I remember praying to you, and you did not answer.  
I was told God listened to His children,  
But you sure didn't listen to me.  
I was told to fast so my prayers could be answered quickly,  
I starved myself from food, fed only on prayer and faith for days,  
Hoping for some good but only ended in the hospital.  
You didn't answer.  

My clothes were drenched in tears,  
I felt myself dehydrated.  
I prayed from dusk till dawn,  
But still no answer.  

That pain I felt isn't there anymore.  
Not because things are finally looking up,  
It's because I'm losing faith.  
I feel numb to all the pain.  
You weren't there when I needed you the most.  

All those people lied to me when they said you come in times of need.  
They said if God doesn't answer,  
It's because He knows one can handle it.  
But here I am thinking that my definition of "handle" and His aren't the same.  
Unless, if wishing to die, isolation, and sh is His definition,  
Then I guess I'm handling everything perfectly.

There’s nowhere for me,
nowhere I can scream—
quietly, peacefully.
I can’t disturb,
the gentle, quiet Night.

These tears know, too—
They only know one home,
stuck deep inside.
They drown in the ocean,
wondering when they will
fly from my eyes.

The time comes.
I shake, I tremble.
My soul goes ragged—
with grief, with joy,
with guilt, with love,
with anger, with hope.
It’s wretchedly beautiful.

I raise my chin.
I shake, I tremble.
But only a crack
forms in the dam.
Only a stream
seeps into my lap.

I unhinge my jaw.
I shake, I tremble.
I try to *****
the full blue moon.
But not a sound disturbs,
the gentle, quiet Night.

I can’t hear myself.
But it's screaming.
It claws, it hungers,
it wants out.
But I’m not ready.

My heart has grown
too attached to the weight,
of this dead child
hiding inside me.

The moment at night. I am supposed to. I have needed to. For many years. Again and again I find myself at this point and failed.

I can blame the world, but it is I that has failed. I failed myself.

Only I am real, nothing else is real. None of you are real.

Just lines, shadows, white paper and crayon.

Good night.

The town is new,
its buildings washed in grey.
The streets are clean,
it's peaceful here—
but its too quiet.

Everything here is bleak,
so colorless, drained of thought.
The people stay inside,
I can't hear them smiling,
can't see them laughing.

Today, the streets are busy,
its a funeral march of faces
they move in one direction,
headed to the same place,
but they don't go together.

They're all going somewhere.
to do something unimportant.

They built another building,
big and grey, empty of laughter.
People act out scenes that once felt funny,
but they act only for the camera,
they only laugh for the camera.

No one looks up at the sky.
there's nothing there anymore—
just thin sheets of grey.
No gold, no silver,
even when the sun sinks.

I still see gold and silver,
hidden somewhere behind the clouds.
but this town stays grey.

I reach for my brush,
longing to paint something bright.
But each stroke fades—
the colors turn to ash,
grey bleeding into my hands.

I hate this town.