Song of the nightingale Mixes my ****** ale Sink faucet water drops Mirror props No one to cuddle in these idle hours My esteem tastes sour My heart, it shrank My eyes, they sank In this frigid dark It is not pain It is not lame View these as plain For me, I feel like I am to be blamed How to mouth an emotion When my mind is not in motion My body in supine position ****** my heart strings Can you still hear them tugging, running Because I cannot My ears must be deafened by the waves The only sound right now is the metronome in the monochrome My silhouette dancing in this lone haze Touch me, I fracture How to not be unfazed When I am born with a daze Do I still remember the days When I do not wake up in this blank gaze Bypass me as a slate Think until I used up space Draws my face Even when there are a lot swimming this way I am faltering, fading away In these invisible blows That keep getting close When I want them to be far away Yet the holes are nowhere Yet the roots are null Dew's breath caress through my skull In what way to lull Who knows What tomorrow holds For I am idling in hours
Bubbles float to the top, perfect crystal spheres Crushing blackness swallows me whole, nothing to see or hear I know you’re wondering how I ended up in this deep despair You see, dying a silent death was never really something to fear It’s 3:30 am & I’m alone, riding my bike along the seaside Stars shining brightly in this cloudless night, nowhere for them to hide Glistening wet sand, being swiftly left behind The lack of noise, perfect for my cluttered mind One step closer to the end , and I no longer feel my heartbeat Cold, wet, sand wrapping around every inch of my feet No one needed to tell me that the water would be deep Tears mixing with the ocean, it’s now the water’s secret to keep Falling deeper, losing consciousness, letting the current carry me The darkness is beautiful,so soothing when there’s nothing to see This is it to me, but you maybe thinking this can’t be But this is exactly what you think it is, this is suicidal poetry
You're hiding yourself So good That you don't actually Know where is it anymore You don't know what you want You just need someone there Don't care who is it Just anyone To fill the emptiness In you That you actually are the one Who created it
There are people that hide because they want to be found, and there are people that hide because they don't. I don't know who, or what, you're hiding from. Are you afraid of me? Of God? He can't find you either.
Either way, I stopped looking for you.
I left messages on your machine. I cried. Yet I couldn't help but wonder if something bad had happened or if you just changed your number.
Either way, I stopped calling.
I feared for a long time that you were in danger. I feared that you were hiding from evil. I thought that maybe you needed to be saved. Then I realized that whatever you were hiding from haunted you because you poked it first. No one can save you from your own consequences.
Either way, I stopped caring.
I was willing to break down doors to find you. I would've. I would've traveled the world to help you. But I feared that I'd find you in Santo Domingo smoking cigars with your toes in the sand and NOT thinking about me.
Either way, I stopped trying.
You are either living a life worth hiding for or hiding from a life worth living.
I’ve kept you in my head so long That the walls of my mind Are painted with colors from the day we met: Clouds scattered against the bluest sky I had ever seen.
The floor is littered with poetry Some of the finest I’ve ever written. On the side is a locked box With a barely closed lid. Inside are the words I have yet Spoken and said. And they will stay Unspoken and unsaid. I sit across the cold box With my back pressed against the wall Reminding myself that it’s time To let it turn to dust.
Your voice won’t stop echoing From the record player in the corner. Dents on its side and A fire under it That refuses to engulf The oil I spread.
The door in the back leads into a room. Puddles of tears littered across the floor. The record is barely audible as I approach The center, Which despite the pain and memories, Still beats.
One day, I will be strong enough to paint the walls white.