Old poems.
Old me.

Lonely nights like these I wonder if I really still exist if I'm not so full of youth. I'm still young, but it feels like there's something missing in my heart everyday.
I miss who I once was.

That boy who was always trying to impress.
I feel I've given up in a sense. On being me, like an empty slate was the best form of self preservation. It's sad.

Like a character born from trauma, that's so colorless.

It's hard to differentiate sometimes, if I've missed you, or myself more. Or what we had, the innocence disappeared so quickly. Too quickly.

The rusted mailbox
creaks as it’s pried open,
dented door dislodging.
Two yellow balloons
tethered to its post
and bobbing in the wind,
stark color against a slate sky.
The bomp bomp of the balloons barely
heard over the wind’s whistles.

Empty inside.
It’s Sunday
after all. Too easy for you to forget
the day when days
amalgamate into one
long moment. Stuck in an
everlasting condition,
waiting for the day
when your mind
at last
is quiet.

A quiet
that comes when your hands
are busy. Too
distracted by tasks to
dwell on thoughts.

My existence
Just
Feels
So
Heavy

i had a dream of
emerging into dark empty void
warm comfort infinite expance

Something has been eating me alive
and it's coming from within
when did it truly begin
when did it start eating away
what's the cause of this decay
my insides are in disarray
out of place
some things missing
slowly filling with the void
an empty replacement
fulling with darkness
it won't stop spreading
is it truly from within
or did you infect me
pierce me with your toxin
to slowly eat away
making me useless
so I can't fight your words
your toxic hate
breaking me down
piece by piece
destroying who I was
and what I could be
but your gone
I have begun to heal
but it's hard to replace what you've taken
what you destroyed
sometimes I can still taste your poison
I know ill never forget
what you did
the pain I felt
but I can be better
I WILL be better
I can make it out alive
I can heal
no matter how hard you tried
I'm still alive

Two sickly birds,
In their nest of salt,
And it's not their fault.
What do they know?

On the waterfront, in a freight car-
Call it passion, call it desire.
Whatever it is that inspires-
That thing that wrings
One more day out.

What songs angels sing!
As they ferry souls along,
On flight, in wing
En route:
But the dead walk amongst the living, too,
And sometimes even angels get confused.

Poor, empty vassal

We knock on doors to find if there is someone on the other side.

Lately I've heard knocking.

Desperately wondering if I am still there.

But I haven't responded in the fear of having to admit that no one's here now.

No one is behind the door anymore.

I am just a voice.

And there is nothing left to look for.

Just an empty room and a body.

-Percy