I am not angry about what you did.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I understand why you did it.
You were hurt as well.
But I have been hurt too, and I did not perpetuate it.
So is it an explanation or an excuse?

The uninspired poet begins to write.
After just one letter is typed, the uninspired poet stops.
They have no idea what they want to say.
They know they want to write something meaningful, but cannot find the words.
They stand up, and go to their bookshelf.
The uninspired poet finds a passage that sticks out in an old story.
They look at more stories, and find more passages.
The poet is uninspired, but perhaps they can borrow a few words,
And in combining the words in novel ways, make them into something original.

You made a horrible mistake, and horrible things happened to you.
But did you realize something?
The world didn’t end.

The world won't end because of our mistakes,
But it might be easier that way because now
We have to own up to them.

“It’s fine,” they say.
It is not.
“You're okay now, and that’s all that matters,right?”
It is not.
You are not.
Nothing is okay.
And it might never be again.

Listen.
This is a story about despair.
This is a story about someone who was strange-
not strange like einstein was strange, not strange as in excellent-
strange as in always being too slow to catch up to what others were doing, and when they did, they did not understand it.
This is a story about someone who, when they finally managed to talk, the conversation had just ended.
This is a story about someone who gave up.
This is a story of how they looked around and noticed-
the birds were still singing.
this is a story about how, no matter the problems, there is hope-
for the birds are still singing for us.

I heard you this morning. I woke up to the radio playing that song you always liked but neither of us could quite decipher the words to so we would just hum along. I woke up and for just a split second I didn't remember you were gone.

I heard you this morning. The neighbor’s cat’s sitting on our doorstep and screaming its lungs out like always and you would always give it a treat to get it to shut up and why is the world still spinning? the birds are still singing as if you are still here. as if without you the world is enough.

And I’m sorry for all the unanswered messages you left me
I never responded to
I was too busy trying to forget i existed,
hiding from myself under blankets.

There’s infinite universes,right?
I think you told me about some theory ,once upon a time, that there’s infinite universes,all different, in at least some minor aspect.
That means there’s one where dogs wear hats and clothes and walk people who try to eat squirrels.
That means there’s one where colorful dirt runs the world.
One where cities move on the back of giant reptiles
One where fairies kidnap people and magic is real.

I’d like that theory to be true.


I’d like to think it is,at least.
I’d like to think there’s one
Where I’m not empty inside.
One where we’re having burgers
At that place you liked- It had a color in its name, and the dog is barking and running around,and we’re laughing at some inside joke,and I don't consider jumping out the window every single day,and we’re happy.

Rage is a good thing.
It is not anger-anger is a child demanding candy and throwing a tantrum when it is not given to them, A man who is in power of the country screaming when he is told killing is wrong, Someone who is rejected from an art school and decides to geneocide those with less power.
Anger is annoyance and entitlement blown to gigantic size.
Rage is just.
Without rage, without rising up, nothing changes, and those in power pat themselves on the back.
It says:
What has been done to me, to others, to us is unacceptable. This is unjust, and I will not stand for it.
Rage is not petty. They call our rage petty, and demean us. They say that we are just naturally like this, as though they are not the ones hurting us until we have no choice but to be. They say we just don’t know any better, as if we are not both intelligent and correct.
This is wrong.
Rage keeps us from getting hurt again.

dance with demons,
smile wide,
and show the devils
what hell looks like.

The leaves are falling.
so am I.

Do you remember
When we were birds
We preened
We sang sweet songs of our love for each other
But then the song
Became just squawks
And preening became another task, and then
How it became pluck the others feathers out
How it became see how long we could go without wincing in pain
A contest of which could be more miserable
Who could hate the other more without showing it
And when we had no more feathers left to pluck
each of us having finally bested the other-
We flew
Like Icarus, in spiteful triumph-
We fell
-Turning rapidly into horror-
(What had we done
How could we have ever enjoyed this)
-And finally, we drowned.

Is this the truth
or just another lie?
You've told me the how
now tell me the why.
I hope it's the truth
but we know
it's another disguise.
I wish I was indifferent,
but i know we are both just trying not to cry.

Inspiration, pouring now,
into the *** of my own head,
An idea is formed, one drop,
eventually,i overflow,
but inspiration's slow-
and so-
i'll wait some more, and then i'll go.

Yes, we are angry.Yes, we are upset.
We are upset because it was unacceptable.
We are angry because we have been treated unfairly.
We have the right to be.

You will survive this.
You might be in a bad place right now.
It might feel like the feeling will never go away,
like its too overwhelming to imagine ever leaving.
But this too will pass.
you can survive this.
Someday, maybe years from now, maybe months maybe weeks maybe even days from now,
You will look back and think to yourself:
Hey. I'm still alive.
and you will be happy about that.
Even if the pain doesn't stop,
it will eventually ease, and you will be happy.
The difference between how far you've come and surviving this is just one more step. And one more step and another until you look back to where you stand right now and wave, because there is a world where you have already survived this.
Although it seems now like walking across the ocean,
On the other shore of this calamity,
You are waving to yourself, saying
Hey
You're still alive
You got this.

I'm too tired of your BS
to be afraid of you.