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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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'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.

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 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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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
"*******."

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 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

"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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.