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?

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.

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.

"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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
"*******."

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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 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.

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.

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.