Bury me.
I've my head in the clouds
And my feet in the grave.
Yet im trampled by crowds
Of people, feeling the same.
With bands on their hands
And songs in their minds
We all agree that we are fine.

Lying.
Trying.
And in the end.
I watch as every single friend.
Rises up from the grave.
While my shovel begins to wear away.
Life has always been the same.

Yet i can't help but dream of change.
I can't help but scream out flames.
I can't help but wish for chains.
To tie me down and keep me sane.

But my casket is fluffy.
Like a cloud it feels light.
The darkness is my blanket.
So i don't go outside.

Leave me right here.
The place i know best.
In all my sadness i'll try to find rest.
Just keep digging, past rock bottom.

Bury me

"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.

What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.

What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. *******, that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and feel disappointment when we don't achieve them.

What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.

What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.

What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.

What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.

i feel the wind whistle
through my hollow bones
as they crack gently beneath
the weight of a single shudder -
i am a bird
manifesting free-flight
to find a one-way ticket out
of this brick-box.
i should be grateful
i wake up in sleepy sheets
every morning but all i
can smell is the scent of
another bad night’s sleep -
i tell my soul “i’m sorry”
because it inhabits a body
unsure how to appreciate it
to its fullest, a body content on
harvesting thoughts dark enough
to make life’s flowers wilt.
there’s no sunlight here.
this hollow flesh breeds
hollow veins, keeps a heartbeat
rattling back and forth in
this hollow chest.
tell me how to make a song out of
something that sounds like death -
teach me how to see free-flight as
more than something you do off
the top of a building, or a bridge,
or on to railway tracks when
gravity insists on keeping you down.

i tell myself “i’m sorry,” kiss the
bruises behind my eyes goodnight
hoping i’ll wake up and one day,
they won’t be so heavy.

grasping at things
not meant for me.
they slip from
my hands so
easily.

feeling
    hopeless
          helpless
full of fear.

what does the future hold?
they say it gets better
and i'm screaming

WHEN?

Spring, summer, fall, and winter, here I walk to work.
I sell the pizza, the pay is bad, without a single perk.
I need to pay for college books, the fees leave a shiver.
It's then I think and wonder if, I'm better off in the river.

after swearing you would never hurt her
you discarded her along with all the other pretty hopeless things
not broken (NEVER broken)
but anachronistic, paradoxical, incongruous
a past that won’t leave the present.

glimmering tears falling in the dark
unseen, muffled, tracing the fossils of his breath on her cheek.

a sequin dress on the living room floor
with a naked moon child sticking a head out the window
still suffocating.

eyeliner wings searching for halos
but turning up empty
knowing angels don’t exist in her world-
laughing at the thought.

when you, a ghost, moved towards the light
(even though you see a new light every day-
never her, always something, still not enough)
you left her in the blackness of your discarded dreams
like a tool you had no more use for.

ghost stories are meant to scare little girls into sleeping with guns and walking with keys interlaced between fumbling fingers
and as he fades into that ghost from her story
she will try to sleep.

disbelief in ghosts
does not stop them from haunting your dreams
nor stop you from becoming one yourself.

she’s stuck in a timeline that moved on without her
watching like a ghost as life around her naively continues (how? do they still believe?)
hand over mouth to prevent escaped screams
phone in pocket to prevent escaped words

he must not know.
admitting she is still here
is admitting she is pretty hopeless
on her own.

Who am i ?
The girl who wants to ditch the scarf?
The one who lost her love for God?
The girl who once chased a dream?
Until forcefully shook awake from sleep
The girl that used to be so brave
Or the fearful coward she became?
The one who had a sparkle in her eyes
Now her eyes reflect her dull soul's cries
No dream. No hope. No love. No sparkle
Is there anything left to live for
If her life has lost all meaning
Why not she tries living no more?