Copycat, collect the nectar,
it will optimize your splendor.
Grasping it by the gallons,
drinking poison, immune, callous,
to the pain you aligned, and profusely measured.

Fixated on this peeling label,
bend it back, are you able,
To contain symptoms as they surface?
Written down as toxic in cursive,
a sign of recovery crowned as 'fatal'

Copycat, take your weapons,
along the speckled crimson as logical 'sessions'.
Brim the shell, or remain hollow?
Graphic truth is hard to swallow,
unseen pain is being reflected-

If you'd notice, you could see the way he lost his mind,
shattered on the tile floor he donates to. The coats of bandages
that soaked right through. You can feel the lack thereof in effort;
and I'm not saying you should be the one to save him, or that it's
your fault, all I'm saying is that the signs were there,
and you didn't notice for the sake of "I'm doing better now."
Maybe we become denial, or numb to the stone cold facts in
front of us. We shouldn't side with anger because it's easier;
rather lend a hand to someone lower than us in the hopes
you'll raise the rock-bottom people and awareness that this
effects more than obviously-

I sat along this opened window,
wishing to escape your empty home.
Yet, you will never archive my peace,
You're clogging up my bones.
Sadly in your breath stung darkness,
I knew this house was my prison,
when this home stayed dark as night,
after the sun had risen.
You ignored my pleas for leaving,
and left a window open.
I'll escape as I've pled before,
if only I could focus.
Yet you knew what I could do,
as you stared into my past.
You closed the window with a smirk,
and said you felt a draft-

The thuds in my chest stopped being my heart a long time ago-
my feelings ceased,
and maybe me,
the initial person I was,
is knocking on my ribs
begging for freedom.
Throughout all the voices in my head,
his is the lowest,
getting tangled in with all the
killers that took him,
torturing him until he's nothing but a headstone.
You don't see it,
but I do,
how I open my mouth to speak,
and he's accepted I just won't accent my words the way he used to.
My disappointment tore up your eyes,
as you saw the person I was
formed by a web of lies I loved to string up,
and tried to pretend I wasn't struggling to
get out-

He slipped too many times for it to be accidental,
Gurgling underwater; and sinking from the vessel.
He too, had supplied the deaths aboard the deck,
Where drowning and breath paddled; all atop his neck.
Do you know his struggle, until you've met the sea?
Where fish swim past on their way, and you clamber just to breathe.
Sputtering on bubbles, his exhaling's a crusade,
But please don't feel bad for him, that's just an average day-

He had a paper maché heart,
and weekly, it was layered again
with more glue, protecting him.
And one day, it completely snapped in two,
he tried so hard to be free.
Now his heart is mazed in crumbles,
and he's lost in the debris-

My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-

I'm living in my mind,
walking a road I have paved.
Listening to the pounding,
of my heart that can't be saved;
an empty hole I had caved,
long before my journey started,
long before my hope strained.
Waiting for a fleeting step,
wishing for a second thought,
but still emptiness lurks,
where the love had fought,
from how the voices talked.
I'm waiting for a different place,
of what my mind is not.
A saddened memoir,
that spoke forgotten loss.
I'm falling deeper down,
where all the pain was washed,
and the guilt caught.
In a hidden valley of emotion,
of punishing thoughts.
Still I'm walking onward;
following the road.
People told me to hold caution,
for it should not be condoned.
I can't call it my own,
because this road that I am taking,
can never be my home--

He's not what you think,
And he pretends you know.
The more he confiscates the worry,
The more it seems to show.
He's walking around the lies,
As they pile against his skin.
So at night; he'll break the doors,
And flood out what's within.
Pressing the lock into his throat,
He glides the key straight to his heart.
Stop the plane in his head,
Before it can depart.
He's convinced this plain is unwelcome,
Underlying a helpless glow.
This seed planted inside him,
fixes fears no one truly knows-