I dream of you all the time.

And the good thing is, I get to see your smiling face and know you're not in any pain.

I dream of you all the time.

And the bad thing is, you're not there when I wake up.

I always said that I'd be there in the end.
No matter when that would come, I'd be there.
I looked you deep in the eye and told you that the end would never be unpleasant.
You'd never be alone.
I'd never let go of the rope.

But I did.

Or did you cut it?

Because all I'm doing now is falling.
It's like I'll never reach the end.
I keep seeing these moments etched in the darkness I am plummeting through.
The smiles, the tears, the heartache, the pain.
I see it as it is; it resembles a castle of glass.
With one big crack down the center.
But it stops right in the middle; the location almost symbolic of where a human heart would be stationed.
Around it I see a ring of fire glowing.
Glowing and burning and burning and glowing bright.
It's as if its preserving something delicate.
Something tender.
Like, love.
The love that was extinguished from my very being.

Out of my lungs like someone cut it out.

Like one would cut a rope.

I inch my trembling hand closer to what's inside this ring of fire.
It resembles a note.
I open it, and read what's written.
And in the most delicate,
Tender,
Lovely handwriting I've ever seen,

It reads:

The end.

On these blank pages is where I write my story.
It has some sad moments, but my story is a happy story.
I grew up without a father figure there to guide me.
No man to say "Good job son" or play catch with me on Sundays.
I grew up large, literally.
I've always been a bit on the heavy side.
I like to think of it as: "God had too many ingredients to include when making me, so he threw them all in anyways."
But I think he included too many tablespoons of self-disappointment.
I lack self-confidence in myself to accomplish even the littlest task.
I've always felt embarrassed in situations around "cool" people that I always fumble and botch what I'm doing.
I've never been with a woman.
I think they all were just made to avoid me but I know that's not the case.
As much as I may "avoid" them I hate it.
I desperately want to talk to a girl, but I lack the words to say.
And even when I find the words to say, they all come flying back at me eventually.
"Women" is something I think I'll never understand fully or even get, unless I pretend to be a Christian on Christian Mingle.
Or Farmer on Farmer's Only.
But I digress.
Even though I consider myself to be a nice guy, people still hate me.
I have no idea why, but they do.
It spreads like wildfire around me.
People snicker here and people snicker there.
It drives me insane.
Life drives me insane.
My lack of confidence drives me insane.
I just want to stand and flip this table onto the ground.
And sometimes I want to shout "*******" and "this is hell."
I just want to stand and start a revolution.
Tell people how I really am.
Kiss the girl I like.
Say "**** it" to the rest of the world.
Become someone who matters.
I just want to stand and scream, but I don't.
I just sit back down at this table, typing on this computer.
I'm surrounded by friends and tables.
I look around the room at all these people going about their lives and their days.
I just refocus back on this blank page, where I write my story.
It has some sad moments,
But my story is a happy story.

Notice those smiles.
Happiness and joy filling their faces.
Notice them run.
Run toward freedom and prosperity.
Notice the grass.
How it's greener only where you water it.
Notice the sun.
And how it always shines when I see you smile.
Notice the rain.
And how it falls to wash our troubles away.
Notice me.
Noticing you.
For once, my darling angel.

I always say that I let it slip away.

But that's not really true.

Because unfortunately,
To have let something slip away.

Means I would have had it in my grasp to begin with.

I like to look at poetry like this:

It’s just like taking one step at a time.

Then I remind myself:

Walking can take a while to get you somewhere.

Can someone show me the verse in the bible where it says type "amen" and God will bless you?

Because I'm pounding the hell out of my laptop keys,

But yet, I'm still here staring blankly at my screen.

And I'm still sitting here suffering.

I'm still here day after day drawing the short end of the stick.

I'm still losing.
I'm still hurting.
I'm still trying.

But no matter what I'm going through,

I'm still, for some reason or another,

Typing "amen."

I am an abundance of lost stars.

And they've all gone supernova.

Now they're just splattered throughout space,
Throughout the darkness and the abyss.

And now they call me beautiful.

Because pain and chaos always paints the prettiest pictures.

I need me more than I need anyone else.

Because when I needed everyone else,

No one needed me.

And you know what, it's ok.

Because I don't need them, anyways.

I could never figure out why I never fit in.
Or why every girl I liked never liked me back.
Or why my dad never loved me.
Or why my mom had to be taken away from me at 17 years old.

There's a lot of things I never understood.

But now, I don't understand why these things are happening to me.
Why do I sit here every day hating myself while everyone else is having the time of their lives?
Why do I sit here every ******* day surrounded by sadness and every one else has happy days like it's the ******* TV show all over again?
Why do I sit here and suffer through so much **** all the while no one bats a ******* eye to it?

All these questions and I'm still hopelessly searching for answers.

But all I need is a savior.
A miracle.

I just need something.

I can't keep being the ugly fat-*** that no girl will ever like.
I can't keep being the manic depressive 19 year old who is paranoid over every little thing.
I can't keep being the shy and awkward guy that has no friends because  he's too afraid, too ashamed, and too much of a loser.
I can't keep watching girl after girl that I have feelings for fall in love with another guy.
I can't keep sitting in my dorm all alone and depressed waiting for something to happen.

Please, please, please.
Just let something good happen for once after a whole 1 year, 3 months, and 16 days of bad.
Of worrying.
Of crying.
Of crippling depression.
Or being alone.

I just need some help.

I just need some answers.

You've read thousands of words,

Even thousands more from me.

I can't make you read them to the tune of how I feel,

But I can't help but keep trying.

I've never been good at straying from my heart.

Because it beats too loudly.
Beats too strongly.
It beats too much.

And these words are proof.

They're all I've got.
So I'll keep giving until I have nothing left.

I don't know what else to do.

I started with nothing.

No father.
No rich life.
No fancy car.
No perfect body.

All I had was love.
All I knew was love.

And love was enough.

But now, I've lost most of that love.

People I loved that I'll never get back.
Opportunities I've wasted that I'll never get back.
Relationships I foolishly past by that I feel like I'll never get back.
People I've met that I'll never see again.
Things I've done that I'll never do again.

Everything I loved I've let ruin itself or ruined it myself.
Or worse,

I stood by and did nothing while the worst things took place.

And I have no one to blame but myself.
And I feel like I have no love left.

Because I just stood by like a fool,
And did nothing.

And now nothing is all I deserve...

I’m like a rubber band.

I’m forced to bounce back from many things.
I am painfully stretched to my limits,
And recoil back into myself daily.

I’m like a rubber band.

But stretch me out for too long,
Or wear me down for too long,

And in the wrong hands,
I’ll break every time.

You always fancied our extravagant dinner parties.
The ones where you wanted to be a saint at the door at the start,
But a ***** at the table in the middle.

You welcomed all our guests into this home,
But didn’t tell them what it was built off of.

The years of love, flirting, and dates.
Those were just the bricks on which the foundation was laid.

Then came the pillars of this home,
Which were filled with late night star-gazing, all day text messaging, and random cheap gifts on doorsteps.

The walls went up next, the ones maintained with long conversations.
Talks about marriage, children, and the future.

Our ceremony was the roof,
Proving that we would always shelther and protect the other.

But then came the paint, which was mixed in with fighting and anger.
Decorative furniture picked out of spite and defeat.
Bedding covering nights of tossing and turning bodies and minds.

Then the windows were framed with lashing out and hurtful words,
And the doors out of painful comments and hurting slaps.

And with that, we had really made a home out of this.
A home we were both trapped in.

And now I just sit here and choke on all of this food,
At this extravagant dinner party.

Which I never fancied anyways.

It's really hard to carry the weight of the world.
It's really hard to ask a girl out.
It's really hard to love myself sometimes.
It's really hard to stop this heartache.
It's really hard to be happy with pain.
It's really hard to convey this to people.

Life's just really hard to live sometimes.

“Reach out to people.”
“Talk to them first.”

I do. Then they leave after like 3 texts.
Or they quickly change the subject.
I hate that.
People don’t wanna recognize or talk about the real stuff out here.

The hurt, the pain.

They just don’t wanna talk about it.

But unfortunately, that’s all I am.

Do you like puzzles?

Because I've got one for you that has over a million pieces.

It's called "My Broken Heart."

And it's guaranteed to have you saying:

*"Some assembly required my ***!"

If I wrote some words over here.

                    And then some more over here.
                                Would you realize that I

            Am trying to tell you

That
     I

Love you?

Fight, you've got to fight.
Give it all you've got.
You've got to fight, you might just fall.
Let this fill your thoughts.
Give the oxygen masks to the children in black.
Tell them to have their fun.
Blind them with your magic tricks.
But never blind them like the sun.
Never fail to amaze.
It's your job to hold the habit.
Your pedestal holds the strength.
Oh every single bit of it.
You feed the discontented mouths with every single sound.
You're the voice of the voiceless no doubt.
Feed them words, feed them truth.
Give them the words to shout.
The chalk outlines fill the streets.
The kids fill the army.
Seven nations could never cease.
The things that those kids tell me.
They want it all.
They're tired of the wait.
Impatience would be a silly thing.
To use as their bait.
Look at them, they're so proud.
They feel they've done it all.
They live to fight, and fight to live.
But they'll never live to fall.
The kids in black love the thrill of attack.
They love to watch it unfold.
They sit back, relax, and watch the destruction.
They never do as they're told.
"Slave to the Grind, Slave to the Grind!"
They'll never have enough.
Those kids in black, with their oxygen masks.
Are the up-most kind of tough.
Their courage reaches beyond our borders.
It overpowers mankind.
Oxygen-masked kids in black shout:
"Slave to the Grind! Slave to the Grind!"

These... scars on this desk. They're markings,
Redefined.
And these hand prints on the wall... they're memories
Of mine.
Tiny thoughts trying to escape my brain.
But what they don't know is, they're free to go.
You see man, these thoughts of mine are like grains of sand.
They're all stuck together, but there is so much of it.
So many ideas racing through my mind.
That's the key term, my mind.
Man, no wonder they're trying to escape.
My mind is an imaginarium where belief and hope have collided with lies and insanity to make a new feeling called: Complacency.
I've reached this state of nirvana where I can kick my feet up and relax.
I can sit in my rocking chair and watch the world burn.
"Oh, what a wonderful world."
Look at all those people run.
But they're not running with their legs, they're running their mouths.
They're spewing garbage and lies about themselves to attain a higher place on a higher pedestal.
But those pedestals.... they're made of,
People.
Bodies, skulls, blood, bones.
But more importantly... they're made up of,
Ideas.
The hormone that rushes the body along.
The juice that keeps the body hydrated.
The ideas of our minds are indestructible.
They will live forever.
No wonder they're trying to escape.
Ideas were brave Kings upon a mountaintop, but those Kings are now dead.
These Kings are now beggars at the gates of Hell.
Because only the good ones go to Heaven.
The best of Saints may be the worst of sinners.
But their ideas carry weight in gold.
But if we're speaking about ideas,
What are those anyways?

The scars or the hand prints?

Sometimes, you gotta let some ships just sail away.

Because eventually, you'll either learn to swim.

Or that ship will disappear beyond the horizon.

Either way, you won't be on-board.

And somehow, you've got to be ok with that.

I found a penny on the ground today.
And you better believe I picked it up.

And I held that little delicate coin in my hands so tight.
That the color started to fade away.

I was holding on so tight hoping that this penny would be the answer to my questions.
I was holding on so tight trying to make my dreams come true.

I was holding on so tight that Honest Abe himself shouted:

“Hey kid, *******!”

After intense summer heat,
Comes delicate autumn breeze.
A withering winter follows,
And in turn is followed itself by a blossoming spring.
There is no in between.
No time for reconstruction.
That summer heat, cools.
That autumn breeze, freezes.
That withering winter, subsides.
That blossoming spring, burns out.
When is the period of review?

The World has to have time to stand back and marvel at its own beauty.
Or maybe its own destruction.

Depends on how you want to start the cycle again.

Sometimes I sit here,
Wanting to cry.

But I can't.

And sometimes,
I sit here,
And the tears sneak up on me from out of nowhere.

And there's no way that I,

A small paper sailboat, floating aimlessly in my own sorrow,

Can survive the force of the typhoon coming from my eyes.

Last night I had a hard time.
I was thinking of you before I fell asleep.

And while I was sleeping,
I was dreaming of you.

And in my dream,
We were together.

I held your hand,
You called me "Babe."

It was amazing.
It was a dream come true.

But then in my dream,
You got on an elevator.

So I followed you in,
And turned around.

And you pressed the bottom floor button,
And quickly ran out.

I was trapped in the elevator,
Plummeting to the bottom.

Just like I feared would happen

The glory of the warriors has disappeared.
It has vanished like smoke through a keyhole.
Glory goes to the one with the most power.
The warriors are now the ones I pass on my way to the top.
But it is said that those you pass on the way to top are the ones you see again on your way back down.
Trust me, I am no warrior.
But mark my words.
When I climb to the top, I am never coming back down.

Well, aren't you just superior to everyone else?
Well, you act that way.
Well, well, well.
You just make me so mad sometimes.
You sit up there on your high horse and look down upon all of us.
I've traveled with you for years and I thought we were one in the same.
But now I realize this isn't the thing for me.
You left me behind while I was wallowing in my own sadness.
And the worst part is, you tried to act like it was ok.
And the even worse part is, you said it was my fault.
"You wish I would have" is something that will pierce my ears for many years to come.
I guess you'll just wash me away like the ocean.
Well, the ocean is a beautiful thing to see.
Except when it's cold out.
But now you've gone and done it.
And by it I mean moved on.
It's a bitter pill to swallow that after all someone can do and thrive at, that they get dumped to the wayside.
I guess I can use my talents here.
But boy, I could use them some place else, I know for sure.
Go ahead, forget all that I've done.
Forget my past accomplishments.
Forget what I've contributed.
Forget me.
Oh, but it seems you already have.
So have fun.
But don't spend too long "wishing" I'd been there.
I'm too busy wallowing in my own sadness.

You are a beautiful angel.
Flying ever so high.
And you don't want to soar too close to the ground,
For soon you will have to fly away,

Just like all the other angels.

And it's a miserable reality that I am here on the ground.
Way down here at the bottom.

And all I want is to be desperately saved.

The world is only as big as it reaches.
And yes, my children, it reaches pretty far.
It's filled with millions and millions of faces just wishing to attain fame.
They want more and more of it and they need it now.
But then there are those who don't know their purpose.
They feel like they can't fit in in this far reaching world.
They are the sould dressed in black, not because they are sad.
But because they are absent.
They feel like day after day after **** day they are going down like the Titanic.
But at least the Titanic drew money.
These souls, they are left to suffer under shadows of vultures.
They don't own a mirror because they don't want to look at themselves in it anyway.
Because they're afraid if they do, they'll see what they look like.
They'll see what people see.
The disgust, the patheticness, the nerd, the goth, the dork, the ****,
The in pain.
The insane.
The mental game.
They are all taking their tolls.
But where are these people to go?
How are they to know?
How were they to know that a disorder known as bipolar would result in bringing a blade to their wrists or a noose to their throats?
Their screams can't be heard because they're being cut off by the noose.
They try so hard to escape from this far reaching world.
But they can never escape this lie we're living in.
They scratch and claw at the door like a cat wanting milk.
Because that cat had a bad day at cat school and he just wants to come back to his cat home and drink his cat milk.
And then cry himself to sleep.
And as the cat sleeps he'll have his cat dreams.
He'll dream of one day becoming top cat,  sly cat, papa cat, and even the cat's pajamas.
He'll dream of one day when he can stroll down to the corner trashcan without being harassed by the big dog names Spike from down the street.
He'll dream of mice and how things aren't nice and about his dinner, rice.
But then his dreams turn into nightmares.
Like a 50 year old losing his hair.
Or like your spouse declaring they just don't care.
They've given up.
But suddenly you awaken hearing your cat crying in the night.
And you run to him and pick him up, assuring him that he is not alone.
And it is then that you catch yourself in the hallway mirror.
You see who you are for the first time.
You see yourself, and also a dark cloud.
It's that dark cloud of denial hanging over your head.
But you also see your cat in your arms.
And you are suddenly reminded that you are not alone in this far reaching world.
This far reaching world would be alone without you.
So my children, my black wearing souls.
Pour yourself some milk and cry yourself to sleep.
But when you awaken, remember your dreams.
Put them in a file and label it "Hope."

And when you feel that you are alone at the end of this far reaching world, remember,

You're the cat's pajamas.

Competition is a dangerous game.
People of all different sizes and all different colors compete daily with one another.
In sports, school, television, life.
Competition tends to drive our society.
People wake up every day ready to compete against someone.
When will we learn that in the end, every grave looks the same?
Because competition is deadly.

If 7 billion people are competing for the same spot on the mountain top,
That better be a **** big mountain.

This is for all the boys and girls.
You, yes you know who you are, the ones who go through hell.
Who go through hell day after day and yet are still breathing.
How do you do it?
Well, you do what I do. You fight.
You fight until your knees give out, and then you keep fighting.
It's like we all carry first class gold memberships to Hell.
We're first on the guest list.
God, how are our feet still there after walking through Hell so many times?
How are our eyebrows not singed from the burn?
How are we not dead yet?
Why do we keep fighting for a cause we know that we won't receive?
We won't win?
We won't reach?
The cause we wake up every morning sad about because we don't have it.
The relationship we long for, the happiness we wish to attain, the imaginary world called sanity we wish to discover.
Why can't we have what we want?
Why do we suffer?
Well, I'll tell you why.
And I know from experience.
We can't win because we are the only brave and true fighters left.
If we weren't fighting, there would be no one fighting.
We'd all have what we wanted.
But that's not how the world works, the world needs to have a battle.
Which requires fighters.
Which means us.
The ones who go through Hell like it's our path to the bathroom.
We have to fight the battle.
Even though we didn't sign up in the first place.
We're the ones that wish for what we want.
We make the 11:11 wishes, we pray, we long for, heck, we even follow those stupid things on Facebook that say "Make a wish, count to one hundred, blink twenty times, and repost this and your wish will come true, but if you don't repost this you'll never get your wish."
Well, I guess I have to stop reading that, or at least start reposting.
My wishes never come true from doing that but at least I believe enough to do it.
Believing is what keeps me going.
It's what keeps us all going.
It's the pillow to lay our heads on after a long day of battle.
It's the Nutella(R) to indulge ourselves in when we feel sad, happy, lazy, or even if it's a sweatpants and t-shirt kind-of-day.
It's the last bit of gas in the tank that gets us to the next gas station instead of breaking down on the interstate.
It's the denial in some, but it's the blood in me.
Because I'm more than just a body of blood and bones, and so are you.
You're a believer too.
So fight for your goal.
Reach for it.
Shoot for it.
Repost the Facebook statuses to make it come true.
It doesn't make you a bad person.
We all have our weaknesses, we all have our flaws.
Heck, even on my best days my evil ways still show.
But I don't worry about that.
Because I leave the mystery of me open to the world's interpretation.
And you should to.
Because at the end of the day, you'll never finish the battle you wage with the world.
So never, ever give up.
Even when you're breath is gone and your blood has poured, keep going.
Because in the end, we'll get that dream car we want.
We'll get that perfect job.
The great Hercules-like body.
The relationship we try so hard for.
We'll finally receive the true meaning of what it means to believe.
And when we get that my friends.
Our battle will be over.

Falling freely has become a specialty.
A long, painstaking journey from the top has become routine.
Almost as routine as tying your shoes.
Just think about it.
You take a pair of shoes out of a closet daily.
You place your left foot in the left shoe, and mirror that with your right.
Your feet familiarize themselves with the rubber insole within.
You take both laces in your hand, both possibly resembling a small, hairy animal going around a tree.
Now, instead of tying those laces, take them and make a noose.
Fixate said noose around your neck and tie it.
And whenever someone asks what the most important piece of advice you learned during your fall from the top,
Tell them this:
“If the shoe fits, wear it.”

“He hit me while I was down.”

Well, maybe you should get back up.

“But what if he hits me when I’m up?”

Well then, maybe you should pay attention more.

“But I didn’t do anything to him!”

Ah, you finally understand how the world works my friend.

My heart is like a rose, red and beautiful.
But it also has its thorns, from pain everlasting.

My mind is like a dandelion, it sprouts with the sun.
But it is also in a million pieces, since my thoughts all scream at me.

My body is like an Autumn Adonis, glowing ever so brightly.
But it is also dangerous, since I have poison in my veins.

But I am a delicate being,

I am the Flower Child.

I was going to write this poem
To say how much I still love you
Even though you don't love me
But that's not true anymore
I'm writing this poem
To say how much I love myself
Even though you don't love me

Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.

And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.

It’s my heart.

And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.

And here’s a spoiler:

*It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.

I am a nothing man.
Just wanting to be a nothing King.
And sit high upon my throne,
Built from all these bad feelings.

To realize I overcame.
Everything I faced.
I overcame my biggest enemy.
The evil ***** know as "Heartbreak."

But for now I'm just a nothing man.
Just wanting to be a nothing King.
I have nothing left to lose,
They've taken everything.

But when you break a nothing man down so much,
Sooner or later, he will rise as the Nothing King.

Sad again.
Cried again.
Clawed again.
Thought again.
Slept again.
Hated myself again.
Pain again.
Lost it all again.
Come back again.
Please.

You know, life is pretty funny.
Even laugh provocative, to say.
The game that we play, where the rules constantly change.
You know, the one where we constantly miss who player 2 is.
Don't say a word, let me count the days.
Tick tock, there goes another.
Down, around, and back again.
My, my, one of our talks helps, my friend.
We fall on our backs, so we may witness our rise.
Don't you get it? It's hidden behind your beautiful brown eyes.
You know, that game that we play together?
The one that ticks by, just as the days tick down.
My old man once told me you learn to play the game after awhile.
A slap in the face and 10 bucks become the same.
You know they are not your destiny.
You're something bigger.
Something brighter than the sun, babe.
Don't change for me, change for yourself.
No matter what I do, it shouldn't affect your view.
Don't tell me what you would've done,or what you should've done, tell me what you already did.
You know, I'm not going to be the pretender.
Oh, and you should know, I will never surrender.
But in this world, you either play the game, or change it.
You know what they say, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
And if you can't make it here, welcome to the club.

I’m just writing words
And putting them into lines
So they might just resemble a poem
And you might read them
And relate their meaning to your life.

I’m just writing words
And putting them into lines
So they might just resemble a poem
And you will read them over and over again trying to figure out what they mean.

I’m just writing words
And putting them into lines
So they might just resemble a poem
And you might read them

And say “This poem *****. I have no idea what’s going on.”

Oh, but remember my friend,

This isn’t a poem.