I'm sick and ******* tired
of scraping my pride
down to the bone,
asking for helping,
and hearing nothing.
my life has fallen apart
in three months
after years of beating back
against my tears and indecision.
those that want to, can't.
those that can don't want to.
the fire in my throat isn't half
as searing as the hatred i feel
for the South African tech genius,
searching for waste,
and the ones that failed us.
i carry this molten stress in me,
and i want the worst to happen
to those living their lives everyday
without worry about rent
or food or their car's
impending repossession.


this isn't even a poem anymore,
it's a cry for help.

When a noble heart is betrayed,
He runs not home, but feeds the flame.

Toward the low, he throws his grace,
A furious fall from a higher place.

As if to curse what once was pure,
To make his past no longer endure.

Not for pleasure, not for thrill
But to punish the light it once stood still.

there is peace to be found in stillness,
watching life play out from a distance
like a belated guest that joined halfway through,
like none of this pain belongs to you
and you could stand up and walk away
anytime if you wished to.
when you see yourself on the screen, does it move you?
do you want to step in and interrupt it,
knowing exactly what's going to happen?
of course, you can always edit it later
before it gets sent to storage,
before you decide which one you like better.
for you are the viewer and the director,
making commentary on your own lack of skill;
an omnipotent deity, if you will.
now that's a comparison you could get behind,
but it's all taking place inside of your mind
and the next scene's coming up soon.
it's a shame you've missed on so much of the plot
worrying about small mistakes.
now you know that nobody else seems to care,
so just take a seat and enjoy the view
like none of those fears belong to you,
watching life reveal itself in the distance.
there is hope to be found in stillness.

What is grief,  
if not love  
wandering in search of a home?

It lingers in hollow spaces,  
quiet corners of empty rooms,  
whispering to walls  
that no longer echo back.

Grief is love without a pulse—  
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,  
a name spoken into silence,  
hoping for an echo  
that will never come.

But still,  
I need it to become something.  
To sprout wings  
or take root in the soil—  
to turn into something I can hold:  
a garden,  
a letter,  
a breath.  
Something to name the weight.

Grief is love unbound—  
it spills,  
it seeps,  
it finds the cracks in days and nights,  
asking, always asking:  
Where now?

And yet—  
grief moves.  
It carries yesterday’s tenderness  
into tomorrow’s hands,  
grows roots in memory,  
builds altars from the ache,  
finds its place  
in every sunrise,  
every tear  
that softens the ground.

Grief is love  
that will not rest,  
will not relent.

But one day, I believe—  
it will bloom.

I hate you
When you smiled, I smiled
I wanted you to be happy

I hate you
When you were successful, I cheered
I always believed in you

I hate you
When you're dressed up, I gasp 
I am taken by you yet again

I hate you
When you grew, I admired
I knew you were meant for more

I hate you
When you moved on, I stayed
I am always waiting for you

I hate you
When you faded away, I cried
I will only be a memory to you

I hate you
When you were in my life, I knew
I truly did love you 

I hate you
Despite everything, I begged 
That I could actually hate you

I need more alcohol,
To numb my pain.
Not to party all night,
Just to alleviate my brain.

The first shot I choke down,
The second I shudder once,
The third I welcome,
The fourth has no burning response.

“Why is the tequila slowly disappearing?”
My dad inquires one night,
I shrug and convince him I’m innocent,
He agrees I am without a fight.

Night after night to slow my thoughts.
Shot after shot to **** the loneliness.
Gulp after gulp straight from the bottle.
Morning after morning I awake amidst the fogginess.

I guess this is what addiction is.
I guess I should care about the dependence.
But all I care about is escaping,
The pain i am cruelly sentenced.

The rain pours on my white sweater.
I look up to the sky,
my face feels like it's covered in wood
and it swells everytime there's rain,
but no one can see my tears
because I don't cry—
not like you, not really.

I stand on the road, clear of people,
clear of the love I had
from walking on this journey.
I dream of prairies,
but I'm left with clear streets
black pavement,
and cobblestones soaked
in what might have been.

I look back,
even if my sweater's
wet and splattered by mud
every time I take a step back
so I choose to keep
walking forward.

What's behind my shoulders
isn't worth it.