i held my pen
at 3 AM
with hopes depleting
amidst the air

and then i thought
what to write
is it my sadness
or is it my fright?

i held my pen
at 3 AM
my paper blank
mind all hollow

with another pill
to take and swallow
to sing me to sleep
with its voice so mellow

i held my pen
at 3 AM
with ragged breath
and drooping lids

then the pen slid
out of grasp
along with my
final gasp

(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)

Four
solemn faces,
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.

One
diner desolate,
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.

Some
loneliness darkens
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold

are
isolated together.
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.

Something is burning i can see the smoke it's black like the void in me that used to be happiness but know sadness resides in that void
something is burning i can smell it it smells like a purifying body left to decay left fore nature to consume left to rot away
something is burning i can feel it does not feel hot but rather it feels cold.cold like the warmth joy once gave me when i saw my friend's.cold like death the death within you the type you feel when you smile when talking to someone but you realize it's a mask
something is burning it taste like bitter sorrow it fills my mouth as luagh not out of joy but out of the psychotic realization that i'm alone
something is burning know and i know what it is

How to start a conversation?
That's the question, isn't it?
Don't you dare try to tell me I forgot
What niceties bear the *****  of tightness
I'm here, aren't I?

So how are you? insipid
So where were you? cutthroat
So what can I call you murderer
Since you left?

I heard once
You broke formation, and told the wave of indifference you'd call me...
Where was that, that
Stuttering star sign
Supposed to make you divine for me?

The truth is I'm lonely,
But not worn, like
So many rocks in the ocean,
I think I prefer the company of schools of fish
And dark things from the sea
Than... Well
You know

But how to end a conversation?
You're the best at ending things.
Lonely? What's to be alone?
Better, you said it yourself,
Better than being apart.

The gorgeous Fox mesmerizes me,
I watch him perform for me,
Sing for me,
Play for me,
Call me out by name.

"Little Bird" He cries,
"Don't leave me,
Let the sun hit your feathers,
So you may light up,
In brilliant hues,
Of gorgeous greens,
And blues."

"Little Bird" He croons,
"Be mine, be my dark,
Beautiful raven,
And never let me go.
Be my songbird,
And sing only for me,
Because I care about you."

And I bathe in the attention of my Fox,
I let myself fall for him,
I listen to him,
I care for him,
And as I open my beak to sing,
I drop the bread from within my mouth,
Which he catches in his teeth,
And flees,
Leaving his Little Bird,
To cry in shame for what she's done.

I don't fear the darkness
I don't fear the light.
What I fear is a mixture of those.
When I don't know wich one will take over.

The depression began when my grandmother died.
She died at exactly three am (the same hour
in which I write this poem). Three am has
since become my sort of witching hour, magical.
I remember being ten years old and
rolling over in bed just when my little alarm
clock turned the hour and being told three days
later that she had died at three am that night.
It was like she was saying goodbye.
My grandmother and I shared a bond that
I feel was reflected by tiny moments of
happenstance from the moment I was born.
I was born on July 3rd, her half birthday.
It was also the day she was diagnosed.
I wake up at three am almost every night
now and if I do sleep through the entire night
I feel like I missed something.  

Hers was the first funeral I’d ever been to.
I remember disappearing for a while, in
between the service and the grave site,
when lunch was served, I wasn’t hungry.
My grandma didn’t go to church so I
find it strange that her funeral was held
in such a large one, it was a complex of
chapels and offices I admit I got a little lost.
I found myself in the balcony off the main
chapel, it was lovely with picture windows.
Down at the front there was a priest and
a couple with their baby. The baby was being
baptized, no fuss, no fanfare. Just loveliness.
The baby cried and so did I, for I was wondering
Was it the same God reasonable for both events?

That’s always been my problem to many
big questions needing answering.
I’d go to four more family members funerals
Before I was fourteen and with each one
The sadness grew stronger, I had more
questions and even fewer answers.
That's never really changed but now
I know that I may never get my answers.
I say sadness, but depression has
nothing to do with being sad really.
We all go in and out of sadness
but some of us like to hold it to long.
I know now that it's only my old paint
under the new and I'll keep it that way.
I guess the reason I never went through
with it is because I felt I didn’t have a
good enough reason, how sick is that.
The survivors of really tragedy have every
right to be angry, to be sad, and yet…
That’s one of my questions should I meet God:
How can people you’ve hurt so badly
love you so much?