i felt miserable,
solemn to the fact,
that giving up
was my harsh reality.

i had dealt with pain before,
but nothing like
the anguish i juggled
in my own hands,
every single dying day,
keeping me up at night.

there’s something about,
sitting all alone
listening to the crickets,
while fueling my addiction,
one cigarette after another.
always finding comfort
in all the worst ways.

Back in eighth grade,
I littered my arms with scars,
told myself no more drugs,
But took them that very night.
always anxious for a way out of my own anxiety,
social and situational always got the best of me.

Took the oath of staying sober,
and picking myself up,
from the debt my heart held that night,
i swore it would stop.

but just like me,
it pushed through,
even when the smoke
filled it’s cavities,
and even when my own head,
lied to me,
over and over again.

My parents always said:

“listen to your heart, and not your head”.

since when did holding a death sentence
in between my fingers,
become such an amazing getaway?

a sense of relief,
pulls away the weight of the world off of my chest,
leaving my lungs charcoal black,
while gazing into the stars,
head scattered with emotion,
numbing the constant sorrow.

“a cigarette won’t **** you”

i said.

but my weary heart and mourning lungs tell me otherwise,
i smoke to get away from reality,
paying attention to only the:

inhale.

exhale.

“save this broken boy”

i said.

talking to the moonlit sky,
well aware not the stars,
nor my hope will save me tonight.

i smoke my lonely cigarette,
burning it down to the filter,
just to be used and thrown away.

“i have it good”

i said.

my thighs
littered with war scars,
cuts deeper than
any man has gone.
they glitter a warm hurt,
as if telling
a sad love song.
hidden beneath
strong layers of linen,
I protect them
like a lion and its cub.
To say they weren’t deserving,
would be quite untruthful.
no one deserves pain
but me, i’m unusual.
born from long nights
and the thick fumes of liquor,
euphoria stench breath
made their minds think quicker.
myself, sitting here,
quarantined,
alone from the petty,
supercilious disaster,
we call the human race.
I look down at my scars in hope.
A lesson that taught me,
a great deal about
the wonders of my
own self esteem.
from hopelessness,
to the calm tide,
that lingers in my mind.
I know what is right,
but when my stars start to fall,
It seems to me,
that I don’t deserve
anything at all.
crying sorrow,
from my glossy,
swelled up eyes,
the demon on my shoulder,
paces patiently,
content with the
same laces as
when we had cut ties.
now the blade,
it has no purpose,
those long glistening lines
made personally by the
conflicted thoughts,
that grew like flowers in my mind,
have slowly faded away.
as time goes by,
sitting right where the
bottled up emotion resided,
lays many scars,
each telling a story
unique from all the others.
I live to see another night,
letting my scars, slowly recover.

his mind is a broken generation,
every standard is useless,
beating him down
face to the fire,
turning love into hate,
and fun into fate.

with every passing second
it ran through scarred thoughts,
begging for change,
or for the night, turn to day.

It fights the high tide
of tortured tears,
rushing to the shore
like the ocean
on his rosy cheeks,

he held his ground strong.

no man, no test, no job, no day
will cease the light
at the end of the tunnel
he built from scratch,
with only the pride he was given.

Days will feel like night terrors,
the ones he overcame,
as a descendent
before those sorrow years arrived.

But the mind,
can be a beautiful place,
somewhere only you can go.
A place littered with love,
and feelings no one else can feel.

He will fight the battle,
overcome every block in the path,
of unknown stories to be told.

As the night turns to day,
he switches on the sun,
destined for every single moment
sweet smiles, or sour tears,
that will eventually come his way.