It's 2 in the morning and I'm still awake,
drinking alone, again.
It's not like I have the most interesting job to wake up to
I just deliver words to people's homes
and get chased by dogs every now and then  
wondering if they got bad news or not
and how they feel about it

At night, I deliver the words to myself
With the pen in my hand, staining the paper
crafting each word with stories of days that passed me by
Sitting in the dark writing while others are standing
out there in the cold harsh reality, living and breathing
expecting release
but never did much to achieve that freedom
aside from complaining about it every single day
I never did much either
Maybe I got so used at being a prisoner
That the idea of freedom seems more like a myth
than something we all deserve

After I finished my final bottle, the last of its kind
I walked out and went home, hoping I did my best to drown
my demons and my feelings
It's not until I reached my door that I realized they ******* know how to swim
and they do it so well I might as well let them

I decided I don't want to go home
It's hardly a home anyway
It's just a bunch of furniture crammed in a room
So I would feel less empty


With my pen and my paper I walked
my footsteps behind me echoing until they too,
became silent
I threw my keys into the ocean
and should anyone find it, I hope they won't be disappointed
of what they'd find behind the door it opens

I stood at the edge, trying to write a letter
addressed to no one in particular
I wanted to sum it all up in a few words
but I couldn't
I keep worrying about the people
who won't be receiving their letters
And who would deliver mine?


I ended up writing six pages worth of
words I don't even remember writing
All the letters I have inside my bag flew like pigeons on a good day
and I silently wished for the wind to bring them
all to the right addresses


as for my letter addressed to no one in particular
Some of them landed on a puddle
some of them landed on dog ****
As for me, I landed on the concrete
between 6th and 7th street

I remember being ten again
where we can't wait for summer
It feels like the years just come and go
and we don't worry about tomorrow

But now as we age
we feel so caged
It's pathetic how we easily get so sad
About things that didn't even matter
a few years back

Things change as we grow old
Time is never ours to hold
The worst decision I've ever made
is being older than ten years old

I put poison in one of these two glasses
But I can't remember which one
And with the way this dinner is going
I really hope it's mine

Drink up.

I never say no to you
and you never say yes to me
Did I give up on you?
Did you give up on me?
Does it matter who gave up on who?

Both of us are just victims of our own jokes
Our hands on each other's throats
Gasping for air
Reviving the love that wasn't even there

It ***** to feel so left out things.
To be one to always say hello first.
To be the one to ask ‘hey how are you?’
and never get a reply.
To be the one who wants these bridges built
but you keep burning them down.

One day I’m going to get tired of saying hello
and asking ‘how are you?’
One day I’m not going to care at all
And if you ask why
You won’t get an answer
Because my mother taught me
not to talk to strangers

I cannot stop burning bridges
Watching them burn makes me feel safe
from you and me, ever crossing paths again

I cannot stop building walls
Putting them up so high
So you can't ever climb up
and I can't ever climb down

I cannot stop trying to destroy this love
But I can't ever succeed
unless you destroy yours

So in the end, we're both alone
and everything is fair

But nothing is fair in war and love
and one of us is sure to end up
with more than just a broken heart

It was in the stillness of the night: cold, silent and deadly.

It was in the howling of distant dogs outside, calling out or crying for help

It was in the sadness of the stars, though they shine the brightest at night must find themselves lonely because they all seem so close, but they are light years away from one another

It was in the constant ringing sound in my head that seems to drown all the other voices that are encouraging me to do terrible things. I'll try to pretend I'm not listening.

It was in the cold harsh wind banging my window; expressing anger in every thundering thud.

It was in my old age wallpaper, begging to be replaced and finally rest inside the garbage cans of filth and ****.

It was in the flickering light of the lamp by my bedside, dying and living again instantly, only to die altogether once the bulb wears out.

It was in the uncomfortable fabric of my blue blanket, clinging to my body despite its obvious protest.

It was in the in the glass of water I left in the kitchen, was it half empty? Or half full? I didn't even bother to check.

It was in the ridiculous thoughts in my head, coming on to me at once until my head suffers in pain.

It was in the truth beneath the lies I tell, they refuse to go away.

It was in the air I breathe that I can now taste. Bitter. Sad.

It was in the universe, the higher power that everyone so faithfully feared and believed.

It was in the blood that runs through my veins, poisoning me, killing me silently.

It was in me.

It was me.

I'm too late for therapy.