Why I cannot tell you,
I do not know.
Why I can't bear to speak,
I'm not sure.
Why I can only communicate my soul this way,
I don't understand.
Why this is the only language I'm fluent in,
I have no clue why.
This is why I seek out people who speak like me,
born with a stranger's tongue,
a dialect not many can comprehend.
This is why I can only talk to them,
sending riddles and broken words
even they may not understand.
It's why I don't perceive the language of this world,
but only the coded words found deep in art.

When I show you my art,
I'm not looking for attention
When I share these poems,
it's not to seek your praise
When I let you see these things,
I don't want you to tell me it looks good
No, I don't care about that
Rather, it honestly makes me a little uncomfortable
Because of the emotion you miss,
the meaning within my 'talent'
And you don't get it
But especially if you do,
the last thing I want is for you to call me "gifted"
Am I 'gifted', to have such thoughts?
So whether you can feel for me or not,
all I'm asking you to so is get a glimpse
of what's inside my head
Don't be distracted by if it's 'good' or not
Please, make the effort to look a little deeper

Here lately,
I've envisioned myself
standing on a stage.
I don't like the thought
of lights, or fog,
or anything like that;
those things have never really
appealed to me.
I picture myself
creating a diversion,
something we can point
the bullets at.
"Send them my way."
Is this just coffee high hypothetical?
I don't know.
We'll see.

All these people, they are real
But I'll ignore them still
All these voices, they're forreal
But do I really want to ****?
Regardless, I don't think I could have fought this
Honest, I'd be deeper down in the darkness
If it wasn't for this art
That God gave me as a start
I'm taunted by demons, but still I write these verses
But when we write, we begin to fear
At the sight of what is really here
By writing to face your demons you'll meet your purpose

Climb down
No, sympathy is not enough right now
How could you sleep?
I hope you're dead, yourself
If you'll only show up
Once we're done breathing

I always look forward
to the luminous poems
you poets display.
But when I checked
my home page,
all I saw were thoughts
of suicide and deep
emotions of hopelessness
today. It churns my
stomach and burdens
my heart to see you
this way. There's a
place in my soul for
you, but that place
for yourself in your
own is filled with
decay.  You wish to
place a bullet in your
brain, but you're afraid
it will just ricochet around
in your head. You'r diseased
with what's behind your skull--
a dark black stain,
and it's true, we will
never know what you
fear for, laying in bed.
Nobody thinks what you
think--no one. And I'm
afraid empathy is on the
verge of extinction. I
know it's hard to say, I
understand it's not easy
to unbottle what's inside,
I get that it's even a
burden to let go of
what is safer to hide.
Stay alive for me, that's
all I want you to do,
stay with me, and I'll
try to save you. But
the truth is, I can't,
I can only be here
by your side as you
face down the hell
you're going through.
So I will stand here
at the edge of your
trench. I will do all
I can. But you must
fight. You must not
let these demons
take you down. It's
not easy. But I'll be
up here. I'll send
down my poems,
hoping to help
cast them out.
And when morning
comes, I'll be offering
my hand. We will stand
again, sharpening our
weapons for when the
sun reaches its grave.
But friend, you must first
live through this night.
Stay alive for me, please.