I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
     But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
    As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
   I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
    Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
    Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
     How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
    And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
    Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
   Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
    And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
   Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.

Lately my mind has been in one place beyond the stars,
I try to connect the dots but they just leave trails of false happiness tainted in scars.
I’ve been lost and consumed with unimaginable distraught built up in me
Went from writing poetry on a daily to not at all due to the animosity I blinded myself to see.
I look in the mirror and see someone I don’t recognize,
From all the lessons learnt I still fantasize how life would be without uncomforting cries.
I believe that life without the setbacks prevents you from appreciating the triumphs,
But what happens to the pieces of you that stayed shattered while life was your worst enemy?
To battle with life is to drag yourself across the finish line after every milestone  
Bruises, blood, sweat, tears become a cushion to your self-destruction and you lost your way from home.
They name hurricanes after people because we are a cluster of emotions burning inside, we set fire to our own rain,
We add fuel to our own fire because we rather suffer than to gain,
We become our own enemy and barricade ourselves from outside pain but lock ourselves in and become insane.
Insanity becomes our best friend. We persuade ourselves to get better but rather give another person a helping hand,
We give advice because genuinely that’s what we want to hear but we run into loops and bury our security in the sand.
Looking beyond the stars trying to connect the dots of the chaos but the galaxy lye in me, the fire lye in me, the hurricane lye in me the mediocrity lye in me,
Blatantly to say,
The only person that can save me, is… me.

-dpk

What is comfort?
Is it the feeling?
Or the feeling of the feeling?

Is it the warmth of two bodies embracing?
Or the chilling security of solitude?

Is it something someone can give
to another who searches?

Or is it something that can be created
naturally without the choices?
----
Am I comfortable to be with?
Or is being with me comfortable?
----
Do we need comfort?
Or is it something that we've been told we needed?

Do you ever feel that twinge? When the hurt is so powerful that you unwillingly lose all hope, all strength and all sense of who you are and fall to your knees, head bending to the floor as your own arms come around you in a thoughtless uncomforting hug?
When the world around you is no longer there and you feel your own bones shifting inside you, caving in on itself your body is fully weak. All of your bones bend down like treebraches covering the heart that is threatening to come right out of your chest, drop into the endless pit, empty void that you cant see but is the ground.
Your skin is gone, you're a skeleton with your giant reaching bones caged around your loose swinging remaining heartstrings supporting your heart in place, tired of holding on, ready to let go, let everything fall.
Let your heart and the last inkling of goodness fade and be eaten up by your own misery, for its dry withered husk to disappear for good.
There are stray tears on your face from before, earlier, because you have nothing left in you anymore, no tears left to be expelled from either clenched closed nightmare reflecting eyes or wide open yet unseeing eyes.
Your body is shaking uncontrollably and at this point your mind is blank.
You laugh, because you have no thoughts, nothing to tie you back down to reality.
You laugh like a maniac because what just happened cant possibly be true, but is.
You're so angry at yourself, livid with your own faults and so beyond what mere humans call grief.
Agony is too kind a word for it.
You feel the call of darkness take over and you grab for whatever your hand may touch.
Harm.
Do yourself harm.
The body is all that's really left of you, all you have left to feel even though you cant actually feel a thing. At this point you're already gone.
The only thing to bring yourself out, to think, to feel an emotion that isnt completely pain, to drag yourself above the earth once again and witness the blood of your shame.
It makes you blink a few times, processing.
Back to earth it is calm, you're thinking again, you look around and see where you are, you never left.
Things fell apart around you but you never moved a muscle, aside to return clarity and then to clean yourself up.
Things are calm.
Everything quiet, peaceful.
Youre completely alone where you are.
But you've somehow found a way to fully accept and move on in a short amount of time.
You understand what you thought may never occur has finally, and you can remember.
You've experienced the world of emotions and survived.
You're sitting safe where you left yourself before the storm hit you. You contemplate all the damage around you, strong enough to walk again, ok enough to solve your situation with a clear mind.
Things may be healed now, things may be fixed or renewed.
Life goes on from this point a better day when you appreciate the regain of what you'd never actually lost.

I entered this tunnel in hoped of being happier, and closer to my potential future. People used to tell me all about how it truly was greener on the other side. The last time I have heard a voice besides me and my mind must have been longer than I can remember because I truly forgot what it sounds like.
                I have become accustomed to the uncomforting black that has surrounded every moment since the last window passed which only come about every other thousand steps. I have come to the conclusion that I am dramatically slowing down because it has become longer and longer before I have had the piercing rays of hope shine on me.
                There seems to be a speck of light at the end, but I am not positive anymore because I cannot tell the difference between my mind and reality. It could be truly the end, or just my wishes and hopes playing tricks on me once again.
                I stripped off my last piece of clothing and dropped it onto the gravel. I would sacrifice all I had to this hole in desperate hopes that it will, in turn, show me the way out of him onto the grassy, better side. As my shirt is slowly shed from my body, I can feel the cold, dry, unrelenting breath strike my deprived chest. The heavy blow knocked me to my knees, and my knees bled. I staggered up to push on. I have no reason to continue, and yet, I do. Sometimes, I ponder whether all this suffering is worth what might be on the other side. I had no proof of what they said; I just trusted their fading words.
The light I saw earlier now has grown, and now I know it is a real light, but I am still not hopeful. The light sends a loud horn to bellow through the icy stone walls. As it reaches me, I squint to see where I have been, and where I am, and what I have accomplished by torturing myself for this tunnel that shall give none in return. I hit the colored metal, and it drags me back to where I once was. I am to never see the other side. Maybe it is for the best.

The only way,
You’ll pick me,
Is in a line up.
“Who’s heart was it sir? Who’s heart was the one you crushed up and ruined for everyone else?”
That one there.
The girl with the honest eyes
And the irrelevant freckles.
That’s her. I’m sure of it.
Well that’s when I was handcuffed.
Taken into custody.
Into a cell, a familiar place, but uncomforting for the first time.
There were walls, casing me in
made up of your words.
And when I turned to escape I felt your arms
Around me.
They weren’t holding me with love this time though.
No, they were holding me back.
They were crushing me,
With hope,
And longing,
And the muscles of the past
Which will always hit you right between the eyes
When you least expect it.
And I managed to escape.
I turned away and ran for what seemed like an exit
But in reality was just
An illusion.
A filler,
In my heart to replace what
Can never be.
So I collapsed, and thought over
The crimes I had committed
To get me here.
I remembered the writing.
The lyrical stylings of pen against paper,
Provided by yours truly, for you wholly.
Inspired by and dedicated to you,
Created by love, published by vulnerability.
And then I thought about the skin.
The flesh that we shared.
And it must not have been soft enough,
Or warm enough,
Or have had enough electricity,
To power the whole world,
Just a few continents.
I thought about time. The clocks,
That ticked, slowly, but surely,
Filled with me,
Adoring you.
My placing in this room mustn’t have been
A mistake.
My thoughts were far too fast and far too strong
To be legal.
Far too much for me to handle.
So I must need help.
But then it’s your face that hits me, and I feel it.
I feel it all again.
I remember what the sun looks like and what fresh air smells like and what it feels like not to be
Alone.
Alone.
And that was it.
I knew why I was here. I knew why i was alone in this place that was made up of you.
You escaped.
You *******,
What a smart guy you are.
You found the spoon.
You dug your way out of the cell you had enclosed us in,
And I didn’t even notice.
You slowly but surely carved away
At what I found sacred,
And hallowed.
And I never even knew it, until you were gone.
And then I was here.
Serving my life sentence.
Awaiting trial.
” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence has been laid before you. Have you come to a verdict?”
And no one spoke.
Because they had nothing to say. And they didn’t understand,
Just like me, how someone guilty,
Could get off free.
But you did.
And I know, that the scars,
On the left side of my chest,
Are all,
I’ve got to show.

Early in her years she was somewhat abandoned.
Rejected by the only family she knew, unwanted and with no arms to hang on.
Independently she faced a cruel and an uncomforting world.
Keeping her tears hidden inside while she shows us only her most beautiful smile.
A damsel in great distress without anyone to lean on and just weep and cry.

Years passed by and she became a mother.
One little angel, her lovely daughter.
Her reason to go on with life and not think of anymore struggles.
Kept herself back on track and didnt mind the hurdles.
One or two relationships that broke her heart, also became  the reason that she had to restart.

Now she has a house of her own that she can always call home.
One fine job that pays more than she could ever hone.
Zestfully she faces the world with a whole new view.
And still smiles but no more tears behind them, for this time they are true.
Keeping on moving forward and thats how she plays it.
It doesnt matter if you lose or win the game, its how you played it.

I'm so tired this morning that it's difficult to think
Waking up is such an uncomforting notion
Emerging from my slumber, I was dreaming on the brink
Of happiness and overwhelming emotion

I know my dreams were good and bad, but subject matter unknown
I wish I could remember more, like where it was that I called home

I do remember tinges of terror, only slightly frightening
I recall emptiness and being alone
I think it was another world, full of sights unseen
I don't think a name was shown

I enjoy reality, but I truly love my dreams
I wish I were like Sigmund Freud, to decipher what they mean.

.

To what do we owe
this canvas knapsack of fears
draped heavily upon our back,
bringing shoulders to a tipping point
Weighted of decisions to be made and
thoughts which haunt when we are alone

Straps cut into tender flesh,
scars build where smooth skin once slept
now bedded down by burdens
in an uncomforting fabric,
warm but dark and painful
as nighttime brings a solitude of tears

Wishes find four wall deterrents,
though from a southern facing window
a light penetrates the anguished fog,
illuminating this room of desperation,
inviting glances to find
that of which smiles are born

Now as we find our hearts migrating
past curtained weeping patterns,
reaching for the glowing affection
whispering on blissful breezes,
soothing longings of safe arms
to hold us in this time of need

Run with every speed to this view,
calling of moonbeams and star dust
careful not to trip over the worries
cast aside to the floor beneath your bed
where they shall remain hidden
behind a door now locked by love

To what do we owe
this canvas knapsack of fears?
Only ourselves if we continue
to look behind at what was instead of
casting our eyes forward on what is now offered
just outside that southern facing window of opportunity

The sun on a winter’s day,
The smell of salt-water at the beach,
The despair of needing someone to stay,
Knowing that they were only going to leave.

Bags packed for a long trip,
Kisses on cheeks and well intentioned promises,
The inability to prevent tear-drips,
The clouds forewarning and ominous.

The searing beauty of pure laughter,
The grin given before self-sacrifice,
The sun setting and the room growing darker,
The words hidden inside people’s eyes.

Flowers pressed between letter pages,
Uncomforting words that all meant well,
The sudden sobs and sudden rages,
Stories they’d never be able to tell.

I have been inside my head for the past few days. Human contact has not taken me out of it like it typically would. My eyes have sunk deeper into my skull because of the lack of sleep, the more insomnia medication I take the less I sleep and I would think it would be the opposite. Perhaps it's the meals I've been missing, or maybe it's the people I've been missing, but either way I think my eyes have gone looking for something to fill this empty chest. If my heart is there, then I can't feel it beating and that's a terrifying thing to experience. They say the body's natural calming system is to listen to itself breathe and understand that oxygen is entering your lungs and you are alive. But I find that to be a rather uncomforting system. I have never wanted to be alive so why should my lungs working bring me any sense of equanimity.
I spent half the drive home swerving last minute out of the way of light poles because i kept remembering that i wanted my sister to have the car when im dead and my parents shouldnt have to pay to fix it. I have ****** up my life immensely and i cannot fix it nor restore it to its natural order. I am left with broken pieces and i cant tell if its of others or just myself so i'll settle for both and apologize to everyone. I have cleaned my entire room 6 times. I have painted my nails. I have a nice dress picked out. All that is left is calculating the amount of pills i need to take to greet my friends in heaven. If there is one. I sure hope there is not a hell because i never did well in the heat. I think i know why suicide is a sin, because life and death is the only thing God can control and by killing myself i am beating him at his own game.

Words can fill up a novel.
Words can drip off a page.
They fill you up and carry you to new lands.
Islands to explore, different lives to live.
Words come.
Words are carefully chosen to express connect, and excite.
Words tell of glorious times, elegance, and wisdom.
But words aren't always illuminated by a rainbow,
Painting a perfect Picasso you gaze into in wonder.
I have found, words come.
In all stages of life, words come – and we accept them.
Starting young we learn them.
Growing older we use them, and not always to say nice things.
Words come in various shapes and forms,
meaning a world of lovely and uncomforting things.
They guide us, educate us, but also hold us down
Like rocks in our pockets.
Hesitant to remove them,
More that too often we choose to throw them.
Words come.

Love is a quiet whisper
In a small, cold tent
On the side of a vast forest
As the sun breaks over the tops of the trees
And spills itself in pools between
Open-armed branches.

Love is a joyous shout
From the top of a tall peak
At the edge of the eternal, hungry ocean
As the sun falls below the water's edge
And the sky is all purples and velvety blues
Slowly punctured by the gold-green light of
Summer stars.

Love is hands held in the backseat of the bus
Or against the hard, uncomforting metal and plastic of this worn hospital chair.
Love is whatever love chooses to be.
And as they salty, cold tears slide down my face,
Rough and excema-ridden in this weather,
I am glad that I still know
What love is.

I am drowning in myself.
I can't escape this torture of simply being.
Restless nights, Everything seems to weigh heavy on me.
My soul is tired & my heart is weak, Everything seems to come & go so fast.

Where do these horrible feelings that sit solid in the pit of my stomach come from?

Does everyone feel this way or is it just me?
I'm starting to think it's just me.

Though I do not wish to die, I'm struggling with the will to live.
Just because I am not suicidal doesn't mean I'm not withering away on the inside..doesn't mean that suffering through each day is any better.

I feel detached from the world & people & myself.
There is a constant aching in me.
I can't escape myself.

Where do I go to feel safe?
I never feel safe.

Where do I go to feel loved?
How can I feel it if I'm detached?

Everyone comes & goes.
Dynamics between people change.
People hurt people all the time.

What can I hold onto or trust that is stable?

What only makes me realize just how alone I really am in all of this is that if I do try & explain how I feel...
I get answers like eat more fruit,
think positive,
everyone feels this way.

I struggle so much to see where I fit in this whole grand scheme of life. What is my point of existence?

Literally no one can help me & that only makes me feel even more alone to deal with this heavy, heavy stone I carry around.

No one can see my pain at all. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there.

I don't know why I've always felt so "sensitive" but I've felt this way for a long time.

I can't seem to find peace in myself.

I can't quite obtain my goals as easily as I think which take a unsurmountable amount of stress & uncomforting vibes.

I have to fight so hard for myself...I'm done fighting.
I Don't wanna fight.

I feel...
BROKEN INSIDE,
LIKE A MERE EXISTANCE.
POINTLESS,
LIKE THE SCRAPS OF A PERSON,
SUFFOCATED IN MYSELF,
MISUNDERSTOOD,
USELESS,
A LOT OF EMOTIONS, ALL THE TIME.

Nothing seems to help. If only it was that easy but nothing ever is,

I will lie myself down to rest for tonight, gather my broken bones & kiss my forehead. "Go to sleep babygirl, tomorrow will be a new day with new struggles, for now shhhhh, close your eyes."

Uncomfortable truth.
It might be silent after.
At least they know.

For the record
I have those feelings
The feelings I promised I didn't have

An uncomfortable truth to admit
Don't be silent
I don't act upon it

So I hear the trio of voices once more
I can't afford to be a coward
So I listen to these voices

They say it together
Uncomfortable silence and an uncomfortable truth
Doesn't this hurt?

Well, yes but it's apart of adulting
“The guilt of not saying something?”
Well, I do have that but what about the guilt if I do?
“For the record, this is self-destructive.”
Well, For the record, I know. Let those feelings die.

I'll let my uncomfortable truth become a memory
When that memory fades, we will stay just Best Friends
Best friends forever that don't have feelings like that for you anymore

So I got asked,
"Would you rather...An Uncomforting Truth or A Comforting Lie?"
And I think the truth is always best...

I have been inside my head for the past few days. Human contact has not taken me out of it like it typically would. My eyes have sunk deeper into my skull because of the lack of sleep, the more insomnia medication I take the less I sleep and I would think it would be the opposite. Perhaps it's the meals I've been missing, or maybe it's the people I've been missing, but either way I think my eyes have gone looking for something to fill this empty chest. If my heart is there, then I can't feel it beating and that's a terrifying thing to experience. They say the body's natural calming system is to listen to itself breathe and understand that oxygen is entering your lungs and you are alive. But I find that to be a rather uncomforting system. I have never wanted to be alive so why should my lungs working bring me any sense of equanimity.
I remember watching Frank die, they continued to perform CPR on him and use the AED to shock his heart back to beating. I remember counting then, I counted with the EMS to 30 for each compression, and then I counted how long it was in between the sounds of electricity to the sounds of hands pounding on his chest. I remember watching Frank leave, and I remember counting how many times my mother prayed to her rosary beads. 18. My mother prayed 18 times. I remember counting the minutes it took for my brother to drive home from college. Every minute felt like an hour so I counted every second to make sure I got to 60. It took him 42 minutes because it was 1:30 in the morning and there was no traffic on the highway.
I have Frank's poem hanging on my wall. I read it from time to time and I can see his soul. The last thing I remember of Frank was me hiding from him because my mother told me not to open the door to him because he was doing a lot of drugs. And the only reason he would be here would be to let him in his house because he locked himself out. The drugs did that to him a lot. But Frank was supposed to be getting better. Frank just signed into a rehab facility that day and he was getting better. But his heart had other plans.

I have been inside my head for the past few days. Human contact has not taken me out of it like it typically would. My eyes have sunk deeper into my skull because of the lack of sleep, the more insomnia medication I take the less I sleep and I would think it would be the opposite. Perhaps it's the meals I've been missing, or maybe it's the people I've been missing, but either way I think my eyes have gone looking for something to fill this empty chest. If my heart is there, then I can't feel it beating and that's a terrifying thing to experience. They say the body's natural calming system is to listen to itself breathe and understand that oxygen is entering your lungs and you are alive. But I find that to be a rather uncomforting system. I have never wanted to be alive so why should my lungs working bring me any sense of equanimity.
I remember watching Frank die, they continued to perform CPR on him and use the AED to shock his heart back to beating. I remember counting then, I counted with the EMS to 30 for each compression, and then I counted how long it was in between the sounds of electricity to the sounds of hands pounding on his chest. I remember watching Frank leave, and I remember counting how many times my mother prayed to her rosary beads. 18. My mother prayed 18 times. I remember counting the minutes it took for my brother to drive home from college. Every minute felt like an hour so I counted every second to make sure I got to 60. It took him 42 minutes because it was 1:30 in the morning and there was no traffic on the highway.
I have Frank's poem hanging on my wall. I read it from time to time and I can see his soul. The last thing I remember of Frank was me hiding from him because my mother told me not to open the door to him because he was doing a lot of drugs. And the only reason he would be here would be to let him in his house because he locked himself out. The drugs did that to him a lot. But Frank was supposed to be getting better. Frank just signed into a rehab facility that day and he was getting better. But his heart had other plans.