we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

i didn't ask to join
this endless race
towards some abstract goal
that i don't even want
to achieve.
it wasn't mine to begin with,
yet here i am,
dying for it,
locked in a box
with just enough space
to breathe.
who would've thought
that this is what living
feels like?
who would've thought
that this is how we all
choose to spend
our time?
buried in our own homes,
opening more wounds
with each
passing day,
scratching down the walls,
helplessly gasping
for air,
empty on the inside.

i'm not sad enough
to talk about it
with strangers,
not desperate enough
to take a step forward.
the rooftops are locked,
the bridges too crowded,
the pills, i've already taken enough
to have died a hundred times.
i think i'm immune now.
the whispers, they lie.
i'm stuck in a mirror,
i'm trapped in this life
that doesn't reflect who i am,
and it looks all the same
on the outside.
i'm not mad enough
to shatter my thoughts
on the pavement,
not desperate enough
to lie in the water
and watch it turn red.
the future is fading,
the past is uncertain,
don't know if i even
remember it right,
can't trust my own mind.
it's time to let go,
to stay or to say goodbye.
whatever i choose,
it all looks the same
on the outside.

i'll put some flowers on your grave
and watch the moss grow from your bones.
sometimes it's easier to stay,
you always lived the life you chose.
you always left without goodbyes
and thought that less was saying more.
i wish to join you when i die,
but you won't wait for me, i'm sure.
and if you've already moved on,
i'll write a poem in your name,
and watch the moss grow from your bones
when i put flowers on your grave.

there's a sea
on the other side of this dream,
you will meet yourself
there, on the shore.
she might say
"you're so much braver than me,
'cause, you see,
you've made it here on your own."
she could hold your hand
or hold back a laugh
when the waves catch you off guard
as they break.
there's a life
on the other side of this dream
to welcome you back
once you're awake.

i stay out of it more than i used to,
painting pictures on a metaphorical canvas.
anything is possible if i want to
find something that catches on,
leave everything else that matters
and turn away from it all.

i have great conversations with myself,
drawing memories like a string to wrap and tighten.
i live and die keeping it to myself
with every thought that spills through
like gasoline, begging for a lighter.
i stay out of it more than i used to.

the phenomenon of phantom pain
in limbs that aren't there anymore,
but still itch, still cramp and still ache;
just a memory of a memory, coming apart
with every impossible move that is made.
like a blind man, traversing through the dark,
feeling his way by touch, by sound, by smell
through the endlessly changing world,
guided by his memory, coming apart,
longing for things that aren't there anymore;
the phenomenon of a phantom heart.

i would never hurt you
on purpose,
but i'm not too good
at repenting,
hopelessly entranced
by this poison.
if you still can love me,
please,
love me.
but if you must hate me,
then hate me.

the last thing that you keep is regret;
all the times it went wrong,
all the times they were upset with you.
you hear the words of your friends,
how they wanted to make it,
but all those explanations
are way past their expiration date.
and you don't want to hear it right now,
you're just fine being here,
all alone in your house.
and there's nothing that needs being said;
make a promise to self,
even when life gets sad,
the last thing that you keep is regret.

do you remember the person
that you were
five years ago?
ten years ago?
do you think they were better
at living your life?
would they hold your hand now
or push you off the edge
of your endless agony,
that all-consuming sadness
that's eating away at your mind?
would they take a picture
or just walk by?
do you still wish to go back,
catch up with all the lost time
and make things right?
you're the only version of yourself
that's available
right here and right now,
and did you ever consider
that it's for the best?
maybe past belongs in the past,
maybe you're happier without it.
everything looks more appealing
through the lens
of nostalgia,
but if you remember the person
that you were
five, ten years ago,
do you still think they were better
at living your life?
or are you finally ready
to make it yours?

whenever alone
i can't help but wonder
if i've ever been happy,
or maybe all of those moments
that vanished so easily,
sunken in the waters of time,
maybe they never existed.
because all i remember is sadness,
everything that aches,
every single mistake.
why is it only pain that lingers?
why won't the heartbreak
ever fade away?
i'm losing my grip on what's real,
can't tell truth from the lies
and right from wrong;
as soon as the moment is gone,
it feels like it never existed.
and i can't help but wonder,
whenever alone,
if i've ever been happy
or maybe none of it was real
to begin with,
just a trick of the mind.
maybe sadness is all there is,
all that has always been,
all that can ever be.

i've been living my life
like fulfilling a sentence.
i guess i've been waiting
for someone to save me,
but they never came around.
i have buried myself in the ground
while i was still breathing,
i have punished myself
for the lack of resilience,
i've torn my reflection to pieces
and tried to forget my own name.
i've been waiting for someone to say
that today is the day,
now you know what to do.
i've been wandering, lost,
confused and without a purpose.
i have wished for this life to end
when it left me so hopeless,
when i had no more faith
to hold on to;
i guess now it makes sense.
i've been living my life
like fulfilling a sentence,
so long i've been waiting
for someone to save me;
now i choose to save myself.

she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
slipping to the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
covering them in liquid gold.
she's the entity that the pagans prayed to,
the object of countless legends.
she slips into her skin like a hand-sewn dress,
and everyone who ever loved her
is now consumed by the earth.
she picks flowers that took root in their skulls,
wears a crown of white ribs
and grows around their remains like moss.
she's the end of all things,
the silent watcher of time,
meeting the travelers on every single one
of the countless roads.
she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
breaking through the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
standing by as the world around her burns.

a paradigm of solitude,
a monotone reprise.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.
a symphony of tragedy,
a prayer in disguise.
she walks her path so stoically,
but all their hymns are lies.
a disbelieving audience,
a concert of goodbyes.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.

the things i've done,
they sank into my skin
and drew a crimson pattern
on the surface,
so when i die,
i want to die with purpose,
and cleanse away
this everlasting sin.

you're not sleeping well,
every next new pill
is but a means to an end,
and it barely means anything at all.
if you dream, you fall,
and that fall's prolonged
by every mantra that someone
advised you to try,
by every breathing exercise
to the sound of the rain or the sea,
and the only thing you see
is the fear of losing your mind.
there's no chemical relief
as there is no magic spell,
for what it's worth
you've tried everything
just to keep your eyelids closed
a little longer.
nothing's working,
you're not sleeping well.

i'm sleepwalking
through my youth,
touching things
that don't touch me back,
wanting people
that break my heart
long before
i can break theirs.
and i wish
i could just disappear,
wouldn't make
any difference at all,
'cause i'm wrong
in so many ways,
telling lies
to pretend i'm whole.
what's the point?
was there one that i missed?
lost the interest
halfway through,
turned to nothing
by half past noon.
i'm so sorry;
i've been sleepwalking
through my youth.

placing bets on a misplaced hope,
filling lungs with denial,
watching it turn into smoke.
it's a poisonous kind of co-dependency,
drowning out the smell of decay
by lighting scented candles.

you can't stop it from spreading further
from your chest to your throat,
so you increase the dosage.
if you go, you'll go on a high note,
filling lungs with denial,
watching it turn to smoke.

we carry our memories like they're a burden,
unspoken, but hopeful that someone, someday
might be brave enough to take a step forward
and share in that weight of invisible pain.
and all that we hold, like a prayer to the broken,
so lonely that silence falls down like a veil,
are hearts, torn and scarred, but bleeding no longer,
in hope that someone might accept them someday.

it's always something, isn't it?
something that was once yours,
something that they took
and then convinced you
that it never really existed.
it was something important, you think.
something that you gave up,
something that wasn't even worth keeping;
anyway, that's what they told you.
"surely, you will be better without it, sweetie."
now that you forgot your own shape
wherever you look - it's all the same,
a convenient fixture to cover a lie.
but does that brief ache every time you smile
ever make you wonder
what that something was?
something that once
used to be yours.

i'm sorry if my love is such a burden,
i'm sorry if it's such a waste of time.
i'm sorry if my mind,
can't work the way you want it,
i'm sorry that i didn't learn to lie.
i'm sorry you were never truly mine,
i'm sorry that my heart
can't work the way you want it.
i'm sorry it was such a waste of time,
i'm sorry that my love was such a burden.

all of your insults
and all accusations
have one little fault;
it's reckless of you
to assume
that i'm still alive,
that i haven't bled out
years and years ago.
can't you see
there's a hole
where a heart
should've been?
none of your words
can hurt me
if i'm already
dead and gone;
dead and gone,
and you don't even notice.
go ahead, cut me open,
if it makes
any difference,
just to see
what i'm made of.
but all of your insults
and all accusations
have one little fault;
it's reckless of you
to assume
that i'm still alive.

i would take a pill
if it really helped,
i would take a handful
if it was the end.
i don't want to wake up
in an empty room,
i don't want to waste it
if it comes too soon.
i don't want to stay here
for another day,
i don't want to chase it
as it slips away.
i would take a pill
if it really helped,
i would take them all
if it was the end.

talk to me.
i've had enough of this silence.
i've never felt so alone in my life,
i've never seen a darkness so deep.
who knew that emptiness could be so heavy;
i suppose, i owe you an apology.
please.
if every next word could be final,
if every next touch could be the last time,
i hope that i see you when i fall asleep.
who knew that even a sinner's worth saving;
i guess, we're about to find out.
if i wait for you at the brink
will you talk to me?

asking questions about things
that shouldn't concern you,
just like your apparent lack of decisiveness
doesn't concern anyone else.
it's your own fault to try an live with,
give it your best shot.
so what if the score
has been rigged from the start,
so what if the odds are never on your side.
your mind is a weapon
that's always aimed at its host.
you don't know how to hope for the best,
but you've gotten so good
at preparing yourself for the worst.
asking questions about things
that were designed to hurt you,
looking for a weak spot.
drowning in hesitation,
hoping to run out of oxygen
right before your own consciousness
takes the chance to tear you apart.

searching for a temporary fixation
that could fix your life,
you don't lack in the dedication department,
but your focus is scattered
and your effort's half-hearted.
and you want to get out of here so badly,
stuck in a loop of endless quotations,
but your mind's been underperforming lately,
sending out "save the date" invitations
to a preemptive memorial service.
that grave's been waiting around for a purpose
ever since the first final warning.
you're not stalling, just weighing your options,
looking convincing in that little black lie.
maybe calling it quits is your calling,
doubling down on the hibernation mode,
half-awake around half past five,
searching for a temporary fixation
that could fix your life.

it's not the kind of place
one wishes to return to,
its welcoming embrace
is made to suffocate.
i wish i could stray from
the path that leads me to it,
but it took everything,
it even claimed my name.
and now i've grown to hate it,
the sound of being seen;
shame makes a perfect rope
to hang my self-esteem.
the memories come in pairs,
but always black and white;
i know that place's a trap,
yet i still crawl inside.
now there is all this pain
preventing my escape,
it whispers "welcome back,
it's time to suffocate."

it's the art of being ****** up,
the testament to sleepless nights,
reading horror stories in the attic,
and almost falling down the stairs
a few times.

it's a promise to never forget
what it feels like to be alone in the dark
at 4 am stealing moonlight kisses
through distorted reflections
of a window glass.

it's a moment to moment race
towards the end that's never the end,
but a beginning of a different life,
and the life that you choose for yourself
never really dies.

it's the art of being ****** up,
the testament to sleepless nights,
talking to ghosts in the attic,
and almost falling down the stairs
a few times.

call me when it's over,
i'd rather not watch it all from the start.
rewind to the credits,
make sure to read every single name out loud.

keep the tape rolling,
there might be a hidden message or two.
my mind is unstable,
but the state of it's got nothing to do with you.

so call me when it's over,
i've seen it a million times inside my head.
rewind to the credits,
read the names and remember that most of them are dead.

if i step into the dark,
don't follow me.
and if i become the dark,
forget me.
for the dark isn't black,
but red,
and it's drowning me.
i won't let you go down
by my side.

they took the light of your soul
and then put it out.
they said that it wasn't on purpose,
but you are the one
who's fading with every night,
the shadows are creeping inside,
it's harder to tell the time
when there's no sun in sight.

they said you don't have much to offer,
an empty vessel for their god.
they stole the light of your soul
just so they could put it out.

you have it,
the most beautiful.
most envied,
most divine,
and even in a room
that's filled with lookalikes
you'll always be the most,
the most, the most -
a priceless treasure.
and maybe it's okay
to only be alive
through other people's eyes,
but someone's always lurking
just outside the frame -
a new obsession, waiting to be found.
most envied,
yet most hated.
there you have it,
the most unloved.

do you still feel my touch
or can i only leave bruises now?
if i'm the one to choose our death,
then you're the one to keep the vow.
when this love becomes too much,
if we live on as ghosts
will our bond be stronger
than it was before?
if i'm the one who let us down,
then you're the one who closed the door.

when you knock on my door,
i will welcome you with open arms;
my long lost friend,
my dearest enemy,
my unwritten play in three acts.
my forgotten peace of mind,
the one i never learned to hate,
the one i'll always yearn for;
my oldest regret,
my most recent mistake.
when you knock on my door,
i will let you in, but won't let you stay;
the one i never asked for,
the one who always walks away.

when the nights grow longer
and the days grow darker,
and the only light is the one
that can be switched off anytime,
you force yourself to wake up,
you force yourself to eat,
you force yourself to try
just a little harder,
and when you need to sleep
you have to force yourself,
ironically enough,
not to think
about the looming danger,
about the trembling hands,
about every test you couldn't pass,
about how the nights are longer
and how the days are darker,
and the only light you've got
is the one inside your heart.

the rain will stop someday,
although there might be floods,
that subsequent collateral damage
that lives in all of us.
and all that we've survived
persists in deserts, running dry;
some water could be what we need
to bring them back to life.
it's hard to turn the page
just as it's hard to start anew,
and every time someone says "no"
we still hear "not for you".
but when the currents change
their flow will wash away the pain.
although there might be floods,
the rain must surely stop someday.

you might meet someone,
be it the darkest night
or the first bright sunlight
of the rest of your life.
and they will look at you
like you're the only one they see,
not knowing that a part of you
still wishes you were here, with me,
be it the burning depths of hell
or the paradise beyond;
they'll never know you quite as well,
it's not their touch for which you yearn,
but i can't take you,
this space was always made for one,
although i loved you,
there's nothing more i could've done.
so i hope you meet someone,
be it in the midst of night
or on the brink of the first sunlight
of the rest of your life.

a thin red line,
it's there for all who do not know
if they are going to be here
to see the sun,
the way it rises,
chasing all the shadows out,
the way it wraps its shining warmth
around the ground,
around our souls.
you make a vow
to fight as long as you still have
the strength to take another breath
and fill your lungs,
and take a step
towards the twilight as it fades
with every star that it creates,
so in its final burst
you hope it takes us all,
may god have mercy on our souls.

you don't have to fight,
there's no justice to be found,
it's all been spent on wars
they couldn't win.
and if you tear down the sky,
is it divinity you seek?
when there's no god above,
the ground shifts beneath your feet;
you take a leap of faith,
but faith is on a leave.
you don't have to give up,
but there's a truce in the works.
be careful choosing the side,
the war they've lost
is now yours.

some of the best things we create
are meant for others to explore.
we grow too fast, we learn too late,
we leave before the curtain call.
and in the end all that we've made
turns into words, engraved in stone.
some of the best things we create
will only matter once we're gone.

it's a place you don't recognise anymore;
your mind,
the pathways, formerly known
as such and such,
you gave them names yourself,
you assigned tasks,
you decided their fate.
and now it's all different all of a sudden;
and now it's no longer familiar,
like a new suit
you've never once worn.
and you don't know what weapon to choose,
how to protect yourself
in this one-sided war
in your mind.
the trenches,
so dutifully dug out,
all prepared for the day you lose,
are gone,
and you don't recognise this place anymore.

time doesn't slow down for a talk,
like the resting heartbeat
of a ticking bomb.
every pause could last days,
could last weeks,
could last years.
it could end with a shot,
it could break with a kiss.
like a memory, split in a billion pieces,
like a mountain, with all its valleys and creases,
like an enemy missile,
about to be dropped,
time doesn't slow down for a talk.

there's a letter, forgotten on the shelf.
to the unknown lover.
to the one i lost.
to the one i dreamed up on a sleepless night.
to the one who haunts me like a ghost.
to the one that never bothered to call.
to the one that simply wasn't right.
to the one i hurt.
to the one who broke my heart.
to the one who forgot.
to the one i imagined my future with.
to the one who slowly drifted apart.
to the one with the sweetest goodbye kiss.
to the one that i thought was the one.
there's a letter, forgotten on the shelf.
to the unknown lover.
to the one who left.

i want to be moved by things,
even if they leave me empty
afterwards.
i want to be known
by someone who's brave enough
to dare and explore
the most profound depths
of my soul.
i want to always be seen as i am,
not as i was before;
that person is long gone.
i want to be loved like a sky on fire,
like a flood of devastation,
like a stolen kiss
before the end of the world.
i want to be moved by things,
even if there's nothing
but a lifeless desert
in their wake,
even if they leave me empty
afterwards.

i poured my sadness into you
although it wasn't fair,
i made you suffer the same fate
because i was so scared
to be alone.
and in this empty, desolated place
i stole your light,
abused your grace,
and then i took your life.
i know that it's too late,
there's no way home.
i'm sorry,
i'm just scared to be alone.

i don't want to be seen,
feel my touch on your cheek;
i don't want to be seen at all,
but the razors are sharp
and the curtains are drawn.
i don't want to be seen
lying down on the floor.
if you hold me, i'll break,
if you kiss me, i'll know;
but the panic runs through,
spinning out of control.
i don't want to be seen,
but my thoughts drown in ink
and the pages are torn.
i don't want to be seen,
feel my touch on your cheek;
i don't want to be seen at all.

...and every single day you're gone
hurts more.
i don't know what to do,
i've lost my purpose.
my name, when you don't say it,
is forgotten.
my face, when you don't look at it,
is blurred.
i couldn't recognize myself these days,
a shadow that protects your endless sleep.
i've hated you for years,
but now you haunt my dreams
and all my life's forever yours to keep.

your laughter's still alive on tape,
your room's a shrine,
our home - a prison.
i keep on planning my escape,
but when i do, it feels like treason.
dust settles down inside my lungs,
can't bring myself to change a thing.
it always takes me by surprise
when i come back and you're not here.
your footsteps linger in the halls,
your touch is felt through every surface.
your life is spread across the walls,
your shadow waits behind the curtains.
your voice is still alive on tape,
your room's a shrine,
our home - a prison.
i keep on planning my escape,
but when i do, it feels like treason.

i dream of setting things on fire
and watching as they turn to ash;
like lovers, tempted by desire,
surrender to the call of flesh.

some flames can never be extinguished,
some marks pierce skin right to the bone.
some pyres are better left unfinished,
some prayers make you feel alone.

but when the blazes take you higher,
the sky grows crimson in a flash.
i dream of setting things on fire
and watching as they turn to ash.

they'll give it a name,
but a name doesn't mean
they'll take it more seriously
now that it has a place
in the common vocabulary.
it's still something
they don't understand,
since they can't relate
to battling the heaviness
just to stay present,
they don't know the weight
of staying awake.
now they put it on screens,
they promote it commercially,
mass-produced relief.
it still doesn't equal acceptance,
and just being able to live
shouldn't need to be paid for.
they give it a name,
but a name doesn't mean
they're no longer afraid to say it.
though it has its own place
in the vocabulary,
the victims remain unseen.