Can’t you see?

The fire in my eyes


To stay lit?

Can’t you see?

The words bubbling up inside me


To make sense?

You see my withering body.

Can’t you see my battered soul?

I’m tired.

I want to rest.

Lay myself down in bed and for once


Can’t you see?

I’m tired.


Still stuck.
Reading those texts you left me.
Every time you needed me.
And I wasn’t there.
I’m still stuck.
Going through all the pictures you showed me.
What they meant back then.
When I didn’t understand.
Rummaging through that book you wrote me in.
Why you did it that day.
Even when I was away.

I miss you now.
Not with every breath and not with every heartbeat.
But I miss you.
When someone tells me I’m a jerk.
Because I was your jerk.
And I miss you.
Every time I listen to that song you told me you liked.
Your memory comes to me like a summer breeze.
Absent one moment, blowing the other.
I don’t know where I’m going.
With this poem, or whatever.

I’m still stuck.
Hoping to get you back.
Looking at what was.
And what could have been.
If only we had.
Held on.


Do you feel lonely?
Not alone. Lonely.
Do you feel like a singular being in a sea of souls that does not belong?
Like a misshapen puzzle piece, just hanging around, hoping to find a place to fit in on a complete picture?
Some day, it’ll make sense, yeah?
Some day, it’s going to happen.
That day, you’re going to not stay in bed hours after sleep leaves your eyes.
That day, you’re going to wake up with a smile and smile, you will, all day.
That day, you will look at people and see friends and not a crowd.
That day, you will feel more than that sinking sensation in your stomach.
That day, you will sing and sing not to escape the silence, but because you’re at peace.
That day, you will know normalcy.
That day, you will not go to sleep with a tear stained pillow and a heavy heart.

That day.

Some day, the whirlwind of sadness in your soul, in your very being, will give way to a gentle breeze of joy.

Until then.



Yellowed leaves.
Falling to the earth.
Slow. Weightless.
We are
But yellowed leaves
Falling to the earth.

Brown earth.
Covered with yellowed leaves.
Yellow. Not brown.
It is
Just the earth.
Covered with yellowed leaves.
And we
We are
But yellowed leaves
Falling to the earth.

It’s not fall.
Why is the tree dying?

Three Images

How many of you are there?

If you say one, you’re lying.

If you say two, you’re fortunate. You know you. And everyone else knows. And you both know different people. It’s okay.

Three, is still okay. You are a different self alone. A different one around the ones you love. And yet another different person around everyone else. It is okay.

It’s here that it gets tricky.
It’s difficult to keep track after three. Switching in and out of a role.
Like playing multiple characters in a play.
Everything depends on you.

If it’s a good performance, they’ll never know.
If it’s bad one, they’ll call you strange. They’ll shun you. Brand you an outcast.

Don’t let there be more than three of you. You’ll lose yourself. You’ll search for the true you. Walking through your holograms and walking into your reflections. All this looking at yourself, while looking for yourself.

Don’t let there be less than three of you. Three is just right.
Be yourself when you’re with yourself.
Be a person who the world would like when you’re with the world.
The person you love, the one who loves you, will see through these. And what you’ll have will be the perfect you.

Be three.

The Long Night

I sit in my bed, as I have a thousand nights before,picking up the pieces. Pieces of a soul I’m not sure exists anymore.
I sit in my bed, as I have a thousand nights before. Will sleep come tonight? I wonder.
I sit in bed, as I have a thousand night before. Let’s rest, my mind says. It’ll be better tomorrow. I want to believe it. But what are the odds? There have a been a thousand nights before this and none have given way to a brighter morning.
I sit in bed, as I have a thousand nights before. It’s the best I can do, right? Sit. Wonder. Gaze at the moon, changing everyday. Oh how you wish you had that luxury. Changing. Everyday.

Tonight, I sit in bed again.
My head hurts.
My insides, too.
But there is no pain. It is all to familiar to cause any new agony. Fresh hurt. Craving for which was the last thing I ever imagined I’d do.
I cry, but there are no tears.
I scream, but there are no words.
I scratch, but barely remove the surface of this thickly veiled remorse that jabs at me with strong, powerful strokes.
Tonight, I sit in bed again.
Like a thousand nights before.
Thinking of the next thousand.
Hoping to not know what they bring.

Welcome to the Dark Side

What would you give to hear them speak again?
The people who left. The people who were made to leave. The people who had to.
What you give to hear the ghosts speak again?
What do you think they’d tell you?

See, what I know is that ghosts only have questions.
Why? When? How? What could have been?
And even though it might not be obvious, questions can prick.
Like barbed wire.
They seem harmless enough from afar.
Entangle with them. Struggle and…..And they will leave your body bloody and your soul bruised.

Is that a skeleton in your closet?
Don’t shut your closet. Open it. Let it out . Lead it far away.
But don’t indulge in conversation with your past. It’ll give you memories.
Tender, loving memories.
They’re not bad. But to a bruised soul, they’re not soothing. They’re troubling.

Is that a demon under your bed?
Don’t you know under the bed is just the back of the head?
Touch it. Feeeel it course through you conscience. Let it glide through your mind. Soooaaaaaaar.
Demons just give you clarity. They make you see. The obvious.
That ghosts lead to questions and skeletons lead to memories and both these things are not good for you.
Hug your demons goodnight.

Hug them.
And you actually might sleep.
Trapped in the graveyard of your mind.
With ghosts and skeletons.
Demons might help you sleep.
Rest, your tormented mind.
Your bruised soul.
Your all-consuming conscience.