I was never told as a child
                        that
            if you don't yell
                            nobody will hear you
                      never told that
                              they only ask how you're doing
                 to hear you say
                                              "fine"
that
   ­                    when you adapt to your environment
                 you will only grow gills
  as opposed to
                                             wings
and
                             they expect you to grow up
                 but you cant
             if you don't accept
                                  that you must envelope
          a particular taste
                                                for the endless obsession
                       of order                              &
                                        society
lumped
         ­                into one overflowing mass
                      of man-made obstacles
                                                       ­ ...an over complication
                          ...a self indulged struggle

                 they never tell you these things
                                      as if it were etiquette
                                   to blindly follow
                   all the others
                                                   to their inevitable
      self destruction
                                                     ­   only on this earth
                                            were we destined
                                                  for a slow death
                                                 by our own hands
                                                    our own minds
                                                         own minds...

                            do you
                                                  own your mind?
program your thoughts
                                                     or your thoughts
          will be
                                               *programmed

This is the only way I know
how to express my ice cold
sadness.
This is a world
which enjoys stepping
on angels and uplifting
devils.

I am tired.
This was never a poem.

Before I **** myself.
I'm sorry to those
heroes of mine.

Angels are real.

After 12 midnight you shouldn't expect that someone
would be available to listen to your miserable tales unless
you’re out in that hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,
where everyone is friends with anyone who’s drunk enough
to take somebody else’s ******* that stinks worse than theirs.
It looks easy to watch these strangers if you’re just right there—
sober, thinking you’re too cool to foster your despair with
a glass of ***** or a bottle of cheap beer.
So you would just sit and have a cup of coffee
right from where you could get the best view of these lonely hearts
that tirelessly whisper and whimper to one another.

And then you would remember that a few months ago
you were one of them—because after 12 midnight
you know that you couldn't count on your best friend,
for she is out of town with her lover.
You couldn't call your colleague because you know how fast
your sad stories would travel from her desk to the boss’ desk.
And for obvious reasons, you know couldn't talk to your parents.
You have no one after 12 midnight except the people in your photo albums,
the actors and actresses in the magazines, and the authors in your bookshelves.
Your bedroom has enough space for your tales,
But you know it's too cold to keep you company until you heal.

And so you would find yourself in the hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,
and you would become friends with someone who’s drunk enough
to take your *******. In the back of your mind, this person
who is so keen to listen to the drops of your tears,
and is so willing to watch the movement of your mouth
could be the lover you've been waiting for.

And yes, she is that person.

She is the reason why you were in that hip pub before 12 midnight.
Because after 12 midnight you would be out with her somewhere
where ***** and beer are for celebrations.
Somewhere where seduction is over
and the only stranger that exists is the word despair.

I'm drowning and all I can do is reach up in the air
hoping someone will save me
I walk down the street
mustering up some sort of courage
to let everything out

but as soon as I cross the boarder
between the brisk wind
and the blanket of warmth
my courage disappears

I try to look for anyone who will listen
anyone who will make me talk
anyone who will care about me

I mistake kisses for promises
because in some universe
that kiss meant you would save me

I think late nights
are signs of friendship and hope
because in that moment
I could cry
I could tell you everything
but you would never ask
and if you did i wouldn't admit it

so now i sit alone
hurting deeply inside
after all, it was just a kiss

I do not like this phase of a heart break.

When you purposely avoid love songs,
Or sometimes you play them just to make yourself feel like your hearts still pounding.

When the person you loved and hid from every waking soul is brought into a conversation.
Or when he isn't.

When you see other lovers who have made it years without the cruel hand of fate ripping their love from them.
Or when you see they haven't.

When you notice him writing you smaller, casual messages when they use to be breathtaking and beautiful.
Or when he doesn't write at all.

When I ask you if I am pushing you away and you say no.

"Alright, happy birthday! Text me later tonight?"

"Will do"

When every hidden goodbye ends with those two words. And my broken, belittled heart.

(i. r.)

And there she crawls,
clawing the surface
trying to hold on to the dry roots
that twist around her bare wrists but
the more she clings on the more
they crumble in her hands.
She has lost her way her
direction her calling her
North Star.

Don't wait up.
I'm not coming home.