Simply can't deal with these voices inside my head,
Repeating over and over,
Saying I'm not worth anything,
Isolation slowly become my bestfriend,
The only medication, that helps my heart mend,
"Stop trying"
"Why are you trying so hard?"
"You mess everything up"
"Sit there drawing your worthless drawings"
She says as she breaks the coffee cup,
These fights, the rage,
Never-ending bitter talk,
These voices I try and block,
Have no hope, they just build in me anger,
For now I write this hatred poem,
Which she would say "Throw it in the trash, it's just as worthless as you"
The voices repeat, All left now is to take a seat and watch the nothingness pass over me.

There was only one girl
In the world who understood
All I wanted for my 22nd birthday

Was a typewriter,
To help me understand the world
Of the written word.
And still, with months away
I want that gift
If only to type her name,
“Juliette, Juliette
Why did you never return?”

I found something
I wasn't looking for it though

They were hidden carelessly
Next to your lighters and your getaway high

Why did you keep them?
What purpose do they serve you?

I counted them carefully
Nine, one less than whe you took them from me

I took one, and closed the drawer
What's one more going to hurt?

I promise I'll stop
Starting tomorrow

'Who will love you?

Who will fight?

Who will fall far behind?”

Simple as these three lines may be, there is a lot of truth in them, something to keep in mind as we move forward in our lives.  It’s amazing what human influence in your life can accomplish, what forward momentum it can stir. Or at least, what we perceive as forward, because sometimes momentum isn’t always positive. Many times, that momentum is just digging a hole for ourselves.

And as we grow older, and start to think about what makes sense in our lives, we come to find our ideas of happiness, of sadness and of sanity are all skewed in comparison to those around us, those we care about. And as we listen, as we follow, and as we fall behind, we begin to dig those holes deeper for ourselves.

Towards mid life, if you’ve been digging, your hole is chest deep, and you have two choices: escape or keep digging. And those in that position many times tend to keep digging, not for love’s sake, or for the sake of their future, but because digging this hole is all they’ve gotten to know. For years they’ve been digging, whether it be for money, for fame, for love, and that’s all they know. And when you only know one thing, you tend to stick with it, and your choices are slim.

By the end of your life, your skin is sagging and you’ve become tired of digging. Your heart is heavy and your hands weary as you let loose your final breaths and lay back. You’re now alone in this world, under this world, away from everyone, and it’s of your own doing. Every choice you could have mad to leave the hole floods your memory, and you’re stuck knowing, from day one, you chose this. You dug your own grave.

A few young men throw gravel on you, and a headstone is placed above. A few kind words may be scrambled in, or just two dates, birth and death, and a first and last name, if you’re lucky. And the knowing truth that you brought yourself to this point.

If you’re looking for a happy story, this is not the story for you. There are so many ways to dig your own hole in your life, and you may not even realize you’re doing it. From love, to career, to the way you treat your body, your hole is being dug. You could be wiping the dirt of your hands at night, so sure you’ve done a worthwhile thing that you’d never even expect that you've been digging your own grave, plunging yourself deeper into the dirt and farther away from the life you deserve to live.

I can only speak on a small spectrum here, as I am young, and my hole shallow still. But I can say, with confidence, to find people who will fight for you, people who will love you, and get away from digging yourself into a hole. Find people who are the helping hands to pull you out, and who you can be the helping hand back to. And once you have those hands, don’t let them go.

All I can say is, if you want to be happy, stop digging. Stay together and build a treehouse instead.

A friend posted old pictures of me today,

From high school,

From another time, really

And all I can see

Is how my smile has changed

So cynically.

Take a break
And let your mind wander
With someone new.
You never know what you'll find.
It might be good.

Trust me.

The lone man walks into the night, looking up to the sky and cries
“Stop expecting so much from me, I’m only one life!
Only one mind to work with the complexities you compile!”
To which the stars take lightyears to reply,
“Do not pray to us, we are not your kind.”

I'm not a poet,
Barely even a writer,
Just someone who reads too much
And tries to figure out
How words and rhymes
Work together like puzzle pieces
In the syntax of life.

There's something about talking until you fall asleep and your arm going numb, but she's too beautiful for you to move it so you deal with the bitter pain of pins and needles, and stroke her hair and kiss her head until she wakes up a little bit after her dream, half asleep, eyes barely open, but just enough for you to move your arm, and a small smile crosses her lips as she recognizes you and you hug her and tell her goodnight. And the morning she looks at you with those fresh new eyes and you know she doesn’t remember that one small moment from the night before, the one small moment you’ll be holding with you forever, flashing through your mind when weeks later she tells you it’s over, that you should take some time alone and that you’ll never have her fall asleep on you again, and you just want to scream “I loved you, I cared for you. I let you sleep on my arm when no one else would, through the hell of pins and needles, and I didn’t even wake you. That’s emotion, that’s devotion!”

But you don’t, because you know she wouldn’t listen anyway, telling you to quiet your writer brain, she doesn’t have time for it today. So she’ll close the door and walk back to her chair returning to the work she was doing before you came to visit, knowing in comfort that she’ll have the entire bed to herself tonight, and you’ll walk home feeling un-whole, alone, like a piece of you will forever be left in Prince 302.

And you’ll fall asleep wishing to suffer the waking pains of pins and needles from a brown haired beauty again. And you'll awake knowing your arm is in a better place.

But your heart is a different story altogether.