Darkness, peaceful, loud, quiet, shadows, monsters.

Some complain about the noisy neighbors outside.

I complain about the noisy "neighbors" inside my head.

Mental, emotional, social.

How can I be peaceful? When in my head, theres only war?

The funny thing is, I can learn so much about a person just from a sentence. When I don't even know who I am.

It's funny really, How reality can seem fa k  e,
How Nothing ever is what it se e  m     s.
How the most broken ma s   k     s,
Can still hide a l l o f t h e d e t a i l s ,
In the picture.

And yet, They never knew they were looking at the wrong picture to began with.

Now picture this-

Poems written by a mad man will be short and won't make sense.

Poems written by a genius will always connect to each other.

Poems written by a broken person will have a darker, underling meaning.

Poems written by a angry person will always blame someone else.

In the end, It will all fit together.

Like problems, When hammering nails,
You either hit the nail on the head,
Or your thumb.

I've been wondering for some time how to do different fonts for poems.
Can someone post how to do it in the comments below?

Why is it never quiet?
Why are "They" so loud?
Why are "They" in my head?

Why am I not dead?

Like
                                                            ­                    raindrops,
                                  ­       We                  
                                            ­                                                                 ­ all
  eventually
                                                             fall.

Life
                                                            ­    has
            a
                       funny
     way
                                           of
                                  
                                ruining

      
                                                      Lives.

Dark cold night and there's a fire burning somewhere in the distance.
Cold yet so peaceful, With the smell of fire in the air.
The lights across the street dimly shine but pale in comparision to you. It's moments like these I wish the most that you were with me so we could enjoy it together my Phoenix.
Unlike the fire, My love for you shall burn for eternity no matter how much rain there is.
Fore it can't rain every day my love, And reading this poem back. I realize how cheesy I am.

I may be a raven with demons eyes...
And a mind twisted by time and those divide...
But my soul still burns of fire, And Death is no longer rapping, Rasping at my chamber door.
You sparked the flame in me, My phoenix.
Therefore I shall help you until Death goes gently rapping, Rasping at another's chamber door.  
Fore I may be a raven with demon eyes and a mind twisted by time and lies but I still have a soul, A soul to create.
And I shall create joy for you if nothing more.
You will fly again my phoenix, As others have flown before.
I am no prophet nor thing of evil.
But I will remain until your fears and sadness haunt you
Nevermore.

I keep running from "Them",
but "Their" always one
step ahead.

The funny thing about sanity, is it's judged from two certain points of view.

Sanity owned
Sanity degrading
Sanity sold
Sanity lost.

Sometimes I can't tell if the things I'm seeing are real,
Or just in my head.

Fake memory.
Fake sounds.
Fake sights.
Hell.

I've found like most things I've
come to know, I'm just
A shadow of my
former
self.

Some fear their shadows.
I am my shadow.

Sick of people.
Sick of life.
Sick of being sick.

The funny thing about silence is,
In my head, It never truly is
silent.

Something I haven't heard before.

Ev en                             n Ev er tr ul y iS
                 si l enc e



                                                            ­                      Silent.

Have you ever been so tired, You're too tired to sleep?

People tell me I need to
smile more. But,
I don't  know
how.

I will not be posting today because I am sick, sorry. 4/10/18

"He's" not the only one
in my head, they
always argue.

You think you know me, but what you know is just a mask.

Is all just lies.

Even the the prettiest flowers have their thorns.

The funny thing is, Those who think they know me, don't.

It's terribly poetic how time can break down things in the most beautiful of ways.

Time bought.
Time spent.
Time wasted.


All for what?

It's all just a waste.

How am I supposed to trust others, When I can't even trust myself?

As there is to most things, there's always more than two sides to every story.

Quite rooms with loud voices.

Dark halls
and darker doors.

Doors are doors, no matter the entrance.

Some dark stories never show the ending.

Dark lies often have a darker truth.