The weight of reality sits in my chest.
This is all beyond what my mind can comprehend.
How can it be gone if it's still here?

It wasn't perfect.
It left scars as I shed tears
No one ever saw either anyway.

Who am I? What have I become?
Is this all worth this path I walk on?

My pen is a knife,
Bloodletting across pages since I could hold it in my hands,
Since I know what it meant when shapes became words
And sentences became bought.
Now they won't stop
And I don't know how to let go
Again.

Every day is a new dance with grief,
Torn between remembering
And trying to piece together reality.

The pen pierces my heart.
It gushes new words onto paper with every beat
Words my mind and mouth are at a loss for
Words ears will never hear.

Even if they did, they're impossible to comprehend.
I write them anyway.
Just in case there's someone else out there
Crying alone in the shell of everything they've ever known
Trying to convince themselves it's worth it to inhale.

Cold on this love lift,
her coldness was her last gift.
Hear this, feel this.
This everlasting summer,
this beautiful beach bliss,
this fiery kiss has gone cold.
We know it's necessary
but it's nonetheless scary,
to lose a love so intense,
so real,
without judgement or pretense.
But I sense that this is necessary,
if not temporary.
This was her last gift,
a final kiss.
Who knew it would be our last?
For how long will 'last' last?
I miss her laugh;
Our love was made to last.
I'm sure of it, aren't I? Aren't I?
A secret love that was a delicate dance around horrible circumstance;
Forbidden love that tears the heart, the mind, the world in two.
But what could we do,
but try until we simply couldn't anymore?
Our last kiss haunts me,
it taunts me...
Lips cleaned by the tears that streamed,
but what I mean
is that we had too many goodbyes to ever make it.
We didn't fake it but,
it was never enough.
Love snuffed,
drowned in distance,
choked by fear,
too much persistence,
insistence,
hesitance,
reticence,
innocence,
distance,
always too much distance,
and inexperience,
and in my experience,
there's no good way to leave.
No easy goodbye,
not when you've been this high,
on a love lift.
Snow drifts... my mind drifts.
Gentle caresses,
passionate undresses,
****** intensity,
always too much brevity.
Searching for levity,
much needed serenity.
I find gratitude in the strangest place;
it has a bitter taste:
In the coldness
of her non-existent goodbye,
lay her last gift.
The coldness of it was her last gift.
Like a bandaid pulled off with a single rip.
You once said I had a heart of gold.
Falling into the snow,
hopping off this love lift.
My gentle heart now grows cold,
wandering... adrift.
But still I want,
just one more kiss.

I write a hundreds poems per year
My mind explode in words every day
But still I havn't got the point
The point of the poems I write
Cuz what is point of poetry?

Is it to get followers and be famous ?
Is it for processing your thoughts
Is it to compete with friends who write?
I dont know? I just write, like right now
I just write all my thoughs down everyday
but why?

There's something I really like
about driving at night.

There is a certain peacefulness
in the sound the tires on my Honda make
as they rub against the highway
at a steady 9 over the limit,
no traffic to hold me back.

I keep my windows partly cracked
even though my heat is on
because it's the only way I can be
warm but not too hot and
cool but not too cold.

I turn my music up as
loud as it can possibly go,
my mind swimming in the
lyrical metaphors
comparing love to water bodies
and getting lost in the waves.

I ripple down the road
as I drive past the river,
the stars twinkling across the
vast expanse of black.

Sometimes I have a destination in mind,
and other times I don't.
Sometimes I drive because I'm sad
and other times because I'm angry,
regardless I am sometimes crying, screaming,
and or heavily breathing.
I am always pondering,
I am always processing,
I am always gaining perspective,
and, by the end,
I am always at peace,
at least until that time I need to
take another twilight drive down by the Ohio.

So much to process.
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Until sleep switches off my endless conveyor belt of over-analyzation.

Tonight I'll precisely pick apart things that have no business being harnessed
Until perfect rest precludes my process-a-palooza.

**** this brain.
And **** the thoughts that float through it, wispy, adrift.
Aimless, with no hope of reaching the other side, the action side.

I know exactly what's going to happen.
And yet, still, I will repeat this process.

The definition of insanity comes to mind.
Am I insane?
Those who do what they've always done will get what they've always gotten.
So some frustration is coming down the pipeline, undoubtedly.

But here I am.

Keeping myself awake while my little mind powers through minutes and seconds and hours of data
Burning itself out completely
And yet accomplishing nothing.

Moral of the story?
To overthink is to run a car for hours with no one driving it,
To study vigorously and then not take the test,
To hedge your bets,
To run on a treadmill,
To fight an uphill battle,
To enter into a no-win scenario on purpose.

To analyze too much is to work the muscles of your sanity to the point of tearing. **** it, **** it all. This crucible of introspection, I hate it.

It's all thinking, and no doing.
What kind of world would we have built on thought? Deceptive, static and imprisoned thought, in and of itself?

The procession marches on through the early morning hours,
Until sleep rescues me from this malicious rabble of thoughts
I cringe at their noise, I grow weak from the weight of such an immense amount of perception  

My mind shifts and sifts through it all
Until I finally lose consciousness.

You left me…
Almost speechless
Like when everything you want to say actually shuts you up
There were flashes of discourses by the greatest men ever
Lyrics to the songs that you never understood
But also there was silence that you would not have respected
Mixed in with a whisper just not loud enough to hear
Ironic how three words, you deemed suited for this moment
Spurred such a stream of simultaneous shush and scream
That gave me both the will to ignore your words forever
As it did the urge to tell you everything to your face

The belief your life is over
With nothing to be done
Its last part in isolation
Waiting
For the pain to become too much
The pain, the pain
Staring at the same walls
Forty-six days in a row
Never knowing whether
Tomorrow you’ll wake up
And if there is, if you’ll survive
A future left in store
Delirium, depression
A hole left in your soul
Then coming out on the other side
Only to realize
Everyone has moved on

Then who are you to utter these three words to my face
Who are you to dictate how my life after that should change
The words you chose so carelessly, I will take to the heart
Just not to leave the past behind but to make a brand new start
I’ll look you in the eye and use your words  against you
When I tell you how I am about to
“Get over it”