Perhaps,
I’ve always been right.
Somewhere. Some place.
My soul has whispered this:
I’m just a fake.
A pretence.
It’s all just a performance
to fit into all society labels.
Right—
A coat of white and black—cliché, right?
But forgetting,
there are always shades of gray.

Where things outside the box of what’s called “right”
don’t always seem so wrong.
A bearer of quiet light would agree.
So I let that settle in.

I act on impulse.
I seek help—but find none.
So I bend. Twist. To fit their gaze.
And behind those locked doors…
I give in.
I numb my way
out of feeling too much
and just never enough
for a world suffused with shattered glasses.

Afterwards…
I lie still.
Let the not-so-strangers come.
Guilt and regret drape my neck
like rocks tied to a chain,
pressing the air from my lungs,
as every breath inhaled—a battle.

Little liquid.
Little sobs.
My face wields them all.
Torn from inside out.
But it stays hidden.

I had a thought —
it slipped.
A line to speak —
just clipped.

I meant to say
what’s wrong,
but maybe I
came on too strong.

My chest said go,
my mouth said wait.
My throat just held
a heavy weight.

I wrote it down —
then backspaced all.
It felt too weak,
it felt too small.

I wish I could
explain this fear,
but words run dry
when you get near.

So if I stall
or start to shake —
it’s not a game,
it isn’t fake.

It’s just that when
my mind gets loud,
my voice gets lost
inside the crowd.

Problems usually come from us wanting to change too much in the external world instead of looking within.

Falling more and more
Into the depths
Of my inner-world
Where depression reigns,
Where there is no relief,
Where the darkness
Is all consuming,
Where my heart turns to stone,
Where it aches and bleeds,
Where l am a prisoner,
Where I am nothing.
Any substance, only faked
Intuituve intelligence
Ha! Whoever heard of such a thing?
I must have made that up
To cover for my glaring inadequacies.
I fooled them though...
Even had a Geophysics professor
Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana
Talking to me.
He thought I was refreshing.
Wow, what a treat.
Wow, me refreshing?
What a joke.
I am anything but resfreshing...
I am a joke...

A freethinker thinks

about questions, the answers --


he doesn't want to hear.

The night is worn thin from this viewpoint. the river
dances still; down the hill, under the rumbling bridge
cluttered with people separate in their own cyclical worlds &
the city glimmers with two thousand diamond fake stars just
beyond the dark tree line. we are watching this world happen
from far away.
We are spectators in a world who has long since
forgotten us.

i say i want to change the world & you say it’s
something good in me. You don’t know what i’m thinking & i
can see it in your eyes when you turn away. Words aren’t as
strong with you.
you want something more from me, something i have never
been able to fully give before. in particular dreams i see
myself exposed. you are the surgeon & i am your patient. your
scalpel cuts through thin skin, inch by inch, careful &
precise. blank sterile walls.
the smell of death & life as
well; it’s contradictory.
my blood too is thin & you wipe it
away with your sleeve. searching for my heart. peeling back
flesh. broken bones & absent heart; i’ve pushed it deep inside.

you say you want more but i wasn’t prepared for this.

**brixtonbell.com