It's 11:34 pm
and I'm drinking by myself again
because I'm 21 now
still living at my parent's house
and I don't know when I'll move out.
I'm in a permanent panic about my education
because I ended up hating what I was majoring in.
I still don't know what I want to do with my life
my heart is heavy with strife.
When I was little my dreams were plenty and full
of color but now they are always dull.
I can't imagine myself having a career
so now I'm stuck at home for a year
working part-time at a retail job
and doing my best not to sob
at every little upsetting thing
and I can no longer sing.
My throat has been hurting for far too long
is this really the end of my song?

I like your mind
but I don't like mine
It hurts me all the time.
A mind like mine makes migraines
last forever, never ending pains.
In my skull
they reverberate like ringing bells
chiming every hour
my own personal Hell.
Your mind is pleasant,
warm.
The kind of mind that adorns
its walls with trinkets
that express lovely sentiments.
I adore your mind
and I'm glad it is not mine.
I would not wish this Hell
on anyone I knew well.
But yet I will not tell you
that I can't think well.
I tried to take medicine
But I can't let myself in
as my head hurts so much.
I can't bear it!
I have not a grain of brain matter
left that actually matters
in regards to healing this pain.
I feel my energy drain
as it does its best to hide the strain
and fight my mind's migraine.

Oh no

I was told once
that happiness was around the corner
just go and get it

I crashed into a wall

But they don't get it
I'm not one for speeding
around sharp corners

chasing happiness around the corner

I don't cut corners

straight to death.

You raked up all the leaves
wiped your face on your sleeves.
Your sweater is not thick enough
to keep out the breeze.
The breeze turns into strong wind,
blowing away the leaves.
Autumn has never been
easy to please.

You shoveled away the snow
hoping the shivers will go.
You're missing a pair of gloves
your fingers have froze.
The sky is grey as snow falls
down on your uncovered head.
Winter has never been
for the living it's for the dead.

You cleared away the debris
that was from the last winter storm.
You don't need those long sleeves
because it is warm.
Birds come out to sing of love
they build their nests.
Spring has never been
a time for rest.

You can feel the heat suffocate
and the sweat stings your eyes.
Yet you won't remove the sunglasses
what do you want to hide?
People are staring as you struggle
they're so confused.
Summer has never been
a time to show you're bruised.

There are clouds in the sky,
they mass together,
just a thick swath of gray,
that blocks the sun.

I'm walking home,
all by myself,
I've been doing that a lot now,
but it's okay.

I feel the wind pick up,
the dead leaves are swirling
all around me,
like some strange tornado.

A tornado of leaves,
how interesting.
If only the wind would pick me up
and carry me off.

Throughout my windy thoughts,
one raindrop fell,
slowly from my eye
down to my chin.

I felt it fall off my chin.
The wind left a cold chill
on the wet path on my cheek;
it stung.

Then the clouds finally broke down on me.
The rain poured, but I didn't rush to leave.
I walked at the same pace
with my face lifted to the sky.

I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind

Here comes the procession.
They march through streets muddied with rain.
They're lead by figures dressed in black.
People look on in fear at their raven masks.

The birth of the daughter was sad,
because there's a sickness that plagues this land.
It feeds on those doomed to a horrible fate.
Though they start out their lives in innocence.

No one knows when it will end,
how does death take one's hand?
Those figures dressed in black take off their masks,
to reveal humans who have been put to task.

But people move on and pretend,
that this plague does not prey upon them.
Only a certain few must suffer the memories,
and they'll question the silence of this land.

I have over a hundred
that fill me with an odd sort of dread
What if people were to read
my barely cohesive thoughts?
What an absolute nightmare that would be.

What on earth is the rhyme scheme?
Is there even one at all?
I gotta hand it to me
that was an odd sort of free verse poetry.

There are some that are just titled
and no words written beneath them.
What was I thinking with that topic?
Nothing, apparently.

Save it as a draft
and never go back

That's my motto.

Save it as a draft
and never go back.

You're nothing but a blur as you pass me,
but there was something special about the way you moved.
It struck me like how lightning strikes a tree,
and leaves it to burn from the inside out.
I think I remember you.

Forgive me for stopping you here,
but I swear we have met before.
Didn't we once sit under the tree that we held so dear
in our young hearts, by the banks of the sluggish, brown river?
Do you remember me?

Your eyes stare back at me so blankly
and I felt my heart sink like those stones we once skipped
drowning in the sluggish waters when you said so frankly
that you have never seen me before.
And yet I remember you.

Why do I remember you
when you don't remember me?

Some went West
and others went East.
The ones in between
found they liked South the least.

The traitorous winds
carried news from the mouth
of a stranger who wandered
the dreaded South.

They said:

"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."

Those of the West,
those of the East,
and the Northern inbetweeners
listened with incredulity.

But the Southerner just repeats:

"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."

"If we fight not for glory,
then why fight at all?
War is a necessary evil!"
Those Westerners say, how uncivil.

"Peace cannot yield
without sacrifice.
Someone always has to lose their life!"
Easterners cry full of strife.

"Freedoms are protected
if you follow the rules.
Speech must be regulated, calm, and cool."
Said from those under Northern rule.

But the Southerner repeats like a record loop:

"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."

Then the wind finally stopped
spreading its message.
But the lofty seeds that traveled with the wind,
planted themselves in places they've never been.

And they started to grow into something more.
Freedoms and rules.
Peace and sacrifice.
Glory and War.

I wander trails that are shaded by trees
until I reach the first steep rock scramble.
Walking steadily on old, crunchy leaves
I believe it's the mountains' preamble

I scale these rocks with eager hands and feet
my yearning heart pumps blood through my blue veins.
This mountain will not hand me my defeat
muscles strain and the rocks help break my chains.

Sturdy rocks and sacred trees surround me
their presence strengthens my weak, depressed bones.
My muscles burn with effort, but I'm free
to become one with the trees and the stones.

Though there are times where my mind may plummet.
I'll survive the fall, I've reached the summit.

I see you've made another enemy,
but this time it is different.
Isn't it?
You're battling for relevancy.
Maybe this time they'll stick around
They'll be the needle that you need.
The drug for your veins' vanity,
addicted to each other's greed.
You crave each other's attention,
wanting that toxicity,
that makes you so well-known.
The drama for your soul.
Because peace can't exist without war,
so keep chasing them you fame *****.
Making your own enemies!
Fighting battles in the streets!

Do you know what it means
to be addicted to these scenes?
Where the world is in danger
and you need to control your anger.
Can you feel it in your veins
when they appear into frame?
Are you chasing them for your fame
so you won't be lame?
Your talent means nothing,
if you can't use it.
And if there's nothing to fight against
then you must create it.
Because peace can't exist without war
So keep chasing them you fame *****.
Making your own enemies!
Fighting battles in the streets!

Leaves fall from trees and land softly on me
my head tipped back, I catch them on my face
their death anointing me delicately
I absorb their own kind of fall from grace

The woods are red from autumnal disease
my bones are like leaves, so weak, so brittle
leaves rustle and wind howls, those sounds don't cease
dark clouds overhead are not so little

The weather is neither just calm or cruel
it changes, wet one day, the other, dry
I stand tall in this emotional duel
that shows one day i'm fine, the next, I cry

I fall like the autumn leaves and the rain
I can not live a life free from this pain

What is that which looms on the horizon?
My own response so carefully crafted.
Designs that I have embroidered eyes in
to see my own hand-sewn chaos drafted.

Your stitch-in, flowery language lacks work
and your seams seem to lack proper binding.
My dear, I can't accept mangled patchwork,
it's clear that you needle more reminding.

It's funny how you tailored your response,
yet you didn't know of the fabric's face
that laughed as you fabricate and ensconce
yourself in lies as delicate as lace.

You have barely weaved a good running stitch
Don't curse the seamstress who seems less stressed, witch.

Hello love, that I don't love,
people just seem to fall for you
so very easily
and I'm left watching, wondering,
why people love to fall so much.
This is insanity, love.
Absolute craziness.
I don't love you, love
and you don't love me.
Yet you show me what you can do
to everyone else in this world,
and I'm just watching.
Romantic love? No, I don't love you.
I can't even feel you.
I can't even feel you.
I can't even feel you.

I think i'm sick
and I can't find out yet
if what I suspect
is what I should expect.
I'm avoiding researching
The internet
Because it'll put my mind in a panic
I can't afford to be manic.
I can't afford to panic.

My skin is crawling.
Touch makes me very angry
I can't stand the thought
of a room full of people
looking at me
like I've grown an extra head.
Or maybe I've grown fangs
to match my biting words?
Are they glaring now?
Good.
My cold behavior is putting people off
and i'm roughly shoving people aside
No, I don't want to hug them,
No, i'm not trying to be rude,
no, i'm not sick
I'm not sick
I'm not sick.

Tonight, I feel like a monster
please don't touch me.

I'm a wandering soul
caught outside in the snow
fighting the blizzard conditions
swaying with the fierce winds
and watching the warm glow
of cozy kitchen windows
mock me.

I'm young and I shouldn't preach
but at least listen to me speak.
I have dreams about
what this world could be.
I have ideas
on how we could be
and to discredit me
based solely on my youth
tells me more about you
than you could ever tell me.
Who silenced you
when you were young?
Who taught you that
the younger generation is dumb?
Who taught you it was okay
to silence those youthful tongues?

Who silenced you
you silencer?

"I say it was the butler,"
And so the accusations begin.
They fly through the dining room
with their winged reasons
based on heresay and whims.
"It can't have been him.
He wasn't even there!"
A professor counters with snark.
Pointing out the other was wrong
for their own chance to glow.
"Well then it must've been the maid"
A woman in red counters
Glaring daggers like the ones
That get buried deep into trusting backs.
"Maybe it was one of you!
Looking for monetary gain!"
A man exclaims pointedly
Green overcoat buttoned tightly
as he perused the crowd unkindly.
"Everyone calm down!"
A gentleman speaks soothingly.
"Since we're speaking in clichés
I thought I'd put my two cents in."
the man inspects the body
and with dramatic flair
Announces:
"It was Colonel Mustard, in the dining room, with a rope."
And the fancy dressed group
Cried out in frustration.

But upon further inspection
of the victim dressed
in peacock blues and greens
yielded a braided rope pattern
surrounding her neck.
And it left them all to wonder,

"Who is Colonel Mustard?"

I've once said failure was kind
It teaches you lessons in the end.
But sometimes the suffering
you have to endure
is absolutely meaningless.
It seems naive to me to believe
that failure is kind
and that pain builds character
without believing the opposite
to be true as well.
Failure is mean
and pain can break you down.
I've lived my whole life so far
thinking that there had to be
a reason for all of this.
And sometimes,
there isn't a reason.
It just *****.
So failure is kind and mean
pain builds character and destroys it
and I can accept that
My sadness is real
and tangible
even though its reason
may not be.

If I wrote a book would people read it?
Maybe
Maybe not.
But I need to write.
I really need to.
I should probably do what's right
and write.