The fog of forgotten memories
Blankets the cracking pavement
So nothing can be seen aside from yellow and white lines
and the bottoms of tires.
A slight drizzle begins to fall out of the clouds
But just as quickly as it started
the fog is receding
And the diluted colors of a vibrant city
pulse all around
Like a heartbeat from somewhere deep inside.
Muffled sounds of people come from somewhere,
come from everywhere.
Its almost as though its all a dream,
you can focus on one thing or nothing but not everything at once,
and everything seems too crazy to be real
But a pinch on the arm can be felt
And the dream doesn’t end.
Everything looks and sounds like its underwater
And the colors blend together until no colors exist at all.
The sounds get louder and everything is coming more into focus
And a symphony is playing
With the staccato of honking horns
And the shrill of constant chatter.
But its all hidden from the rest of the world,
the sensations fading as you cross the bridge away
And looking back, all that is seen is the fog and the road,
Making you wonder if you imagined it all in the first place.

the days are long and exhausting
but they're a distraction I desperately need
until night falls and I'm left alone
laying, staring at the ceiling
and everything I was sure I pushed away
comes back strong and forceful
and all I can do is hold on and try not to look directly into the blast,
wait for it to be over and wallow in its wake
until it's shockwaves finally succeed in knocking me unconscious,
and the distractions begin again.
even the nightmares are welcome
because they, too, are an escape.
nothing seems as bad as the battles of my mindfield
during every waking moment.
so I welcome the monsters and make them my friend
if nothing but to eat my thoughts
before they destroy my mind.

The sky opens up
And the clouds of my mind rain down
Pour on the dreams of tomorrow
Until they're soggy, ruined things
Bleeding into one another until all that's left is a mess
A jumble of black ink.
Broken memories of a time before
Are swept into the flood
And the river of me flows rapidly
Until the sharp stones are worn smooth
And I'm left with little of what I once had.
Until my emotions build a raft
Of good times and bad
Of uncertain hope for the future
Void of fickle ink that can blotch
And written instead with permanent marker in its place.
Because the good times are now
But surely there are more to come
So I forge paddles out of thin webs of happiness
And begin to fight the current
To start moving back upstream.
And the webs weave into permanency
Until the future irons itself out
And the past replays over and over
And they both meet in the present
So a golden light shines on it all.
I can breathe without the fear of drowning at last.

the cracking concrete stairway practically reeks darkness
this is the entrance to the labyrinth.
step by step constantly downward until the sliver of sun that you always thought would be visible has finally disappeared
and left nothing but the blinking of the dim artificial light broken by time.
the warmth you surely felt outside has been leeched away
leaving a constant chill to raise the hairs on your arms
every time the ghost of a subway train emerges from the depths of the tunnels to all sides.
crude steel and fissured tiles paint the portrait of the lives that have passed through here
the tracks making no distinction between foreigner and local as they dole out their fates.
and every rushing train blurring the shadowy lights of the tunnel
reaffirms your suspicion that this is a vessel through a vortex in disguise as a breaking down train.
and as the doors slide open once the wheels lock and screech in agony until the momentum is stopped,
take caution
for the city you exited from into the subway
may not be the same you’ll enter here.

red sunset vibes radiate from the poster on the wall
a pile of crumpled papers rest around the tin garbage can in the corner
broken dreams lie dying in the dream catcher above the bed
a record plays softly from the table by the window
white flowers turned brown with time bend weeping in their plastic vase
a pile of half-read books sit on the night stand
forgotten memories stay silent in the journals under desk
and moonlight floods through the open window onto the dark wood of the floor

you stare straight ahead,
eyes swimming like the ocean they were modeled after.
the imperfections in your face were meticulously crafted by an expert artist
in an attempt to make you look more human
when in reality you are a god among men.
the thoughts clamoring for attention in your head
are drowned out by the ringing in your ears
but you smile and nod along to conversation,
as if you are holding on to every last word.
you walk home slowly, forcing yourself to put one foot over the other
sure, everyday, that you're going to open the door and not be able to go on.
at night you lay awake in bed
and listen to the door slamming shut.
poor child, sweet child.
she's only pretending to think you're asleep,
the reality is that she just doesn't really care.
your hands tremble the next morning
on your walk back to school
as you bring the cigarette up to your mouth.
there's nothing poetic in your sadness,
just the void of feeling.
you've stopped studying for your classes,
secretly you were hoping that she'd reprimand you for your failing grades,
desperate for anything to show she still cares.
but instead she takes one uninterested glance and leaves the room
"good. we can't afford to send you to college."
the next day you stop going to classes all together.
the friends you thought you had don't call, don't even seem to notice you're missing.
you've reconciled with this fact when you look yourself in the mirror while you bring your face to the bathroom sink
and inhale sharply.
you have new friends now, and they've shown you a great escape.
yesterday you came home,
pockets full of powder-filled plastic bags,
to find the thing you've been expecting your entire life.
a trail of blood stains the worn-out carpet
and in the middle lies your mother face down.
a gun lies close to her hand,
and you pick it up slowly.
you dial the police
but don't stick around to give the details.
resting the cool metal of the barrel against your temple
you don't look back
5... 4... 3... 2..

tile covers the floor and the wall and the ceiling
it sends my head spinning.
glorious white has faded to decaying yellow
cracks and grime populate this darkness.
a damp chill settles in the air
only broken up by the occasional subway train
out of the vacuum of the tunnels.
fast food wrappers covered in lipstick stains tumble in the wake of passing crowds,
the only testament to the world up above.
it's quite possible to believe that
nothing exists
besides these miles of tunnels
and endless rows of splintered tiles.
from the depths within
demonic sounds terrorize
and with the red lights that draw ever closer
right on schedule,
it's not hard to believe the veil is thinner here
in this never-resting place
and an energy surge
or the blink of an eye
could turn these diluted colors
to black and red and white
with no way back up to the city streets you once thought you knew