Water pours down,
splashing all over the keys.
As I sit in a room,
without a leaky ceiling,
or an open window,
or even,
a cloud in the sky.

One of the most frustrating things,
is when people say they know how I feel.
Frankly, no you don't.
I'm not discrediting the burden you are saddled with,
as your trials and tribulations may have been great,
but you can't possibly know how I feel.
Can you possibly comprehend what its like
to feel empty? to feel nothing?

Sometimes,
people take it a step further.
When talking about being hurt,
they feel the need to relate a story
about how they overcame
the tragedy of a passed away family pet
or one time daddy didn't buy them everything.

While those may be instances of pain,
pain and hurt are two separate categories entirely.
Pain is short term. Temporary.
Hurt can be eternal.
Something you don't just
"get over".

At least the people who say things like
"get over it" aren't misguided.
They don't understand,
but at least they haven't deceived themselves
into thinking they know what it's like to hurt.

Abuse after abuse
scar tissue forming over broken nerves
only reflect the inner hollowness
of no more feeling.

Ever so often a flair of hurt
wears down the numbed barriers
becoming the only thing that's real.

You can't tell me you know how
I feel.

Because I don't feel. Not anymore.

Depression isn't anything new for me.
Its a constant nagging in the back of my mind,
constantly needing attention deep down.
Sipping my ability to focus on other things,
draining concentration.

But to other people,
its always a new story to be told
a deeper, underlying theme
just below the surface
of my nonchalance.

I'm always reluctant to share that side,
as the air of separation
is extremely comforting.
A last line of defense,
an imaginary bubble that no one can penetrate.

Because not many people actually know
what despair feels like.
The term "rock bottom" is tossed around,
but how many people actually feel like
there is literally no way things can get worse?

It isn't ever logical,
I cannot explain why depression is what it is.
Its not that you aren't happy,
more like you cannot bring yourself to happiness,
no matter how much you want to.

That's what people don't see.
You really, really want to go out and have fun,
but there's something inside
constantly forcing you down,
as if that's the normal thing.

Which leads to the same conversation,
"Hey wanna go do something?"
"No, I'm not feeling it."
"Why, what's wrong? What can I do to help?"
And I don't even know.

Because I often have no idea what I want,
or what could possibly make me feel better.
I know what doesn't help.
When people just get frustrated, or worse,
try and tell me how, and what, to feel.

Frustration builds,
because they want to help,
they truly do,
but they can't.
No matter how hard they try.

The words in the background
that make me feel the way that I do
just get louder and louder,
to a deafening volume,
drowning everything else out.

Its unreal,
even if you have everything in the entire world,
you still feel like you have nothing.
Depression is indiscriminate.
It can find anyone, applying a stranglehold.

Our minds are beautiful.
Able to help overcome pain, see past malice,
protect us from the truth, create delusions
so we don't have to deal with the reality.
The mind's ability to create barriers and limits
isn't a focused laser beam only taking away the bad
and leaving the good,
its often more like a clumsy grenade,
leaving craters of casualties in the wake of destruction.
Anything and everything can be controlled and limited
in the powerful grips the mind has over you.
Even love.
"We accept the love we think we deserve."
Because that's adapting.
But it still hurt.
Because it actually hurts more to expect anything else.
But it still hurt.
Because disappointment was norm.
But it still hurt.
Because anticipating being let down seemed better.
But it still hurt.
Because then it didn't scar all the way to the core.
But it still hurt.
Because life hurts.

Never realized my friends were trying to save me,
I just didn't feel worth saving.

A young man,
struggles to be able to find comfort.
Most just credit this to a bad day or two,
but what if every day is like that?
Where merely closing his eyes
refreshes all the tragedies of the past
that are permanently imprinted,
just behind the eyelids.
All he wishes for,
is to be able to find peace and comfort
to close his eyes,
without fear of reliving the horrific.
To just,
sleep.
A friend gives him a bottle of sleeping pills,
and a bed to sleep in.
First few pills don't work,
he's just so very tired.
So he shovels more down,
popping them like candy.
As the room fades away,
he finally feels that he can rest.
Only to wake up
after violently convulsing
in a pool of his own *****.
What really struck this guy as significant,
is not what he found,
but what he didn't find.
No one was there standing over,
trying to help.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
If he never woke up,
the world would have kept turning,
leaving him in the dust,
barely a memory.

Its tough
growing up in a world
when you never feel like
you're good enough.
When people walk out
so frequently
and almost certainly
where you just come to expect it.

Its hard
not having someone
who you can go to
in a time of need.
When everywhere you look
people shy away
only out for their
own selfish ambitions.

Its difficult
trying to be a kid,
being carefree
not having a care in the world.
When you're ****** with responsibility
of making sure you
will be warm, fed, safe
only after your sister is the same.

Its exhausting
making sure you
keep walking on eggshells,
fearful of messing up.
When making a mistake,
only results
in disappointed stares,
if you're lucky.

Its painful
getting whipped and belted
as you feel the flesh
being ripped away from your bones.
When you would
do almost anything to make it stop,
crying out for help but nobody comes.
You're alone.

Its eternal
when the savagery
goes far beyond
mere fragments of memories.
When repressing and blocking them out
doesn't work,
little things, big things
make you jump, flinch, hesitate.

Its saddening
knowing that I'm not the only one
that grew up this way,
its some kind of trend.
When there's a line
that people blatantly cross
leaving fading scars
along with haunting nightmares.

I'm not exactly the sharpest crayon in the box,
but hey,
at least I'm in the box.
If only sometimes.
More frequent than not,
I'm content to break out,
do my own thing,
but really, its just
running away.
Wether it be
making jokes so that nothing is too serious,
keep my distance,
so they won't matter,
because then it can't hurt.
I've been worn down to the nub,
as dull an indigo Crayola as you've ever seen,
label peeling off, stepped on, cracked.

It's true that each color has its own flare,
its own brilliance,
its own
beauty,
if only to the artist overseeing.
So while I may not always know
the plan God has in store for me,
who am I to stop resisting,
even if the design
is still an empty page
waiting to be explored.

All parents affect their children.
It cannot be helped.
Youth, like tempered iron,
reflect the ability of the craftsmen .
Some kids grow strong, others crack, a few shatter childhoods
completely into broken little pieces,
beyond repair.
The greatest tragedy,
is that these discarded pieces
truly appreciate what often goes taken for granted.
They look on with forlorn eyes,
as people laugh and scoff
because they aren't perfect.
Because they aren't the same.
They try to play it off as best they could,
feigning joy and smiles in public,
but behind closed doors,
they desperately try to pick up all the pieces,
gluing them together with super glue,
only to watch it all crumble apart.
Over.
And over.

You can never over estimate
the power of communication.
Words have such a profound impact
on people.
But what I find,
is that the unspoken word
speaks loudest.

You think that I don't try,
that I've given up.
That isn't true,
I wouldn't still be here if I did.
Lying in bed,
every night,
I have to convince myself
that tomorrow will be different,
that somehow I'll find the strength to push through,
that life is worth living.

Everyday,
I think about what it'd be like
to not have to worry anymore
to not have to pretend anymore
to not have to lie to others anymore
to not have to lie to myself anymore.

I have hit rock bottom before,
like I told you.
How that fifteen or so ounce
revolver
felt like the weight of the entire world.
How squeezing the
trigger
felt like everything finally going away.
How the sound of the
blank
made me question if its what I should be doing.

I try, everyday
just to keep my head above water.
As you already know,
I can't swim.

I am no stranger to pain,
let's be real, who is?
Everyone has their own trials and tribulations
to overcome.
Overcoming is the key part, though.
Pain, whether it be
a second, minute, hour, day, or even a year,
is very much so
temporary.
Quitting and giving up lasts
forever.
Just knowing this isn't enough,
as my inner circle would tell you,
I'm as guilty as they come with losing hope.

Even when my hands are calloused from digging,
and the hot sun baked my skin, boiling my blood,
I feel cold,
distant,
alone.
That is, I did, then along came some friends.
Who saw something in me that I'm still not sure exists,
pulled me out of that hole, ripped that shovel from my hands.
I'm not going to sit here and lie to you,
it hasn't all been unicorns and rainbows,
as I occasionally stumble back into that hole.
But each and every time,
those same hands reach down and pull me back out.
Isolation doesn't show strength, but an inability to be weak.

Some people have a natural feel for the spotlight,
they know how to handle others focusing on them.
Then there are countless people that are more content
in fading to the back, allowing others to shine.
For we are the forgotten sons and daughters,
sacrificing our sunshine to help more prominent flowers flourish.
At least, that's how I deceived myself.
Instead of just being okay with fading,
somehow that was all I did.
As I sit on my throne of shadows, without a speck of light
near me, no one else around, I question if it was all worth it.
If  labeling myself "forgotten" to give everyone else
an opportunity to glimmer in this world,
was as selfless as I try to make it sound, or just how life is.
The fade is a slow process, but a constant as well.
At this very moment, less and less of me remains,
I can only speculate what happens when I'm all gone.
Then, I truly will be forgotten.

I've had an off and on relationship over the years,
as many people in the world have.
However usually that involves another person,
while homelessness has always been my veiled mistress.
The last couple weeks have been awfully tough,
as the unrelenting weather has ferociously tested my will.
Wind, grinding away anything close to smiles,
Hail, battering my already bruised body,
Sun, sapping what little strength I have left,
Cold, freezing the very blood flowing in my veins.
Rain, wiping away my very identity.
Now, I'm just a ghost, wandering through town,
clothes tattered and torn, mismatched shoes,
grizzled face, eyes masking a deeper pain,
wondering when, or if, there will be another meal.
Not that a source of food is all a home is,
but it brings with a sense of warmth, safety, love.
I guess I just wish I had something like that.

Bursting at the seams,
desperately trying to use
a needle and thread to sew myself together.
Hopefully,
no one will notice the stitches.

Heaven forbid,
I open like a teddy bear
and all the stuffing falls out.
I've already spent too much time
trying to hold everything together.

Opening up,
becoming vulnerable, losing that soft tissue
makes that poor bear lumpy,
feeling undesired.
He's not the only one.

"No one will ever love you until you love yourself."
Its a phrase that's easy to believe is true,
but for people who suffer from depression,
its terrifying.

I mean, as the expression goes,
I have to love myself first,
before I can accept that others do.
But what if you can't stand the person in the mirror?

Depression is something that has been a fixed constant
for as long as I can remember,
as if it has hallowed out my bones
and created a home.

With every moment, every thought,
I feel this deep rooted pain,
a nagging presence,
second-guessing every minuscule detail.

My depression doesn't care
if I'm trying to enjoy myself.
It doesn't care if I'm surrounded by people
who constantly argue that its irrational.

I know its irrational, there isn't a day that goes by
that I don't wish with every fiber of my being that I could simply
turn it off.
Praying I can wake up one day and the nightmare will be over.

I am thankful I have friends around me
that are able to help juggle my mood inconsistencies
or draw a map that leads to a treasure of momentary
escape from this tight hold.

I cannot express my gratitude enough for those
wonderful human beings that express great hope
while I stumble down the darkest of paths,
unfortunately, most days, it isn't enough.

I have never once blamed anyone for that,
and I appreciate their efforts,
as well as I try and recognize the strain they are put through
as best as I can.

This thought process controls how I communicate.
I am constantly plagued by guilt,
knowing that my pain causes empathetic, pain-filled responses.
"I'm sorry", "I apologize" phrases as common as corn fields in Nebraska.

This guilt
stems from the fact that I hate
how my feelings, or me in general,
can cause so much pain in someone else.

Every day is a struggle. Constantly on edge,
bouncing between caring too much or not at all.
Afraid that the next thing will be the final push,
wondering when enough will be enough.

While I am quickly reminded over and over
how my friends are 100% in,
I am also quickly met, internally,
by a crippling doubt.

There's a funny little rhyme
about sticks and stones.
As if broken bones could ever amount
to the words and hate filled "jokes"
directed at the outcasts.
Broken heartstrings bleeding the blues
as we try to empty ourselves and feel nothing at all,
don't you dare tell me that hurts less
than a broken bone.
As if depression and emptiness
can be healed by a simple first aid kit.
Every year bullies restock their arsenal
of pain inducing attempts at tearing people down.
If a kid breaks, and no one is there to hear it,
do they make a sound?
Or are they just washed out background noise
as the dismissed phrases like
"kids can be cruel" or "you know how kids can be"
are stuck on repeat?
We cannot allow that to happen.
For if you cannot see the beauty in yourself,
get a better mirror,
look a little closer,
stare a little longer.
There has to be something inside you
that made you keep trying
when everyone tried their hardest to get you to
quit.
Something that helped you put a cast
on that broken heart.
Something that resonated, deep within you that
they were wrong.
They have to be.
I mean, why else would we still be here?
We grew up cheering on the underdog,
because we see ourselves in them.
So you can sit there and recite
"names will never hurt me".
Of course they did.
But that's okay.

I went to the park today
and marveled at the ducks gliding across the pond.
Above the surface,
smooth sailing, graceful, serene.
When just below,
their webbed feet,
kicking like hell,
struggling to keep going.

Today's Father's Day
Well..
For me...
its just another

Sunday

Over the past week and a half or so,
I've had a recurring dream.
Now, I have no prophetic powers
so I spend quite a bit of time contemplating
the meaning.
Essentially, it is a collection of every
nightmare, darkness, fear that I have ever had.

The dream starts with me sitting in an auditorium
with everyone I have ever known.
I am called to the stage,
then each of my so called friends proceeds to
publicly pelt me with every imaginable
instrument of torture that my flesh has known.
Time does not seem to follow the same rules
in this pseudo-reality
what feels like days translates to minutes,
takes an hour to equate to a lifetime.

After hobbling away from that chaos,
I search for a place to hide,
only to find verbal assaults and derogatory onslaughts
coming from twisted, distorted faces,
of shadowed figures.
Yet they seem
familiar.
Something about them just feels like I know these sources
of festering pain, exactly like when you get a cold sore
and can't stop tonguing it. You know its there,
but you make sure, because there is a small glimmer of hope,
that the next time you check, it'll be gone.
It never is. That sore clings like a parasite.

Finally, I am able to escape these creatures,
reaching a small, little town, shrouded in fog.
Sewage drains overflowing with blood,
mutilated corpses as commonplace as garden gnomes,
unnerving screams off in the distance.
Battered and broken, I will my body to overcome
following one of these shrieks into a dark alley.
I am unable to make out her face,
but this woman is cornered by three feral monsters,
without eyes, sharp, pointed claws, bodies stained red with blood
of their past victims.
Picking up a lead pipe,
I unleash primal brutality I never thought I was capable of,
obliterating the clawed creatures.
Finally letting down my guard, I turn to the woman
who shoots me, in the forehead, with a revolver.

My body is recovered, and a funeral is held.
Four people show up.
The preacher, my mom, dad, and sister.
After a very fire and brimstone sort of sermon
focusing on all the immoral deemed decisions
I have made throughout my life,
each member of my family gives their own "eulogy".
However, as opposed to high praise,
they each articulate how their quality of life
would significantly improve,
without me in it.
Sister saying how she can get all the attention,
mom saying how uplifting it will be to not have me
as a financial, emotional, and overall bothersome burden.
Dad says he can put all the belts, coat hangars, wrenches, bats away.
There is no one left for him to punish, to "put them in their place."
They light my casket on fire, cackling in euphoric laughter.

Then I wake up, if I'm lucky. I don't always make it to the end.

I am not a stranger to tough times,
like now for example.
That doesn't make me special.
What makes me special is I am surrounded
by people who know what its like.
People who overcome.

That being said, their battles
occasionally flare up.
Regardless of how I would much rather
curl up in self pity or focus on figuring out
solutions to life's mysteries,
Their matters come first.

So, even in my weakest times,
I have to be a rock,
braving a smile,
feigning strength,
being there,
for those going through an ordeal.

I never met my grandpa,
he fought in Vietnam.
He didn't die in battle.
When he got home,
he attempted to pick up the pieces,
of his shattered mind.

The unimaginable things he must have done
all for the sake of fighting for his country.
The cruelty he must have seen
all for a government squabbling.
To return, with angry faces meeting him,
as if it was his decision to go to resort to arms,
as if PTSD wasn't enough of a punishment.

He returned to his family
struggling to acclimate to the environment.
Tried to shake off
the horrific nightmares of war
that led to bloodcurling screams
keeping the entire block wide awake.

He returned to his job
construction work, paving roads
seeking solitary work,
afraid he would snap.
One day, he crashed.
Pinned into the machine
on a hot June day.

As the sun
baked the blood in his face
this man paid for whatever sins
he committed, and then some.
slowly, he inched his way to Death's doorstep,
with a crooked smile, and a guiltless heart,
finally having peace, in a life of turmoil.

Tuesday, marked four years.
Four years since God ripped away someone
someone very precious to me.
Heaven did gain an angel,
but I lost so much more.
I lost one of the only people I have ever trusted.
A mentor, an inspiration.
Mere words cannot do him justice,
but an ode of recollection might suffice.

May 20, 2009
Regional track meet,
bright-eyed freshmen thrower
excited to show he belonged.
First toss
scratch
Second toss
scratch
Then a phone call.
There was an accident.
Her stifled sobs
echoing through the speaker.
Third toss
didn't come.
Tears splash against the pavement,
then thudding from the Converses
as the feet try to take him away from the arena,
from everyone.

May 22, 2014
Today.
Broken.
Directionless.
Clinging to what was passed down.
Interests shriveled.
Seeking to fill a void
that just keeps growing.

Expressing myself has never been a skill
So as I fumble over the words
Puzzled confused eyes stare back at me
Through the cracked glass of the mirror.
If he can't understand, how can others?
Understanding isn't the goal
But merely a side objective.
What I really strive for, is to repair those eyes
Those sad, desperate eyes
Reminiscent of deep, dark pools
Sorrow and despair as plentiful as the tears.
Tears, like the Mississippi, continuously flowing
Through the crevasses and geography of the reflection's face.
I plead and beg for a drought
No end in sight.
Patience is a virtue, after all.
"Time heals all wounds."
Physical, maybe. Not the most important wounds.
The deep cuts, that reach to the very core.
So, hearing that tired, cliched expression
every fiber of my being silently screams
"*******."

Putting on an air of indifference,
Pretending not to care,
Withdrawing infinitely inward,
Running away from everyone/everything.

Failing to trust,
Finding solace in privacy,
Burning bridges faster than I can build,
Raising barriers day after day.

Over-analyzing, methodically,
Torturing myself for mistakes,
Disregarding successes,
Acknowledging only failures.

Blinking back the tears,
Feigning safety behind smiles and jokes,
Sleeping has escaped me,
Healing, a lost dream.

Another sleepless night.
As the hours tick by,
days seem to blur together.
The concept of time, lost
a seemingly unrecognized importance.
A constant order, now shrouded.
Lacking focus, distinctions hard to identify.
Clarity is a wonderful thing,
with value tends to be misrepresented.

Taking into account all the extra hours I have,
Reflection and self-evaluation tend to fuel
all my extra thoughts.
Nights like this tend to be the worst, at least during the day
there is sunlight to dispel the inner shadows.
These thoughts, more painful than any physical abuse
I have ever experienced.
For my psychological prison tortures me more
than those forsaken tools of punishment.

Coat hangars, wire, studded leather,
the list goes on and on and on and on,
long-lasting impacts, not initially seen.
While the scars on my body have healed,
the injuries of the spirit remain fresh.
Damaged so badly, dreams are gone.
All that remains is hurt. Those
nightmares so vivid, so painful, so...
real.

As things run into each other,
the nightmares fuse with reality.
These distractions limit my interactions,
for sometimes,
comprehension disappears.
Letting things happen and not making decisions
serves as an escape.
For my brain is busy
trying to distinguish what is and isn't real.

Expressing myself has never been a forte,
for how do I explain the hallucinations,
the manifested fears, the projected demons
that originate from within?
So I deflect.
I run away.
I pretend to be okay.
I try to remain steady
amidst a raging typhoon of anxiety, regret, and fear.

I'm not entirely proud of all the things I have done,
nor am I satisfied with how things have turned out.
While I may have had relative misfortune,
there are countless people who have had it worse.
Therefore, who am I to say I am sad?
But the logic of saying you can't be sad because some have it worse,
is like saying others can't be happy because some have it better.
Plenty of things have happened to me,
that I wouldn't wish on my enemies.
I couldn't.
Because I know the pain that comes with.
Because I know the truth.
Because wildest imaginations cannot explain the agony.
So I had to find the reason.
Of all people in the entire world,
why me?
I never worked hard enough.
I was never smart enough.
I was never strong enough.
I was never skilled enough.
I was never good enough.
At least that was what I was told.
Being told this, over and over
you start to believe it.
You live it.
To the point where I constantly am confused
when good things happen.
When good people are nice.
I struggle to grasp when these people
say that they like me
that they value me.
I struggle to grasp that
because I don't like me.
I don't get how people could.
The torment I experience
at this point in my life is self inflicted.
Because I won't let anyone have the chance
to get close.
Its too much.
Comfort is foreign.
Relaxed is nonexistent.
Always in a state of peril.
People deserve comfort and relaxation.
But my life has told me, that I do not qualify.
I hate that.
I wish things were different.
I wish I was someone else.
But then someone would have to be me.
And that's not fair to them.
So I'll take this backpack of suffering,
knowing someone better than me
doesn't need to be weighed down.

Favoring night,
comfort in the darkness.
Been here so long,
its basically home.
Loneliness remains constant,
regardless of the hour.
At least at night,
the shadows are welcoming.
My retreat,
its all I've ever known.

I feel a presence nagging at me,
like a dull, constant ache,
only more.
Its almost as if there is a scared little child,
deep down, begging to escape the dark.
While this passenger tugs at my heartstrings,
everything blurs out of focus.
Struggling with keeping order,
my thoughts jumble chaotically.
Every once and awhile, though,
I find moments of clarity,
and those are the most precious moments of all.

In me, the pressure keeps rising,
despair prevalent, continuously building.
All the scars,
ripping back open.
Tearing my flesh,
Ripping me away,
grinding me down.
Are you happy now?
My heart is exhausted,
What will be my release?
Do you pull me up,
just to throw me down again?
Peel away my skin,
separate the meat from bone,
callously inflict everlasting pain.
Are you happy now?

Sometimes, I feel like a lump of coal
under all sorts of pressure.
The pressure intensifying,
continuously building up,
to where I doubt I can handle it.
While I desperately push forward
trying to adapt and survive,
I am weighed down by
chains of doubt and insecurity.
Oppressed in ******* by my own mind,
no exodus, no escape.
All those miles, conditioning I did
only to fall into a pit of darkness,
losing myself in the abyss.
Chained down, pressure equivalent to anvils
dragging me farther and farther,
I can barely see the light above,
only a fragile glimmer of hope left.
Nature has provided me tools
to fashion a ladder,
for there is no "quick fix" for escape.
You have to take one step at a time.
So while I feel like coal now,
maybe one day I can transform
and become a diamond.  
But, God, why must the
ladder seem so long?

Its funny,
how three little words,
can shatter my world.

As time goes on,
unforeseen things pop up,
and require our uttermost attention.
The little things,
they tend to fade into the background.
No wonder,
I can barely see myself now.

When observing people throughout history,
the big, gory details often stand out.
Not everyone dies extravagantly or suddenly.
Plenty of people face a slower fate.
They fall not by one swift strike of the sword,
but by a thousand paper cuts.
These cuts seem insignificant by themselves,
however together they become much more.
Constantly being oppressed,
Continuously getting beaten down,
Running into brick wall after brick wall,
Discouraged beyond recognition.

Sometimes, repressed memories flood back,
and I get swept away in the current.

Trauma has a way of repeating itself,
with current physical pain, my body reminisces.

Remembering, some of my closest sibling memories,
involved my actual back as a shield.

Huddled together, trembling in anticipation,
of that next forsaken crack of leather.

How the scars have faded away,
the pain still has a firm hold.

The instances stung, with those studded shards
encrusted into the belt.

Humans find ways to survive,
in any situation you adapt.

Tried to avoid the rage at all costs,
no complaining, no whining.

Sharing feelings was frowned upon,
Sympathy and empathy replaced by malice and anger.

Didn't matter what we did,
If there was drinking, there were beatings.

Hope long lost,
only a distant memory.

But the worst part was the constant fear,
the uncontrollable flinch, when someone went to pat you on the back.

Not just "good jobs", but all sorts of little things
had a nasty habit of dragging out these memories.

Fire drills, huddled over,
protecting what you could.

Brushing up against a chair,
pain receptors flaring.

Learning how to sleep,
without any pillows.

You don't need them,
your sister does.

Trying to explain being at the pool,
95 degree weather, long sleeves on.

Back against the wall in every room,
so no one could sneak up on you.

Scared of back massages, and the wrong press,
tissue still sensitive here, and completely numb there.

Afraid of thunderstorms,
just sound like cracks from the studded leather.

In the fast world of today,
where you're pressured to go out and do,
I find, that my favorite days,
are filled with just laying in the grass.

The peaceful experience
tends to slow down time,
and I appreciate the little things
that much more.

"I am accustomed to pain!"
shouts Frankenstein's monster.
Van Helsing desperately pleading to pull him out
of his desperate, life controlling despair.

The life parallels to this scene I have were already highlighted,
in a previous poem, showing my friends to be quite heroic.
Just like the monster portrayed in this movie,
I also struggle with finding hope within the bleak hand I've been dealt.

"How could the world go back when so much bad has happened?"
Sam asks Frodo, referring to the raging war.
He continues, "A new day will come,
when the sun shines it will shine brighter."

How is it, in a world surrounded by death and destruction,
that someone can look to the potential future and find promise?
The optimism stands out, especially considered the source.
Hobbits weren't looked to as leaders, but in this moment, Sam was one.

"I know you play msterious to avoid getting hurt."
******-analyzes Scott Pilgrim, showing talent outside of guitar-playing.
"I know you have reasons for not talking about your past."
Oh, Scott...don't we all?

Scott shows us bravery is not a required part of the operation,
but merely a deep understanding for those around us.
Showing we can't all just run away like Forrest Gump,
but surround ourselves with people who care.

While I doubt people turn to movies such as
Van Helsing, The Two Towers, and S.P. vs the World for advice
but I find it foolish to turn down free wisdom falling into my lap.
So you shouldn't take things at first glance, they're worth considering.

I have always been one to make sacrifices.
I am not bitter, it is just how my life has played out.
Just like Pavlov's dogs, I have been trained
that one stimulus warrants a specific outcome.
This time, instead of a bell and food
my experiment relates to selfish thinking and punishment.
Classical conditioning has a stranglehold on me,
to the point where I feel guilty about any indulgences
or even asking for anything. In a world of "me first"
I am a sheep among wolves, trying not to get devoured.

Its weird when the destination becomes more fun than the journey.
Goals are important, but you have to enjoy the ride.
That way its not solely based on pass or fail,
you still can get something out of the trip,
even if you don't succeed. And you won't every time.
No one does. Adversity shapes character.
No wonder the best people have the most scars.

I hate mirrors.
All I ever see
Is my father.
Don't let me
become him.

All in all, I have been relatively lucky,
everyone has their trials and tribulations.
We are products of our environment, more or less,
in comparison, my struggles are no worse than some.
That might be worse, knowing how rough others have it,
because guilt can be a powerful deterrent to communication.
I feel guilt about letting people in for they have enough,
they do not need me to weigh them down.
Because bearing my weight alone is more appealing,
I find security in keeping people at arm's length.
Keeping people far enough away acts like a vanilla roller coaster,
you don't get too high on happiness, or too low from pain.
I hide behind the illusion of self sufficiency,
as to avoid exposing any weakness.
Over the years, my joy has waned away,
to the point where I simply drift through.
Living this way, give plenty room for reflection,
isolation has led me to an epiphany, or revelation if you will.
I believe I have gone as far as I can alone,
I want something more. I need something more.
Holding everything inside doesn't make us strong,
but the willingness to give ourselves up to others.
I tell you this having lived life as a hermit with moderate success,
but it has all been superficial, nothing deeply helping.
You cannot make this journey alone,
believe me, I have tried.

I have a habit of picking up hobbies,
for short bursts of time.
Poetry being the most recent example.
I do not do it, because I find myself particularly skilled.
Nor do I think I have anything to say that hasn't been said.
I do not write to garner pity from others,
or give people inner glimpses of who I am.
I construct little haikus and limericks for order among the anarchy.
I type to feel control of something.
Something deep down urges to have power.
To not be passive about everything,
to not "go with the flow".
I write to satiate that hunger, to defeat famine of the soul.
I will continue to write, until the turbulent winds of fate
******* away from this peaceful escape, back into chaos.

Looking into my beaten and bloodied hands,
covered in calluses.
I can only think that they are a reflection of me,
damaged and disfigured to the point of disrepair.
Life has taught me to live as if I am one big callus,
adapting to survive all the external pain.
External pain is something I can handle,
but what of the internal?
Trying to fight off what comes from the outside and inside,
something has got to give.
Focusing on my outward defenses, my insides swell,
while protecting my innermost ring leaves me battered and bruised.
I am unsalvageable, there's no rescuing me.
Turn back, save yourself.
I refuse to be an anchor to your balloon,
dragging you down and out of the sunshine.

Five years ago
I knew an 8th grader
who felt ashamed for who he was
who felt constantly out of place
who tossed and turned at night
     with deep enough despairs
     with ideas of throwing it all away
     with plans for those actions
     with no dreams, and only one long nightmare

Three years ago
I knew a sophomore
who finally just started to accept it
who reached out and tried
who thought everyone felt the same
     with only blank stares for replies
     with only confused "friends"
     with no family backing
     with no true "inner circle"

Last year
I knew a senior
who carried the burden alone
who perfected his mask
who finally learned how to hide
     with perceived success
     with sarcasm and quick jokes
     with pushing everyone away
     with justified fear of opening up

This year
I know a college freshmen
who is struggling for acceptance of himself
who brags of the physical scars
who is afraid to reveal the deeper ones
     with walls as big as he could muster
     with iron bars to conceal what is beneath
     with pandora's box within
     with that same scared kid locked inside.

"Hey, your backpack is really heavy!"
my friend shouts from across the classroom.
If only he knew
                            how its weight is incomparable to the one inside
                            how pain and grief and anger and loss
                            cannot be measured by mere pounds, but by metric tons.
"You really fit a lot of things in here, huh?"
Oh...if only you knew...

I'm tired.
               of trying and no return,
               of failing and frustration,
               of pretending and being someone else,
               of wishing I was different,
               of feeling trapped,
               of people,
               of the things they do to each other,
               of who I am,
               of what I am.

Tick Tock.
Another hour fades away,
Catching up isn't likely.
Trapped in quicksand,
struggling only buries deeper.
Rather my burden than yours,
you, who has so much to offer.
Tick tock.
I'm just a waste of your time.

In search of something
I don't know why.
Am I just a caged bird
that only wants to fly?
We were always told
to set our goals high,
Under the impression
that we could reach the sky.
Too often, I feel like Icarus
Getting too close to the sun, where I fry.
Is there a healthy balance,
or was it all just a lie?

Darkness and light.
Balance.
What happens when the scales shift,
And that balance dissipates?
The cliched expression goes, "without light, there is no darkness."
Which I disagree, I find there to be ONLY darkness,
and those engulfed.
When the passive Yin overcomes the aggressive Yang,
When warmth and intimacy give way to cold and insecurity,
When the ebbs destroy the flows,
When the cons outweigh the pros,
What is left?