There is no such thing
as a bad writer,
just one who isn't sad
- not sad enough.

Night
Is the time of poets
Of writers
Of painters
Of thinkers
Of people
Who make worlds
In their heads.

Night
Is when I sit and scribble
And flick
And splash
And imagine
And create
A universe
In my bed.

Night
Is when people love
And laugh
And cry
And scream
And become
Real and tangible
In my mind.

Night
Is when worlds quake
War breaks out
People revolt
Empires fall
Nations rise
From the ashes
In my pen.

Night
Is when worlds form
War ends
People accept
Empires are healthy
Nations are strong
Because I love the people
In my head.

I believe in something I call ‘superficial friends’.
What I mean is, superficial friends are
somewhat ‘friends by association’,
friends that are friends because people
just happen to group them together
and see them together.

Yes, I do have fun around you,
and I’ll even throw around the ‘i love you’
and ‘best friend’ sometimes, but I wouldn’t
really tell you my secrets or confide in you
for serious talks. You’re not really that
kind of person to me.

Lots of times, I really need somebody
to talk to. Lots of times, I really need
someone to just listen to me. to hold me.
to not even say a word but know exactly
what I want to say.

But there is nobody like that
out there for me, at least right now.
There isn’t anyone I can text and
pour my feelings out because there
is anyone I know that knows why I feel
this way.

There isn’t anyone that knows
that sometimes, I just sit down and cry.
I could be doing anything but alone,
I will bawl my eyes out for no reason,
as if all the pent up anger and sadness
and disappointment I have in me just
comes pouring out.

There isn’t anyone I know that if I
were to tell them that I feel like ****,
they would actually do something about it,
instead of just telling me feel better.

There isn’t anyone that would know
that there is something wrong just by
looking at me. There isn’t anyone I know
that would know that something they did
which to them is innocent and is no
problem but to me makes me feel like
they don’t care about me anymore and
I’m a burden.

I believe in something I call ‘superficial friends’.
Those are people who know me,
but they have no idea a thing about me.
No matter how many times you can tell me
that you’re here for me or that I can tell
you anything, and just replying with
‘it’s going to okay’, you really don’t
know me at all.

Our hands wide open,
Always for more.
Clasping shut,
Refusing to give.

Moments are limited,
Last breaths unknown.
Live as if addicted,
To the world full-blown.