I so want to get lost at all,
That no one would find my way.
Just vanish, dissolve, disappear,
That even my waft would fade away.

I'm ready to drop off the radar,
Like a loan garden, without a trace.
So that only a withered echo
Of my existence will reach ears.

The echo will fade, the memory'll cancel
And all will sink into a life sand.
But if I suddenly fail, if I couldn't,
I beg you, don't find me, at no hand.

''I might take the shoes off,
Still, I remember all our walks.
I might have a new pen,
Yet I remember every little plan.

I might be tough,
Still, every time I look up to the sky, I see your laugh.

I lied to people about my favourite flower,
Because I always recall the day you gave me a wildflower.

The sun is shining while I'm standing on the ice

Why isn't it melting?
**** it, I always hated playing dice.

Repeating over and over, the same cycle every day
Just makes it too hard to stay.

I'm just going to lay...
But every time I see the moon, it makes me want to see you soon.

All I want to do is catch a train
And hope for the evening to rain.

Do you understand me?
I mean, how can I be understood
When I explain with running words hidden under a hood?

How will you get me,
When all my thoughts are running barefoot through the woods?

Where is my blanket? Where is my pillow?
Are my jeans too tight?

Maybe I need to find the light,
Because I don't want to fight anymore
So I’ll just open my door.

I can’t find my blanket or my pillow.
There’s no tree to offer me some shade.

Maybe... I'm the willow.''

What is this feeling in my stomach?
The butterflies flutter nonstop—I can hear their wings beating beneath my skin.
I feel them shift from side to side,
Claiming what little remains of me.

What is it?
What is this bitter taste rising through my throat, resting on my tongue?
Why can’t I hear the butterflies anymore?
Why do I still feel this?

My mouth opens, and all I spit is blood and glass.
The sour bile of what the butterflies once were grows thick—and I can do nothing.
“Spit them out, regurgitate them, let them go!”
I can’t.

I press my chest, and slowly my arms bind themselves around my belly,
Cradle of cutting kisses—kisses that now hurt,
And no longer heal the way they used to.

I rise from mourning, only to fall again, and the butterflies begin to flutter once more,
But they no longer beat like drums or echo like thunder.
They don’t crash against my walls or hide in my corners…
They are there, but not alive.

They try to climb.
I feel them fighting each other, pushing for space up my esophagus—
Once a path for all things good,
Now a tunnel for all things painful.
I hear them scream; their tiny voices pierce my eardrums and shake my bones.

They want out.

And I understand them well:
What good is a body that dances among broken hearts?
What use are shards beneath my feet,
Reminding me how little I’ve felt?
What comfort is the weeping of a soul grown weary?
What joy lies in the bottomless hollow of a body fed by illusions?
They were made for the sun—for joy, for love—
And all I can offer is an umbrella
For the relentless rain storming inside me.
Cold, decaying rain that stains the walls and soils my shoes, instead of washing them clean.

They’re almost free—
About to escape.
But I swallow them down once more,
Just as I’ve swallowed the bile of melancholy,
Just as I’ve swallowed the tears that swore, they would soften the blades of my sharp-edged heart.

I feel them sink slowly,
Their wings now still—they’ve accepted their fate.
I don’t want to let them go,
Because they’re all I have left.
They’re all I have of what once was pain.
They’re all I have of what once was passion…

They’re all I have of what once was love.

Hello ? hello ? hello ?
Anyone out there ? anyone out there ? there’s nobody out there.

This house doesn’t echo ‘cause it’s empty —
It echoes ‘cause I talk to the walls,
and they talk back
with everything my mother,
my father,
my brothers and sisters,
my friends,
and my lovers
never said.

You see, recently, I’ve been sleeping like I’m training for death,
my breathing’s been shallow,
my dreams have been hollow,
waking up just to forget
why I even went to bed… in the first place.

The silence claps, filling the room, — applause for my pain,
and I swear:
even my shadow’s been walking away.
My bed’s a grave I visit nightly,
only to wake up and
restitch my smile nice and tightly,
just so everyone can see
just how happy I can be.

The other day, I wrote a list of reasons to live —
ran out of ink after two.
Wrote “sunsets” and “maybe,”
then scratched 'em both through.
Every “I love you” I’ve heard
was a debt disguised,
a loan with interest
that never arrived.
For them, I know it was just empty breath:
no heart,
no soul,
no vow,
no truth.
Always less, and never more —
just echoes behind this closed door.
As they left me alone,
blindly deciding
it’d be okay for me to love myself
on my own.

They yelled out behind that door:
“Matt you’re not alone,”
“We’ll always be here for you!”
but no one ever knocked.
Only ghosts with names like Almost,
and clocks that tick and tock in Morse code
for stop.
Tick tick tick—
Tock.
And now even my watch
has begun to mock
the very bitterness…
that resides within these walls.

My chest’s a locked box
where light doesn’t get.
My thoughts?
Wet matches.
That can’t spark—
just create ash.
I choose not to water my plants
like I’m praying they die,
just so something else understands
what it feels like
to try
and try
and try
and still…
not be remembered.

I’ve screamed into the universe
like voicemail—
begging for anyone or anything
to give me the recognition I needed.
No return.
I lit myself on fire for warmth,
and watched
the cold not burn.
This ain’t poetry.
It’s my farewell in rehearsal,
a symphony of silence
in a one-man circle.

I don’t want to die.
I never wanted to,
and I never will.
But I can’t keep living like this—
half death,
half plea.
So when you hear this:
Don’t cry.
Don’t clap.
Just breathe.
Because that breath
represents more love
than I ever believed
was for me.

I only ever needed three things:
I. love. you.
You could have saved me.

Is it me, or is it my ears,  
That keep hearing sounds so near?  
A pounding, a drilling,  
Like gears that keep spinning.  

I couldn’t stop,  
Nothing could,  
I melt, I break—  
I wish I would.  

With all the juice,  
I freeze, I sneeze.  
With all the germs,  
I ooze, I wheeze.  

Yuck,  
Stuck,  
This *****.  

Who would have thought this would start?  
Truth be told, this is no gold,  
Nor silver, nor bronze—  
Just stories retold.  

Hush—my voice, keep it down,  
It hurts inside, the things I drown.  

Stomp,  
Punch—  
What is this?  
The feelings I have, within.  

Full of rage, full of fire,  
This place no longer feels entire.  

Stop!  
I yell,  
I scream—  
This must not tear between.

I wish my face was a mirror,
not to see myself, but you,
would wear your smile and laughter,
had these beautiful brown eyes too.

I wish my voice was an echo,
a whisper of your words,
not my own clumsy syllables,
but the warm sound a soul prefers.

I wish I moved the way you do,
effortless, not thinking twice.
Then maybe I’d have your charm,
and spoke with ease to anyone.

But if I were your echo,
your reflection, your twin,
the world would see me,
But,
would you?

As neon pulses through a sleepless night,
The sidewalks bustle with wandering ghosts,
And vapor rises — a mist of pale steam
From streets that glint beneath an autumn rain.

I see a woman in a ruby coat;
Her shadow pools round her feet, like spilled ink,
As she tries to mouth a name through the haze —
A name unheard over the subway’s groan.

She’s gone before the streetlights flicker, but
Her shadow lingers a moment longer,
Stretching out beneath the gilded lamplight —
But was she ever even there at all?

No answer falls with the September rain,
No hint comes drifting on the pallid mist.
And still the train rumbles on unconcerned,
And I can’t recall why she had mattered.

The neon curdles within its veins,
While darkness swallows the ruby echo,
And I walk these streets among the phantoms,
To fade at last into the night once more.
©️2025 David Cornetta

I told the doctor
my heart felt like a flip phone
set to vibrate
in the back pocket of my jeans—
buzzing between spine
and tenth-grade desk,
shaking my bones
like a train no one saw coming—
except me.

I could feel my pulse
gathering its coat, like it had somewhere to be.
He said I was within diagnostic range.
He said I was presenting as stable.

I said I felt like a girl
screaming
inside a library.

They said:
What a beautiful metaphor.
I said:
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a girl.
She’s in there.
She’s still screaming.

And they nodded,
said I seemed self-aware—
like that settles that.

They wrote “no cause for concern”
in my file.
The room was quiet.
The library was loud.

My heart is still vibrating.
I feel it—
right there, between spine and desk.

No one picks up.

Fire, for him and for us.
A small sacrifice for our enjoyment.
A small temporary heat
to warm the hearts and its owner.

Sunrise shall arrive by the end line of the sea.
For us a small savor against its motherly silk.
Flower a fragrant, and its fragile beauty against almighty.
Asoothed by him, shall no devil bloom against our wither.

Landscapes shall ruin against greenscapes!
Change! The frame of stone caligraphs for a green curvy paint.
Wither shall not bloom against you.

"Ah, an arriving creature," shall us wave a misty silk of greenscapes.
Shall us, greet a warm candle in winters.
Shall us be not a wither to others.
Let us be a witness for the wandering cavern voices.

For us a new start...
For whom should we serve?
Ah, a pen..
Write aside a candle?
What a moment I miss...