what do i write?

i can write all i want, but

the thoughts won’t come out.

what do i play?

i have all the keys but

nothing figured out.

what do i draw?

i have all the pencils but

i don’t have the inspiration.


how do i feel?

i have all the thoughts but




no way to tell you.

grasping at things
not meant for me.
they slip from
my hands so
easily.

feeling
    hopeless
          helpless
full of fear.

what does the future hold?
they say it gets better
and i'm screaming

WHEN?

i walk through this desolate place of
death,
remorse,
ruined love,
and regret.

i eye the gravestones—
the words etched into the marble.

i eye the faceless words
staring back at me.

i look at the flowers—
empty promises of remembrance and once-lived love.

i look at the flowers—
some wilted and dying.

the huge trees overshadowing me,
i feel lost in this cemetery.

i look to the stones in the area for people who have been cremated—
reminders of love, life, and existence burned into a million ashes.

i feel the presence of all the death.
i feel it sinking into me.




i wonder when i’ll join them?

what are these feelings i'm feeling?
this rush of emotion clawing at my skin
the excitement of it all sending me reeling
down
         down
                   down
                             to a spiral i cannot escape from
                             is this love? lust? general trust?
                             why does she make me act as so?
                             the curve of her smile brings me
                                                              ­                       down
                                                            ­                                  down
                          ­                                                                 ­           down
                                                 ­                                                               to­ a
                                                                ­                                            chasm
                                                                ­                                              i care
                                                                ­                                             not to
                                                                ­                                            escape
                                                                ­                                              from.

Life is a bulletproof vest full of stitches
Shot at on every block
While opportunity knocks
Misery rocks as it seeks company
When it does it also invites empathy
Sometimes empathy shows up
And other times  it doesnt

The Homeless hug blocks for comfort
While the fortunate beg for time
Is this all worth it?

Is dying rich more valuable than living broke?
Or is living broke more valuable than dying rich?

I ask this because a wound cut deep knows know value of who it hurts

Pain is ignorant, it knows know race or social economic status
It’s only agenda is to break us or make us

When death comes for us
No bulletproof can save us

See, I'll tell you how it is
I don't really need any of this
All this random "he's mine, I'm his"
"There are already a thousand things I miss"

Sure, that's lovely, I admit
but could you slow down for a bit
You don't even know I'm it
And all it makes me think is "he might be full of ****"

I'm being very honest here, sorry
Just don't get why you would worry
about some girl you just met in a hurry
your view seems to be pretty blurry

Sure, everyone likes to hear sweet things
but if it's only that, no substance, the sweetness stings
I'm not sure I want your honey if a bee swarm is what it brings
I'm not your queen bee and here I see no kings

I'm not saying this is bad
This isn't even supposed to sound this mad
Being sweet is actually really rad
But I know how these things go and I'm done ending up being sad

Tell you what I'd be happy to see
Some interest in the actual me
Maybe believable honesty
Cause I ****** hate that I don't even get who you want to be

God. is She real?
if She is, then what of it?
frankly i do not know
who i am talking to it
but i hear that God is a myriad
of things, yet at the same time
She is not really anything
frankly i do not know ****
only that there must be a
God, a God for peace, a God
for the weary, a God for the lost,
a God for the old, a God
for the young, and a God
for all the opposites, the disparities
and similarities

maybe She can see me
writing this poem, curious and wandering
into territory both familiar
and unknown. maybe She
knows me
more than i know myself, or
maybe She wants me to
know her like i want to know myself.
maybe God is a He, or a They
or none of the above. i just know
i find comfort
in the warmth of the same ***
but also
maybe God is
what's beyond warmth and ***

but perhaps God has a warmth
that is entirely just Theirs
and They are waiting
for me to discover it
perhaps God has a world
that is not far from home
and He is waiting
for me to uncover it