i always feel out of place, at 19 i still haven't found the place where i belong. i'm stuck in a small country with not much to do. i feel like i'm drowning; the world is happening around me yet i feel frozen. what's my purpose for living? what is my talent? i want to change the world. i want to be remembered for my good.

how do i find my purpose when i'm stuck in a country with no way out? how do i find my talent when my anxiety makes it difficult to try everything? how do i do anything when my depression makes me not want to leave my bed? what's my purpose? when will i become unfrozen? when will i find my place?    


                                       maybe tomorrow?
                                             next week?              
                                      next month?
                                               in a year or few
                                       or maybe never.

Is it safe to feel nothing?
Is it safe not to feel?
Consumed and obsessed
by the fact this is real

No pride or pain
To hold or heal
A sense is lost
What's it to steal

You stole from me
A lifelong dream
of hope and warmth
I'm cold it seems

Frozen still
I'm frozen still
Time moves on
I hope I will

For Nick Cave

I have been told that frozen hearts cannot love
I have taught that frozen hearts cannot be melted
Inside there is only a muscle
not moved by emotions
A muscle cannot not recognize love
Is tight and tense
Protecting the owner from unknown dangers
Subtly induced by affection and tenderness
It must remain untouched and hard
For all frozen hearts are damaged.

You had a bad teacher, she said
A really bad teacher
For learning you only to avoid life with steel stillness
Unknowgly condemning you to remain a prisoner
In an open and vast prison, where there is no aliveness
This sterile landscape of nothingness
Where all frozen hearts are damaged.

You had a really bad teacher, my darling,
She said
for all frozen hearts are damaged and broken
In pieces that hurt
And carry their pain inside your tight muscle

Maybe love is an illusion, my darling,
But it is the most beautiful at all.
All frozen hearts are damaged, my darling
And yours is the most frozen of all.

A new year is come and you're still not gone.

I can feel you creeping up on me. You feed on my energy, yet, I cannot see you. I'm glad I can't see your face.

You smell like an old forgotten rot underneath a seam of doors hiding the old death of forgotten men. Your cousin looms, taunting me to acknowledge your presence.

You climb on my back--you've caught up to me.

I've tried running, it doesn't help. You live under my shadow; you're quiet like him too.

I can hear the smack of your lips graze across my consciousness, your breath--icy. You touch my eyes and they freeze without freezing. The hairs on the back of my head hurt because they stand on end amidst your frozen breath. You make your move and whisper icily into my ear,

. . . . You're nothing.

I almost agree.

. . . . No one loves you.

My wife does! And my daughter too!

. . . . No one wants to hear you speak.

Fine, I'll shut up. I look into a mirror to see my reflection staring back at me. My icy stare sends chills to my bones. Is that really me?

. . . . Yes, you're dead.

Sometimes I feel like it, yeah.

. . . . Nothing matters.

Finally, we agree on something.

. . . . It would be better if you just weren't here.

I begin to cry.

. . . . Remember your daughter, here's a picture.

She's so beautiful. I cry some more.

. . . . You will fail her.

. . . . You have failed her.

. . . . I will consume her.

. . . . You perpetuated this all on your own.

. . . . You're a fraud, seeking pity.

. . . . You're a sorry person, aren't you?

. . . . Feel that burning inside you? This is what happens when you let in the dark passenger.

. . . . I shall consume you, too.



. . . . --AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.



Yes, it is my fault. Like the fault line in the earth's crust, my mind splits in twain.

The excitement ends when I've become drunk with madness, not seeing the light around me. I sleep a little, contemplating all that I convinced myself.

In the morning the sun is out, shining through the window. You're still sleeping though, dear dark passenger. I try not to wake you. I seek the sun hoping you will disappear and take your darkness with you, but you persevere, keeping your hands at the ready until I am vulnerable again, waiting to make my dance to the tune of hopelessness--always just, "one more time."

A walk through the woods
reveal a solitude that I yearn,
like how snow craves a
safe spot to rest on needles
of bowing pine trees.
His howling gusts transform
into silence by a frozen lake,
where a doe scouts for
breaching grass with her fawn.
And just for a moment, as
the sun rises and illuminates
hardened beads of water
clinging to spiderwebs,
I can close my eyes and
breath in--not tobacco and
*****--but moistened earth
and rotting wood.
You are free, the woods whisper.