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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Sunday

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

"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.

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.

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

"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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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?

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.

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..

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.