i was young back then, already into my last year in school. i have waited quite a long time to get old, so i feel like i owe it to myself to make the most of my advancing years. my mom used to tell me that life is a one-way street as if i am too foolish to understand it. i just wish i could travel back in time and be a child again. i just wish i could walk away from the gloom and doom of this life. reliving all my childhood memories by listening to my grandma's fairytales about angels and demons. how can i forget those days when the nights were so short and the days were so long yet there was magic everywhere? those were the days when i made castles and sailed paper boats when it rained. in the fields, where i tried to catch butterflies. those breathtaking and eloquent memories have gone.

i miss the days when i felt so carefree and unencumbered by the burdens of the world. i wish i could experience those days filled with laughter and joy once more. the hot sun and heavy rain didn't matter. everything seemed to work out like a dream. during vacations with grandma, she would fed children delectable cookies and enthralled them with fascinating tales. i love the days when i played with my friends and sat down by the bonfire while singing and dancing on the midst of the night. these were the happiest years in my life and i remember them vividly.

memories flooded my mind of those golden days of my youth. i wish i could go back and be a child again. i’m tired with the sound of my own tears ringing in my ears. i'm tired with continuously fighting my own battles. tired of struggling with challenges that continuously reappear. i am tired of remembering—remembering how i used to be so happy. tired of the blame—the blame i put on myself daily.
for several nights now, i've had to put up these drenched pillows to ignore the past because every time i dwell from the dead and buried, i couldn't stop whimpering in those silent mumbles of the night. those tears seem to be exhausted. they just keep on pouring like a never-ending storm. i can't help to ask above if the tears that i shed every night are the stepping stone to heal the scars that i bear. this sickness is still fresh, as is the misery brought on by unrelenting sorrow. it was tiring to drown on my own anguish. it was infuriating to scream and not be heard. the sounds of my own weep were deafening.

can tears really cure this invisible disease?
can tears really heal these invisible wounds?

because if this is the only remedy to heal the traces of the past—i will let them flow as if i would never get tired. i'll eat everything else until the last speck of each vestige from the past is gone.
tell me—how many seas of tears must i shed before i can see the tranquility i crave for?

your heart will not fail in space
it will be an object of its own mass
and gravity
no longer will there be a throttle in its vessels
and asynchronicity in its rhythms—
the beats, oh, the beats
your heart, when it is in space, will only wait
for an entity
to be jettisoned from a shuttle

my oxygen is running low
i love you to your heart and never back

Bones decayed
Muscle & skin flayed

Near decade long agony endured
Endless wait for no remedy procured

Persons laugh and gibe
Hellions unable to repent or apologize

Lovers leave or never give a chance
"Meeting you was an unfortunate circumstance"

21 years of life lived
Nothing but difficult and destructive

My soul is wavering on my form. Fit to boil.
This soul simmering, on leaf silhouted sun's heat.
A past night's sleep that caught an errant plight amongst twilight's cloud topped 'delight'.
A dream to be clear, the one's to wake up, as told at beginning.
I dont quite translate well what it is I am trying to say, without my painted words. But I will try to do so without a sense of denying dignity.
I feel this seed planted in self-denial that I question who planted, but know who watered.
I am relieved from you.
I may have your voice in my head that I call my dreaded disease.
But I am relieved from you.
You fueled all of my seeds, the passion grew anew from you.
You mused me.
Amusing to say now, at the least, that you still had to abuse me through the
wicked lines I'd find, that you'd only
deny,
all in my stifled cries, painful times, wicked loaded lies, and all of accord to your  so  called, caring crimes.
Do not worry too much.
The amount of pain is nothing new. And nothing short.
You just, if I may: childlishly, scratch at the wavering clouds of my soul,
wilting away the pedals of the light of the sun that the steam catches in golden brilliance watching delightfully as it falls and disintegrates in a puff plume to dust.
My reality falters to a closer gross sum.
Each fleck of life you pick off me fills my seeds with even more anguish.
I am at peace.
Calm.
I know your process all too well.
I refuse to look.

To feel
All and intensely
To care
Fully and endlessly

Is it weak?
Or is a strength?

Confusion fogging my mind,
I struggle to accept my empathy
For people
For situations
Not relevant to my own
But relevant enough
To consume me
In second hand grief

I’m drowning
Yet emerging

Can I handle these emotions
And still support those in need?

It’s a question I constantly ponder.
With another outbreak,
It’s a question I need to answer.

Pour a little bit.
Drink a little more.
Die a little slower
Feel a little less.