to trust people.
This isn't a show all about YOU."
Me?
Nah.
Its not that trusting people is my problem.
That's not a foreign concept,
or something I have avoided my entire life,
as you accuse.
Rather,
I cannot trust myself to trust the right people.
Too many times have others not come through,
too many times have I gotten the raw deal,
that I stopped getting annoyed, frustrated, aggravated,
but disappointed.
finally it is going to be different
* this person totally will come through*
thoughts race through my head
building excitement and potential happiness
only to be pushed over a cliff of unfulfilled promises, broken dreams.
Transforming that potential happiness
into kinetic discontented and devastating pain.

"YOU have a problem."
Not from where I sit.
Just being reluctant to charisma
does not mean there is a problem with me.
Skepticism is healthy.
I would even say that skepticism is evolution,
Darwinism at its finest.
A natural reaction built by the guarded heart
to prevent any more harm.

"YOU have to learn to trust people."
Yeah, because trusting people does so many others well.
Evil is a purely human invention.
What other species do you see
almost obliterating itself,
just because they have
a different exterior shade?
read a different book spiritually?
have varying beliefs?
speak a different language?
live a different culture?

"This isn't a show all about YOU."
You're right.
As I'm just one of many that feel this way.
That have been hurt one too many times.
My story is definitely not an original,
but that does not make it any less worth hearing or special.
Domino effect.
If I spark the match that helps ignite the voices in others
that's special to me.

Why does it hurt so much,
to be happy?
Why do I have to work so hard,
for the slightest bit of satisfaction,
only to feel sadness and emptiness
creep back slowly invading every nook and cranny
in my mind?
Why can't happiness be the default feeling,
instead of the exception or a surprise?
Why is the depressive loneliness
the natural condition?
Why do I still feel alone
no matter how many people I surround myself?
Why can't I explain
its not their fault,
that I'm just unable to maintain happiness?
Why do they take it
so personally?
Why can't I just shut up,
so at least they won't worry,
won't feel bad, guilty?
Why am I
so selfish as to rob them of their potential happiness?
Why?

"Great minds think alike."
Or so they say.
I hate these expressions.
Clichés, idioms, old sayings, etc.
All these do is limit how people see the world,
trusting an all encompassing phrase.
I find it especially frustrating,
when I couldn't disagree more with them.
So while you say, "great minds think alike",
all you are doing is to justify that you have a similar opinion
as somebody else.
You know what makes great minds "great"?
They see the world differently.
The ingenuity and innovation they provide
to push humanity further and further.
Great minds think differently from everyone,
that's what makes them great.

Throughout history, huge achievements have happened.
Shakespeare articulated emotion, tugging on the heartstrings of many.
Darwin developed the idea of adapting to outside stimuli.
The Wright Brothers taught us how to fly, Neil and Buzz walked on the moon.

We've seen people capable of
love,
evolving,
teaching others to fly,
technological advances.

Yet, not love for people who are different.
Yet, an inability to evolve to someone who isn't the same.
Yet, people are locking each other in cages, clipping their wings.
Yet, sociological advances grind to a screeching halt.

The human race is truly amazing, and has done some incredible things.
But let's not let past glory make us complacent and content with where we are.
We have a long way to go.

It's been five years.
****.

I could tell her faith was shaken.
I felt like I should do or say something...
anything.
but nothing came.
I was just as lost as she was..

Mathematically,
pi proves that sometimes being
irrational
is okay.
Even in such a cut-and-dry, structured science,
a little irrationality is accepted.
Sure, you cannot boil everything down to a
formula or math equation,
but that does not serve as a challenge for you to try.
Instead,
appreciate the spontaneity, randomness that comes
with these emotions,
just like your precious distribution of statistics.
Logic and reasoning may seem to take you far,
academically,
as will your critical mind,
but what success have you had outside of that vain?
Emotional healing?
None to speak of.
Mental growth?
Philosophically, no growth in a well being sense,
arguably a deterioration.
Social acceptance?
Only as close as your calculated eyes
allow people to get, before subconsciously
pushing them away,
a self-sabotage,
as to avoid any deeper connections
that could go wrong later
as so many have.
Instead of cynically
over analyzing everything
with your mind,
why not just open up your heart,
taking a blind leap of faith,
even if that is deemed,
"irrational"?
If you refuse to open up and be intimate with others,
why won't you at least trust me?

I'm getting tired of having these conversations
to a cold, unforgiving mirror.

"It was pride that made angels into devils.
Humility makes men into angels."
Well, then, Saint Augustine...
what happens when men are prideful?
For if this curse can transform
something as pure, genuine, serene even,
into evil incarnate,
what hope do mere mortals have?
How do we combat this inner demon,
whispering in our ear,
stroking our egos,
egging on vanities and successes,
when all we try to do is
belong.
To validate our existence.
To prove our worth.
To be able to point to something and say
"Hey, look what I can do,
all my hard work paid off."
While that's all well in good,
how can we safely toe the line
between having this pride and motivation,
without becoming consumed in the fire?

How come the only ones that seem to smile
are only doing so to hide the darkness they feel inside?
Preventing others from sharing their own pain,
completely bottling up,
grinning from ear to ear.
I guess I'm one to talk,
constantly flashing my dimples,
beaming a radiant aura of fake happiness.
But I smile on,
if only to help others lessen someone's pain,
even if I can't help my own.

In the midst of a hopeful new year,
stubborn ignorance longs for a refreshing beginning,
even if time is just a arbitrary social construct
devised to add order and pretended control to an essentially
chaotic reality, filled with otherwise random
summations of events that seem to only add
pain and misery to this exhausting existence.
Whether or not any of this is worth the effort
is another debate entirely,
as the "new year, new you" cliché
fails to grasp the inability some people have
to escape the darkness.
The past, entrenched in suffering, despair
growing in the shadows, eat away
at the edge's of one's psyche,
slowly,
continuously,
until the deterioration reaches the peak.
Inversely, sanity becoming nothing less
than a distant memory.
So distant, that its even a question if that
was a memory, or a diluted dream
born from a fantasy.
Ambition long gone as well,
fading things that used to be fun to the background,
like a picture without any saturation
dulling even what seemed to be the brightest flowers
to a completely boring gray.
After ambition and sanity,
I only fear what I'll lose next.

Something I am no stranger to
always having to perform
whether that be
on a stage, court, turf
the list goes on and on
but for everyone else
once they leave their battlefield
they can go home
relax
be themselves.
But not for people like me.
The people
that have to outwardly display
this image that they think everyone else expects
a fictitious persona
that is no longer you.
Because its easier.
Avoids all the half hearted
"are you okay?"
"what's wrong?"
"do you need something?"
"wanna talk?"
Frankly, I'd rather not say.
So I deceive.
Pretending to feel a way I'm not.
A way I can't even comprehend.
A way, long forgotten.
Happy.

Only a month and a half in,
but I'm already ready to say good bye
say farewell to anything and everything
the unpleasant memories
the hospital visits
the tragedies
the death
the despair
the darkness
the mistakes
the missed opportunities
and missing you...

I'm ready to start anew
pushing the past further and further away
repressing it all as far into their neat little boxes
even though life is way to messy for that.
This year has already taken so much out of me,
and I don't know if anything will be left.

You know the problem with depression?
You know you'll be okay, but you still feel awful.
You know people love you, but it doesn't feel like they do or even could.
You know doing something might make you feel better, but you just can't seem to muster up the strength.
You know you want to be well, but you just can't seem to get there.
You know you shouldn't let someone else's opinion become your reality, but sometimes its just easier to fall into the trap.
You know even sometimes its your own mind that's your worst enemy, but you can't help it.
You know you have value, but you just can't seem to see it.
You know no one knows the battles you face internally, but those are the sweetest victories of all.

Life's weird.
Love is even more so.
I am far from perfect,
in fact I believe I'm significantly closer
to the opposite end of the spectrum.
But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to embrace
this fickle, and sometimes abstract concept
of love.
Maybe I fall for the wrong people,
maybe I'm the wrong person.
Its gotten to the point,
where I want to love,
genuinely, crave the ability to open up
yet cannot stand the thought of it.
I want people to love me,
yet I cannot help but push them away,
protect them,
from myself.

This poem is more for those that actually know me, as some of the things are of my personality directly.*
For those that know me,
my father was never around.
No big deal, life happens.
For those that know,
I've had my fair share of abusive step dads.
no big deal, life happens.
But really messes with my head,
is all the stories that I hear about my father.
I say these stories mess with me,
because every insight I hear,
is reflected in my own personality.
Without even being near me,
genetics dictated that some of his best and worst characteristics
have infected my own self.
We are talking about a man
          afraid of commitment
          constantly plagued by guilt, insecurity
          an inability to connect with others consistently
          or, at the very least, a lack of willingness to make those connections
          very, very private about pain
          who simply refuses to let people in
          forced to the point of suicide attempts
          mental health evaluations by doctors
          talks out the side of his mouth
          knees and ankles always on the verge of busting
          has two sides to him, one caring compassionate,
          but the other often dominates interaction
....
but who are we actually talking about with those distinctions?
Me or him?
To give him credit that frankly, some people don't think he deserves,
he didn't have the best life.
But this is going to list even more similarities.
Abusive step dad? Check.
Awful childhood traumas? Check.
Having to grow up too fast? Check.
Too much responsibility, too early? Check.
Lack of positive parent influence? Check.
Tested at genius level IQ? Check.
Considered loaded with potential? Check.
He never made anything of it,
the shackles of his mind weighed him down too much,
so is that the point where we continue to share characteristics
or where I finally diverge and break that mold?

I cannot say how many suicidal soliloquies or
diatribes of dialogue I have veraciously verbalized
towards the stark stare looking back at me
from my own reflection.
The cold calculating eyes piercing, penetrating
a completely cumbersome set of armor
deliberately designed, ironically, to protect
those forlorn, forgotten windows to the soul.
Windows, once reliably radiating with life and love,
only now to be desolate, dark.
Alone.
Abandoned.

Do you know what its like
                                to constantly feel alone?
                                to always be someone's last choice?
                                to never shake off the pain and misery?
                                to be reminded everyday, that this is real?
                                to have to put on a fake show for the world?
                                to hear people say they care, but actions say otherwise?
                                to consistently put yourself out there, only to be hurt?
                                to have to sacrifice everything, ending up with nothing?
                                to never be able to forget the hurt?
                                to be unable to enjoy anything?
                                to lack any solace, or anywhere to go?
                                to live completely devoid of comfort?
                                                        No?
    ­                                                            Then don't tell me how to live my life.

On the twelveth day of Christmas my family gave to me
twelve drunken drinks,
eleven scars scaring,
ten belt a-beatings,
nine father's laughing,
eight mother's glancing,
seven sister's hiding,
six tears a-streaming,
five unheard apologies,
four cries for mercy,
three bruised organs,
two busted ribs,
and a very, very broken heart.

Just getting so sick of everything and everyone.
All of their little agendas,
only talking or coming up to me
when its convenient or they need something.
Treating me like garbage,
as if to be cast off into my own secluded island,
only to almost attempt to justify everything with an apology,
repeatedly
days, sometimes weeks later.
As if that makes everything okay,
erases all the hurt.
But what's the need for all the apologies in the first place?
Do you feel guilty?
Do you see how actions and words
incrementally destroy people?
Whatever, I don't care how you wanna spin it,
and explain it to others.
Can you explain it to yourself?
Maybe you don't see,
just too busy focused on your selfish business.
Might as well stop wasting our time,
y'all can just go **** yourselves.

If something or someone is truly important to you,
you'll make time for it.
Its not that hard to pick up a phone,
and send a text message.
However, the inverse is also true.
No matter how much someone can
say that something is important,
actions always speak louder,
proving their real feelings.

Today marks eight weeks.
Eight weeks since the last time we spoke.
And if you don't count that night,
today is just a little under ten.
Sure,
we exchange "hello" and "hi" passing by,
but you and I know that's just not the same.
Its funny,
how adamant you were
saying you weren't going to leave,
yet here we are.
Now, I'm not surprised,
as I said this would happen from the beginning.
Even the summer showed flashes,
with such great quotes like
"the summer was easier because I could just forget about you".  
So don't sit here,
and claim to have ever cared to begin with,
if it truly was this easy disregarding me
when the going got tough.
Where were you,
three weeks ago,
as I lay, needle in arm
slipping away from reality?
Let me guess...I was probably just
"doing it for attention" as you accused me of before.
As if all my psychoanalyzing would allow me to do anything
for such a superficial reason.
And what did I hear after you found out?
Not a single word.
How about the weeks leading up to that?
I remember that answer too. You had just told me that I was "pathetic".
And I should just "get over it".
As if that were ever an option.
You may be quick to say something along the lines of
"you never reached out, asked for help"..and if that truly is your response,
clearly you didn't know me.
I don't know....at least now that this much time has passed,
I can safely assume why this was so easy for you.
You just didn't care.
And that's fine.
It happens.
Like I said,
if I was you, I wouldn't care either.
I'll just fade to the background,
back to the lonely shadow,
eventually you'll fully forget,
if you haven't already.
After having said all that,
I hope you're happy.
I don't mean that in a sarcastic way.
I actually mean it.
Sincerely.
Genuinely I do.
At least one of us deserves to be.

I can solve a rubik's cube.
I can't unravel the puzzle in my head.

I can checkmate someone in four moves.
I can't protect myself.

I can master any Dungeon, with my trusty d20.
I can't hide from reality.

I can compute complex mathematical functions.
I can't answer why.

I can type 80 words a minute.
I can't get three out of my head.
I can read 300.
I can't stop thinking "I'm not worthwhile."

I can repair an Xbox 360.
I can't be fixed.

I can run a mile in under six minutes.
I can't get away from my own mind.

I can recite lyrics from hundreds of songs, without the accompaniment.
I can't escape.

I can diffuse a difficult situation via mediation.
I can't stop the onslaught from between my ears.

I can greatly influence others with sound logic, rhetoric, reasoning.
I can't bury my internal conflict.

I can dunk a basketball.
I can't slam my troubles away.

I can qualify for Honors programs.
I can't keep up with the burden.

I can get recruited to play Division II college sports.
I can't emotionally handle the lifestyle change.

I can bowl a 230.
I can't clean every proverbial frame.

I can "wow" people with my athleticism, skills, abilities.
I can't accept what I do as ever being "good enough".

I can outwork my opponent.
I can't go back to where I'm from, I have to get out.

I can feign happiness, joy.
I can't bring myself to feel the real deal, no matter how much I want to.

I can function.
I can't survive...not like this.

I can take away other's pain.
I can't stop my own.

Some people fade out of your life,
whether that be your fault or their's,
the simple truth is this.
If neither of you chases after the other,
maybe the friendship was never meant to be.

Father.
Defined as "one who exercises parental care over another"
stressed on the words 'care' and 'another'.
Because the only care I saw
was occasionally he would be passed out on the couch,
a reprieve from the belt.

Let me tell you about my dad, if I may.
To everyone outside of the house,
he was an upstanding member of society.
Well educated,
hard-working,
brilliant.

In many ways,
I'm just like him.
So many characteristics passed,
no matter how much I try and deny.
In a way,
that's what scares me most.

Out in public,
putting on a persona,
calculating every action.
Behind closed doors,
finally being my true self. Abusive.
Instead of outwardly, though, my focus has always been inward.

One thing with my dad though,
is that he grew up the same way that I did.
Following the footsteps of his dad,
continuing the cycle.
What if that happens to me?
What if I can't control myself?

Its been six years
since I've seen him
skulking around.
Lurking. Hunting.
But in my estimation,
six years is fourteen too few.

He'd be twenty today.
Unfortunately, that truck had other plans.
Instead, he'll always be fifteen,
thirteen days away from turning sixteen.
T-***** on the corner from our town to the interstate.
A turn everyone has made one thousand times.
For his memory, only one time will ever be remembered.
A classmate, a friend, a teammate, a brother.
The list goes on and on.
None of these can ever truly capture his fire, life, joy.
There still isn't a day that I do not think of him,
and how unfair it all was.
For a small town of 2000,
we still feel the effects of that tragic day.
When everyone knows everyone else,
and you flip on the news to see things like
"teen killed in crash",
phones light up like wildfire,
everyone calling everyone to check in.
To think,
all that pain, misery, grief
could've been avoided,
if I took the time that day,
staying at the school,
and lifted with him.
Maybe then,
he wouldn't have gone home,
or at least,
not that early.

That night, everyone met at the football field,
and wept.
and wept.
and wept.
Taking styrofoam cups, interlocking them in the fence
to spell out a final message.
"WE <3 U  T-BAIN #11 2013".
You see, 11 was his jersey number for everything, and I mean everything.
He played basketball, football, baseball.
You name it, that dude could play it.
Because he was our Superman.
And 2013 was supposed to be his graduating year.
Instead, a vacant chair with a cap placed ever so neatly
and a gown draped over was all we got.

The service was held in the gym,
there was just no where else to go that would fit enough people.
As people littered the gym,
a giant projector ran clips, showed pictures, played music
but it just wasn't good enough.
I wanted the authentic guy, not just his image ran on a big screen.
I wanted Tanner back.
We all did.
Instead we had the service.
Where there wasn't a single dry eye in the entire O-zone*,
even the sternest of faces softened up.

Two weeks ago,
which was four years and two days after the accident,
we held a charity two and one mile race event.
Wristbands, shirts, glowsticks.
I can promise with one-hundred percent certainty,
that my community has not, cannot, and will not
ever
forget.
"Always remember, never forget" pasted over and over,
on the sports team's shoes, football sideline, wherever.
Instead, this trauma has brought our tight-knit town
closer together than ever before.
We rallied behind his family,
and together we were able to overcome
this melancholic fog
that gripped our town at the throats.
Instead of being glum about his passing,
we celebrate his life,
cherish his memory.
I'm sure
he wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not mad at you,
I promise.
Don't get me wrong,
I tried so hard to be.
I wanted to be mad at you,
for how everything has played out in the last few months,
but I just can't bring myself to do it.
I love you,
and that just doesn't work.
I miss everything about what used to be,
even the sort of "is this a thing" element,
the mystery became its own little twist.
Each moment treasured,
praying for time to slow down,
come to a screeching halt,
stand perfectly still.
Where everything else
faded out and I finally could
live in the moment.
But I was afraid,
so I did all in my power to push you away,
only to realize too late how much it meant,
finally admitting and coming clean,
only for none of that to matter anymore.
And over the last six weeks,
we've become strangers.
I'll admit I'm not a big fan of that,
but in my heart I genuinely feel that its best,
because the last time we talked and hung out,
only resulted with me going to far,
in pursuit of that previous happiness in a vulnerable time.
Do you remember the last thing you said to me,
after that incident?
That I made you feel uncomfortable.
I refuse to do that again,
because of how I feel about you.
I creaked the door back open,
half-heartedly saying that if you needed anything or wanted to talk,
I could do that.
Only to experience radio silence and glances across the cafeteria.
So maybe,
somewhere inside
you think that this is best,
and I wouldn't blame you for that.
Don't you think you did anything wrong,
because that's simply untrue.
This is just the only way I can protect you
from the monster I've become.

So I'm a little down.
So I'm not like everyone else.
So I'm battling something people don't know much about.
So I'm different.
So I'm "dysfunctional".
So I'm not from a traditional background.
So what?
Does that mean,
I shouldn't be allowed to attend my college?
The one thing keeping me going?
That I should be locked up in the loony bin?
All because my brain has become numb to some pain?
I've found function in my alleged dysfunction,
some traditions occasionally get broken.
Exceptions to the rules are made.
The world is full of suffering,
but it is also full of overcoming it.
So where do you get off,
telling me how to deal with something
you've only read about in your
guidance text books?
Where five minutes into meeting me,
that you feel the ability to dictate how I should go
about my life?
I've lived 20 years on this Earth
without your input,
sure, it hasn't been perfect,
but I've made the unconventional work.
I mean, ask anybody that actually knows me,
if they would ever consider me "conventional".
So don't sit there, and hide behind words like
"I just want what's best for you", "I care about you", "I'm concerned",
"Its your choice to go, but if you don't:
the police will forcibly escort you,
or you'll not be allowed to be in our college community."
Scoffing at the word community,
because whenever someone tries to use that word,
usually it is about discluding people, rather than including them.
"So, either be discluded now, by your 'choice', or by us making you.
All the while, literally 12 hours previous,
we had zero idea what was going on,
or even who you were. "
Seems like you really do have "my best interests at heart", huh?

Fun fact 1:
Depression is genetically linked.
Fun fact 2:
Schizophrenia is genetically linked.
Guess what litters my family tree?
I've already written countless times on
my ongoing battle with depression,
and all the casualties that war has brought,
whether it be 2-3 hours of sleep a night
if I'm lucky,
or complete lack of interest in everything.
But to consider the potential for schizophrenia
to only add to the list of things I constantly worry about,
delusions, hallucinations, general apathy, etc
are things that I've experienced, only to attribute to depression.
Sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane is the ability
to write out all my crap on here and at least pretend someone else reads.
I can't internally self-reflect, simply because I cannot trust my mind.
All that being said,
I doubt I can quantify how much this site helps, even if I rarely write
"poems".
More often than not, its just a free-style blog.
I say that I believe that knowing how much this site actually helps,
because even in the time I've written on here,
I've attempted suicide on multiple occasions, currently 0-3.
I don't care how many times the lightning bolt glows yellow,
or how many people repost, comment, or add any of my writings.
But that could just be the apathy creeping in,
slowly suffocating any potential joy,
all the while, posting at times where people aren't as active.
Just like in real life, where I alter my schedule,
as to not see anyone, or at least,
as few people as possible,
that is, before attempt number four rolls around.
Until then,
it looks like I'll be busy trying to distinguish what is real
and what is all in my head.

We often hear about how fast light is,
comparing extremely fast things to be
"faster than the speed of light"...
but no matter how fast light is,
darkness is always there first,
waiting for it.
In the end,
no matter how hard light attempts to catch up,
the darkness will always be one step ahead.

Three months have passed by
since the last time.
And when the young man thought
"there's no possible way, it could get any worse"
the cosmic powers that be, scoff at the challenge.
For him, the inner battle of depression had remained constant,
occasionally coming and going,
offering a reprieve here and there.
Unfortunately, it had been doing
a considerable more coming than going.
Then, as one tired cliche goes,
the straw finally broke the camel's back.
Tourniquet coiled around his bicep,
tied tight enough to control circulation,
so the veins can pop out, as if screaming
"pick me, pick me!"
Once the needle tears a hole in the skin,
just like last time,
everything in the background fades away,
nothing seeming real anymore,
just slipping further and further away.
And again,
just like last time,
only to be dragged kicking and screaming,
back to reality, coughing up
remnants of dinner in big, meaty chunks.

"What drives you?"
Seems like a simple question,
but as I stare down at my blank paper,
the assignment was supposed to
just be a one-page thing,
not some disgustingly deep
sociological self reflection
that  makes you re-evaluate
every decision you've ever made.
How can one hope to answer all that drives you
in a single paper?
As if that is remotely possible.
But the thing that scares me most about this,
is that I'm not sure I have anything that drives me at all anymore.
Struggling with motivation for as long as I can remember,
where external factors just weren't existent.
Internally persevering was not only optional,
it was necessary.
But what happens when
that little voice in your head
that got you through
torment after torment,
trauma after trauma
tragedy after tragedy,
when no one else was there,
suddenly shuts off,
and is replaced by a new one.
One that never shuts off.
One that drowns out anything and everything else.
One that is sick of the pain.
One that just can't take it anymore.
One that can take a simple little question,
and turn everything topsy-turvy.

"time heals all wounds"
Oh how wrong I find that.
Sure, the mind may bury the wounds, cover them in scar tissue,
lessen the pain,
but never heal.
Sometimes you're the one that ends up getting buried.
Each secret, every guilt ridden action acting like shackles,
causing the wrists to go raw,
every conscience thought acting like the worst witness, accuser.
Nobody wants to feel like this.
Nobody should have to.
Nobody wants to live like this.
Nobody should have to.
So why does my mind
plague me with thoughts of
self mutilation mixed in with memories
whips, chains, belts, coat hangars, heated metal, wooden spoons,
frying pans, baseball bats, tools not meant for this so called "discipline".
I can't distinguish what actual anguish I truly experienced,
everything feeling so vivid,
so real.
While the physical scars, abrasions,
evidence
of what actually happened has healed, faded, washed away.
Every broken bone, torn muscle, bruised bit of flesh has mended,
even the severest of them, through the help of physical therapy.
But no conditioning can help you outrun
what you have firmly planted between your ears.
Trust me, I know what its like
to not be able to trust your own mind.
Long before I take my last breath, heart flatlines,
whether it be a bullet piercing my skull,
razor blades carving up and down my forearms,
or sleeping pills that permanently take effect,
but believe me that a sad soul will **** a man,
long before a gun is loaded, knife sharpened, bottle filled.

Don't think of me as some depressed statistic,
or do, if that comforts you,
if you can't understand how for every shade of blue, green you had,
my life has been dominated by grey.
I'm not complaining, its just how things are and have always been.
Its my life, where yellows, oranges, purples just don't seem to have that
POP. As if everything is faded, dulled down.
Where happiness isn't achieved by just being,
but every smile a constant internal struggle,
consciously having to fight, struggle, claw at the outposts in my mind,
just to have a remote chance.
If you don't, the infectious grey seeps into everything, filtering through.
With nothing seeming to provide joy
the little things have an added negative spin,
while the big things serve as reminders as to what it was like
to feel all the bright, fun colors, the carefree optimistic feel of hope,
only replaced by a severe lack of ambition or desire to do anything.
I'm not asking anyone for a hand out, or attention, or even someone's pity
as I've been accused of.
Instead, I'm just trying to help people understand the hardest question of why.
Why I do the things I do.
Why I say the things I say.
Why I act the way I act.
Because my rainbow consists of only a single, monotone, joyless color.

There's only been one person I have ever had that I truly trusted,
could look to for advice and know that what he said was true.
My uncle, who was more of a dad to me than my so-called father,
a monster, pure embodiment of evil. A testament showing that evil does not come from these supernatural interpretations, but of the people that share our beds, eat at our tables, etc. That's a tangent for another day. Instead, I want to honor my uncle's memory here by posting his life objective. My uncle passed away a little under four and a half years ago, and to say I've lost quite a bit of direction would be an understatement. Now, re-reading the last thing he ever wrote brings me a little peace of mind when I'm feeling down, but I think it's time to broaden the potential of this passage and see if anyone else can get anything out of it. So, without further delay, here's what he decided to be his life goal:

**I wish for a little peace of mind. I want to feel like I have done my part, or at least tried. I want a good night's rest. I feel that there is much more to this life than the earth. I feel that I have more to offer this life than to the mundane. So my objective would be that offering I give to leave the grind, to give my all in whatever endeavor that best suits what I have to offer this world. So I intend to put my best foot forward, head down feet churning shoulders square, I mean to smash into destiny, the end result will either be victory or defeat. If it is defeat then I'll pick myself up and try again till I exhaust exhaustion, until death embraces me. Then all that will be remembered will be that which is attached to my bones, the label they earned from the integrity of my life. That is my objective.

I've written
countless drafts.
Crumpled up the paper,
thrown it away,
only to write a slightly different version the next day.

This has gone on for years.
Once you start the debate of suicide,
it never really goes away.
Everything gets weighed in,
good and bad.

"Oh you failed your math test?
might as well give up everything.
You missed the shot and your team lost because of you?
why are you still here?
You donated blood? What are you overcompensating for?"

Its not like I want to die,
that's not why I keep writing these and have tried once,
no, I just want to stop the pain.
Enduring intolerable existence
just to spare everyone around some questions to ponder.

Only part of me wants the freedom the act grants,
release from everything,
a life ruined a long time ago.
And that's the part that I wish I could
****.

The part that makes me question
every knife,
crosswalk,
rooftop,
as a rehearsal for tragedy.

If the news tells you
someone died from sleeping pills,
you must know that isn't true.
They died of grief,
a slow bleed from the very soul.

Killing myself is an inaccurate term,
I think its more accurate to say that we are just
worn down by the long, hard struggle to stay alive.
Suicide is thought of as just giving up, with no fight.
Couldn't be further from the truth.

To live is the most painful thing
I could ever imagine.
I'm weak, and unwilling to fight anymore.  
I may not be able to tear out a single page of my story,
but I can throw the entire book into a fire.

*I want to tell you everything, but I can't.
Because you'd have that look on your face.
I just want to be able to pretend I'm normal, even though I'm not.
I don't want to see you hurt by my pain,
I don't want to hurt you, or anyone else.
So, please, forget about me.
Just try and find a better friend than I have ever been.

Feeling great,
effortlessly moving
without a care in the world.
Only to fly too close to the sun,
burn up,
come crashing down,
back to earth
and the painful reality.

As I lay,
scorched and charred
beyond all recognition
I only pray
that the memories left behind
aren't as disfigured or damaged
as much as my body and soul have become.

Day by day
I lock away more and more
of myself.
Bury it.
Leave no trace.
If only to protect what I can.
While everyone else
can flourish,
rise from their ashes,
I shovel away
digging as deep as possible.
I'm just busy
trying to survive.

As I turn down
glass after glass
solo cup after solo cup
frustration and anger
fill their eyes.

As I sit out
games of
flip it
and pong
tension rises.

Judgements impaired,
ideals forcefully pressed,
bottles broken,
vaguely reminiscent of
the past.

Where instead of bottles
it was bones.
Instead of tension,
it was animosity,
maybe even hatred.

Here I stand,
at the crossroad
of yesterday and the future.
I can't take a sip.
I can't be like him.

He who tore flesh from bone,
savagely kept going until
badly bruised, even unconscious.
Fortunately,
the physical pain fades.

If only every other nightmare,
ruined memory,
psychological damage,
would too.
I haven't been as fortunate with that.

The Greek King Midas had the ability
where everything he touched turned to gold.
While it may seem great at face value,
the inability to pat his kids on the back,
or high five a friend was destroyed.
But at least,
something positive could be ordained from his curse.
Whereas everything I touch,
withers away and dies.
Screaming in agony and misery.
Living reclusively,
I sometimes forget about that fact,
until I get too close,
reach out,
and become instantly reminded.