Im Watching others pass me by
Watch closely to those who catch my eye
Although such beauty and such grace
I behold tho I shall not chase
For efforts are nonsense for the broken
No two words will ever be spoken
To the one with the beautiful smile
I’ve only see every once in a while
I Don’t care to know her name
Because if I do it will be the same
We may talk a time or two
But two weeks later it’s nothing new
For hopeless romantic such as I
I’m always faced with reasons why
Why I shouldn’t say hello
Or why I always watch her go
The Reasons why go on and on
But nothing except my hope is gone
She walks my way my heart will pound
But walks right past and lets me down
I walk away from the hopeless temptations
For I am a hopeless man with hopeless aspirations

Thing's that make me uncomfortable:

That feeling when you get mad at me,
because I didn't do the thing, you didn't ask me to do, cause I can't read minds; I'm not your parent.
That tone in your voice when you go off about how unfair the world is, triggered by the slightest setback.
The feeling when I sacrifice all that I am for the sake of your mood and happiness, in vain.
That sound of the exacerbated sigh when I ask you to run an errand, as if I am not also tired.
The pressure of carrying us both on broken legs.
The pit in my chest when I ask your opinion and you say "I don't care," but you actually do care, because whatever choice I make is laced in ridicule.
When you say you're doing something for me but you're just trying to make yourself feel better about doing it for yourself.
When you use my disorder as a justification or excuse, but when I actually need your help you seem burdened and annoyed.
That "okay then" moment when I give you everything you ask for and you take it as if you never wanted it.

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.