if it appears that
my poems lack conviction,
it's because they do.

my words: white noise on
a radio brain, and i
can't change the station.

people keep on telling me:
life

                   gets

                                       easier,

                        but

                                  ­      oh

                                                       ­  no,

                                        no

                ­                                          it

                   ­                                                      does

                                                           ­                                   not      


it gets manageable.

so when people say:
"you

              get

                          used

                                           to

                                                        it,
 ­                                           
                     ­                    the
                                                      
      ­                                                people

         ­                                                              leaving,
                                                                ­                          
                                      ­                                                      the

                                                                ­                                           lies
                  
                                         ­                                                    and
                          
                                                                ­                grief",

                                        ­                            I
                            
                                   ­                  just
                              
                             ­       want
                      
                      to
                                      
scream.
because that's just not true.
I'm

         not

                used

                            to

                                    it
I'm

         just

                   numb...

What if I kept it all bottled up,
Like it didn’t hurt?
And what if I chose not to write,
As if it didn’t linger in my mind?

If it wasn’t a pen I held,
Would I have grasped a blade instead?
Or would a piece of poem like this
Take the place of a suicide note?

Everyday is like the last
Every week a blurry mess
How I wish to make it stop
Just to hurt a little less

But how could I do that
When the reason for all this pain
Is the only thing I cannot fix
The only thing I cannot regain

When what's causing all this pain
Is a pain all by itself
The pain of losing love
That steals us from ourselves

Oh, the beauty of it
That we've all come to hate
And no matter what we do
No one can prevent fate