We picked up a rock one day
At the end of the road next to that orange sign
That always made you think that maybe they’d continue the road
If only someone cared enough to do it
We were young, like 16 or maybe 17 an age when we could feel the oncoming dread of life
But we hadn’t experienced it yet
We marveled at it for no other reason than it was the right kind of magnificent
In reality it was a pretty normal rock
We sat out at the end of the road for an hour and talked about what our lives would look like
The kids who would eventually fill our separate lives until they too left their suburbs behind
We always swore that we wouldn’t forget that day
It was too magical
But I have to confess to you
I forgot
I didn’t choose to forget it or do so in a rebellious act of growing up
Time passed and we got old
And there wasn’t really anything we could do about it
It was just another remnant of a childhood lived with other people
Before I knew the ones, I would choose to make a life with
And that memory would drown in a sea of clouding memories of my childhood with you
But then, today I found the rock
We carved our initials into it trying to make the moment last longer than we did
Our fleeting lives were nothing compared to the eons this little rock had seen
I thought about calling you up and asking
“You remember when we found this thing?  The orange sign, how we swore we would always remember it?”
But I didn’t
We haven’t talked in a while and even though you probably know me better than anyone else in my life
It still feels too personal
So I guess if you remember the rock sometimes too
Call me
I’m still here

The slash marks,
in my wrist,
Shine so red
under the lights.
But they feel,
so inadequate.

The thin stretch,
of pale skin,
Over my sprawling veins,
T'would appear that,
I have to go just a bit deeper,
And then I get to disappear.

Oh to disappear,
Be without worry,
or illness,
No more sickness,
and no more health.

Turning out the lights,
would be so simple,
But to complicate,
would save my life.

And so I will get through,
To find the way out,
of my prison.
Thinking makes not a human,
The only true way, is doubt.

Sometimes I forget what it's like,
to not feel so alone.
To have someone in my life,
I could call my own.

I remember what it was like,
before everything was so complicated.
Where I knew where I stood,
and how I could be satiated.

But I don't know anymore,
my gender is a **** fest.
I could like someone,
but I couldn't give them my best.

So I put distance,
between myself and others.
I can't trust my dad,
to see me as anything but one of the brothers.

I did everything I could,
to get away from my ****.
Who knew the snake would find me,
or that I would get bit.

So now I cry,
on a hard hospital bed.
And wonder if it's not worth,
putting some lead in my head.

All I want,
is to be gone.
To depart my fallible brain,
and leave all my dreams,
on the beaches of regret.
But I cannot do what I want.
I mustn't.
And when I scream into nothing,
I pledge I will be here.
Till the end.
I will be here,
when you need me.

Is your bedroom ceiling,
As dark as mine?
Can you see in,
The night?

Is it pebbled,
Is it flat,
What do the,
Shadows look like?

Can you look up,
And see your dreams,
Or just see concrete,
And beams.

The light September breeze,
reminds me of who I used to be,
A girl without so much worry,
A girl who wasn't judged for,
being who she was.

She left home,
And she had never felt so alone.
So she walked,
sometimes she rode with strangers,
Who seemed to really understand when she talked.

I just wanted to go North,
and see the snow.
But I wasn't doing much good,
cause my wits were starting to go,
And I hoped.

She hoped for an end,
Among the strange, beautiful places,
just around the bend.
And she found some,
In trespassing and chases.

Which is why I ended here,
in a dry town.
No whisky or beer.
Wearing a pale blue,
hospital gown.

The snow drowns me,
in cold white solitude.
Down down down I fall,
until I feel nothing,
Nothing at all.

You can still see the imprint,
where I fell through,
The snow covers all,
a false, clean, wonderland,
In which I lie small.

The air punches out of my lungs,
as the snow constricts more,
I am paralyzed,
my brain starts to close in,
I will surely be traumatized.

I won't make it out this hole,
I will be just another thing,
Hidden just below the snow,
where no one will find me,
Except maybe a crow.

I sink even further,
to my own personal hell,
I can't feel anymore,
my brain turned off,
And everything is cold right down to my core.

I dream of running,
to someplace warm,
Where I might not drown,
but I am stuck here,
In this one horse town.

They'll bury me someday,
maybe once it melts,
Maybe they'll find me,
when they go looking for pelts.

I begin to fade away,
slowly, as I go to die,
I wish it went faster,
for it's slower than July.

And with my last thought,
I realized it was all for nought.

Goodbye, old friend,
You saw me clear through to the end.

I lay awake,
tonight.
Thinking, no, obsessing
over the sights, sounds, and emotions,
of a Tuesday morning,
at 7:30.
Innocuous as it was,
It fascinates,
and compels.
An experience so perfectly plain,
That it goes almost completely,
Unnoticed.

My voice rings out,
over these sad cement walls,
hoping to god to hear
just one happy call.

My voice rings out
to you,
See me! Hear me! Understand my plight.
I didn't just invite you here for the view.

My voice rings out,
to all the broken places,
and to all the people that reside there.
But I can't it's just too many faces.

Sometimes I feel like,
I’m on a tour through life,
And I may have picked,
The wrong location,
For I am not happy,
No, I am not happy.

The tour guide,
He goes on and on,
But the veneer,
Of these gilded halls,
Just feels empty.
No, I am not happy.

I can’t help but imagine
What it would be like
To see the Louvre,
Or perhaps the Hermitage.
But instead I get my museum,
A dull empty place
I am not happy.

But I am told I must be,
So here we are.
My museum may be dull,
And empty,
But it is mine,
I must be happy.

I sometimes sit at my desk,
And stare at the bulb,
It hurts but I don’t look away,
How frail it appears,
How frail but how powerful,
Shining in a dark room,
If only I felt like my lightbulb.

The energy it holds
I wish I felt,
But here I am
Burning my eyes,
For a glorious metaphor,
After all, pain is poetic.

So, it is I tell myself,
But it doesn’t have to be
I do this to myself,
I once felt like the lightbulb,
Full of energy and strength,
But now my hope like my eyes,
Burn in its wake.