Trying Again

This didn’t start out the same
as every other poem
I’ve ever written.
There were already words
that I didn’t like
that didn’t fit
to what I wanted.
They said things I felt
momentarily
but not that I meant.
The words that formed it
were untrue
and simply allowed me
to wallow in self pity.
So I removed them
and replaced them
with a different view.
I don’t have to let
the negatives define me
because they just build me
they don’t make me.

This

A raging sea
with still no end
so deep as me
and will not bend
its darkest depths
contain no light
without firm steps
there is no fight
I’ve broken and
I’ve fallen down
please take my hand
let’s leave this town
I never thought
I’d go some place
where love is fought
with such disgrace
where fires roar
like ocean waves
and vultures soar
through open graves
where demons pass
us in the street
with higher class
than our elite
where lonely people
die in the dark
forget the steeple
forget the ark
forget the power
of the truth
this is our hour
we are the youth
we are an ocean
filled with fire
we don’t know when
but our desire
will take us from
the inside out
then One will come
despite our doubt
and show us hope
and all our sin
His blood envelope
His love will win.

Who Am I?

A circular dark void of empty thoughtlessness positions itself promptly in front of you. You can not see in, past the coating of dark thick paint, simply reflecting back yourself. Of course it isn’t a perfect image of you, but just the pieces the sphere has learnt to imitate, has learnt you admire. You coax the sphere with words of great patience and encouragement, you simply desire to know what it is, what is it made of? But it shows no signs of hope, it floats effortlessly. It’s dark void seemingly filled like a stormy ocean, like the eyes of one filled with worries beyond comprehension. You try adamantly to pollish the sphere, feeling the chill, cold as ice, which it gives off. It becomes no clearer, no more visible or understandable with your prompting. You drop your head, this void of empty thoughtlessness has got to be more than so. You desire greatly to know its secrets, to see inside it. You’re sure there is something inside it. There has to be. You hold the sphere close to yourself, you treasure it with your secrets. If none can see the secrets inside it, surely it will not spill yours. If all it does is reflect small bits of yourself, surely it will not judge. The thick black paint chips under the warmth of your being. It peels slowly at its edges, some lighter colored surface. Blue? Yellow? Is that light? You smile warmly at the newly diminished paint, the void becoming more than mere empty space. Are thoughts seeping through? Surely those ideas you hear are not yours. This process continues, slowly but gradually. You feel the globe begin to warm, heat begin to radiate, brilliant hues and colors spill through when only you are looking, when it can not tell you are looking.

It’s been a while, you haven’t given up. You would never give up now, seeing how much paint has thinned and chipped away. Knowing how bright the sphere can be. You simply wish the sphere would not falter, not repaint itself every time the world becomes darker. It has become just as much of you as you have to it. Warmth radiates in your presence. Your presence no longer imposes upon its aesthetics or genetic make-up. It is what it is, freely. Though still its identity is not entirely certain from looking at it, you think you know. You’re sure you know. There isn’t a doubt in your mind what it truly is if it lets go of its thick layers of paint, its reflective qualities and truly shines forth.

Maybe

I don’t know what I’m doing
or why you should care
that I exist–
          but I still want you to.

At some point I must realize
that I am the one hurting
you–
          I let myself believe that.

Tell me I’m wrong when
I can’t think, I say
I don’t matter–
          I want to be wrong.

Pages Falling

People are read like books-

some are open

while some are not-
         their pages are tightly pressed
         between the covers and
         shoved nicely on a shelf
         where they gather dust-
and while you try so earnestly
to see inside my pages-
   to pull me from my shelf
      I fumble to flip for you,
         to form letters into words

and show you my pages.

I can not convey to you
the words I wish I could
you do not understand my
         Chapter Five, because
      I have yet to show you
   Chapters Two through Four.

So perhaps to you
I seem shallow
because I barely show
more than my cover-
 I know you want
  to dive into my pages
   and see who I really am
    to be engulfed in the sea
     of thoughts that entangle
      and words that remain unspoken.
But here you remain
peering in, tugging at me
to come from my shelf
and I feel myself
 begin to tip
  from the edge
   of the shelf
    at your prompting
     but one question
      writes itself roughly
       where my pages left off-
        will you catch me
                                    as
                                      I
                                       fall
                                           for
                                               you?

Compare

Words fail me—
    when I think of you.
How to explain—
or how to describe—
in even the slightest
    I haven’t a clue.

Perhaps to say that butterflies
    have taken home inside me—
would start the physical feeling
but not the rest, not in the least.
Perhaps I’d say that endless forests
  are growing in the deep of a vicious sea.

I know at times—
    far more than not—
I falter at affection—
I fail to receive.
  And though the words are on my mind
  they, at the tip of my tongue, are caught.

Perhaps you’ll be patient enough,
    to let me learn to speak—
when thoughts build up and
words are many more than said.
and time runs low because
    my voice is far too weak.

To begin to describe
    the courage I had not before
is far less complex
than picking a single word
to describe my interest in you—
    but still I am unsure.

The sun rises and it sets
    without haste or care—
it pays no mind to the colour it paints
across the endless skies,
   but of it’s beauty, so effortless—
     there is very little to compare.

Don’t

Don’t give up.
It’s not the end.
You have strength.
You can mend.
Don’t let them take you
alive.
Don’t let them make your
tears arrive.
You don’t have to
feel this way.
You don’t need
the words they say.
Don’t let them take you
don’t let them win.
Don’t let them make your
chances thin.
Don’t you see
the strength inside?
Don’t let them be
why you died.
You don’t have to
start again,
you haven’t failed
there’s strength within.
Just keep going,
moving on.
No need to give up,
your life’s not gone.

Words to Understand

I know you don’t understand
you never did
I know sometimes you don’t even listen
I can tell
by the words you keep repeating

I’ll never be good enough.

Just keep muttering your ideologies
just keep repeating
every stupid word you ever said
every thought
you ever used to put me down

I know you have a lot.

Maybe some day I will understand
the things you don’t
and maybe I’ll figure out the logic
you used to hurt me
and know that none of it was ever true

but right now it just hurts.

 

Quick Sand Depression

When I am depressed
I am quick sand.
The more you try and pull me out
the more stuck I get.
The harder you try and help
the more resistance is met.
You try and save me
and I sink further in,
as long as you’re trying
you can never win.
You tell me I can make it,
I can do this if I try.
I scream in frustration
then ignore you and cry.
But if you just stand there
I’ll slowly sink to the end
where my pain and my sorrow
can no longer mend.
How can you help me
if helping sinks me down?
How can I smile
while I’m wearing this frown?
How can I escape myself
when I just keep holding your hand?

I know I can’t need you to rescue me each time,
at some point I have to learn to climb out,
I have to decide this myself or I’ll keep falling in,
I must learn not hold, but abandon my doubt.
For when I am depressed as sinking quick sand,
I must learn to refocus and find my Dry Land.

Lines

Long sleeves
even in the summer.
You know who you are.
Lines up our wrists.
Six on the left
six on the right.
Different colours
different meanings.
One goal.
We are the suffering,
we are the standing.
The best people
are the ones who take it out
on themselves.
They won’t tell you when
they can’t take it anymore
they just sit there
mouths shut
and take it to themselves.
Can you love yourself?
Because I love you.
You may not see the beauty in the mirror
but I see the beauty in your being.
Lines on our wrists
with sharpies this time.
Six simple lines
to show that you care.