suicide

Damn it.

most appear and fade away

I'm this close to being done.

Who am I kidding.
Why was I trying.
Who am I kidding. I'm not a writer.

The worst is having a broken heart but no one even realized they broke it.
Then you are mad.
Anger pushes up inside of you and you wanna just throw every thing you own out on the table and say "Take it! You can have all of it. I don't want me anymore."

The pieces of you are scattered.
You can do nothing.
No good.
No bad.
You just sit.

Fade away. Sink lower into the dirt you were made from.
You want to be forgotten. So nobody can remember when you failed.

I'm not a writer. I just talk too much.

Mom's got the bucket

 

Dad never let us draw chalk on the driveway. But I miss the days when he'd yell at us to stop. Knock it off. Grow up a little bit faster.

So I did.
When all that stuff happened..  When life happened, too young and too quickly, I grew, shooting up on a thriller ride and my body collapsed under the pressure.
I think my head and my heart must have collided on the way up cuz I haven't been able to get them separated since.

I dropped my crayons on my way up, but I never really had them from the start.
It always for me better to use the stick of charcoal. So I could get my hands dirty.

As I left my childhood I became a stick of charcoal, trying to draw on the pavement. But mom wouldn't stop pouring the bucket of water over all my pictures.

Any kid would've stopped trying to create things after they watched that black wash off the driveway and drip into the grass.

I love her still.
Even if she never bought me a Crayola set.
Even after I began to wonder if she let me hold the charcoal just so she could wash it away again.

But I was only ever trying to draw her a picture and I think that's what hurt the most.

And You've Won

It's time to hand out the awards again and the crowd goes silent as the last award is about to be announced.
Human of the Year.
I've always wanted to win.

But there's that hush and that rush and the announcer says what the neighbors have hoped wouldn't be spoken. You've won again.
It's only a contest in my mind I know, but somehow it matters that you win over me... every time. I haven't decided, but I might like it that way.

Human of the Year and you've won.



I make a decent human.

My grades say so. My parents say no. So I guess that lands me somewhere in the middle.
But you used to wonder if I was half god because I had some magic magnetic pull or something. And I can do math like a pro.
Where's that magic pull now?

And I might've believed you if I hadn't lost in the end.

So now I see I'm human because when I saw you dancing at prom, I swore for the second time in my life because, you were beautiful. Even if you weren't dancing with me.

And I could feel that I'm human when I found one of your red hairs on a shirt I haven't worn since that Tuesday and I kicked a hole in the wall.
My mom was gonna pass out.
I know I'm human because the look on her face still is hilarious to me.

I know I'm human because I get anxious.
I know I'm human because I can't stop myself from writing a thank you card after everything.
I know I'm human because I slip in the shower.
I know I'm human because I keep shaving the mustache that isn't there yet.

So you've won the award again.
You, Human of the Year again this year and you're probably just sleeping in your bed right now, completely unaware.

Yeah so. You've won the medal and you were nice, but you were wrong.
Because I'm just human and I won't believe I'm any more than that now..
Because even half a god could grow a mustache.

And I can't.

thirty-two

Back when a man's hand was used for nothing but shaking.

(I think this is my Paris post.)

I'm looking at my thirty-two year old self in the mirror and I'm scared.
Maybe I'm getting to the half-way point cuz I'm almost positive this is my mid-life crisis.

I look at my face in the mirror. Scratchy. My chin, my hair, and the wrinkles lining my eyes. Am I sad?

I guess it happens suddenly, huh? Because that's how I hear the knocking. It had been a while, but I still remembered how to open the small door to my bones.
So, it was in my hands that I held them. I wanted to rock and to roll with them. They sent a shock through my palms that ignited every regret I had left in me. I heard them talking and it was the first time in 10 years.
That's when I saw in my hands, mixed with the blood and the bones, a picture of Paris.
I stared at her. Did I even own her from the start? I don't think so, but I know Paris had seen me. I'm thirty-two and even dad doesn't know what to believe anymore.
But, somehow, my bones drew a sketched up picture of the Eiffel tower and I knew it was for me.

Suddenly I remembered the bricks they used to keep me here. The night my bones helped me sand them down to make my escape. As I stand here in my 10th grade locker room, my heart is hurting and I remember my first look through that hole at the Eiffel tower. My Beacon. There she stood, shining, melting the snow in my footsteps. My bones are beating to get through to my 32-year-old self as I relive once more... stepping through the hole, my hair brushing against the crumbling bricks, and hearing Resistance calling my name.
I wish I never looked back.


But that night, my bones were set. So I turned and ran even faster.
I jogged till my legs were burning, but I only took life from the fire.
Because that summer I slept under the Eiffel tower and I will never forget it.


But now I'm thrity-two, looking down at my hands, shaking my head and thinking I should've sealed up that hole. I didn't realize how I was holding that picture so tightly.

What happened.
I'm 32 and I have just as many hours in my day as I did when I was 6. As they always have. All that's changed is that I've read so many more books.
Life happened.

Life isn't called living if you're using a dead player.



I'm still very much a little boy.

wipe me off the table

If there was an announcer right now, viewing myself on a television screen, it'd say "Lonely boy, sits hunched over on bed. Figuring nothing out. Not really caring about anything."
And then he'd go off about the game and the strikes in my head again. and everyone would flip to the next channel.
That's why the television never made me anything.

I'm as easy as that.

My life is just 60 seconds in slow motion and when the time's up every part of the world will continue to move as fast as they usually do.
I could be swept off the plane just as easily as it took to get me here.

I'll be wiped off the table and the world won't even pause to see if the air feels differently without me in it.

NOT devasted

"What do you think I think you think about me?" 

At least I'm just lost in the right direction.
Slowly I'll become the "right kind of crazy".

This is the time we sat in the car. I can't remember if it was before or after we got out and for some reason that matters a lot.


I dream of her falling asleep on my shoulder again.
I dream of it at morning and at night, although I know I shouldn't. It doesn't seem right to dream a dream that won't come true.
Something I hate about myself: I try to pull back memories to make me feel something again.

So I think of her falling asleep on my shoulder again.
I could feel her weight getting heavier as she fell
in and out
of sleep.
Our bodies warm under that heavy blanket.
Her arm pulled around my waist.
It lay sleeping like the sleeve of my sweater sometimes.
The energy we created, and the heat, was simple. Just that simple kind of touch is something I want back.
I told her I loved her that night. That might've been the very first time.
It was taking everything I had not to kiss her right then, and I told her that too.


Now I'm wondering if that girl was just a reciprocation of my infatuation. What if that's true... and every gesture, every movement, all those words, every laugh was only to tease me and my balancing act.

It wasn't a breeze for me to be in love, but this girl made it look easy. I thought that just meant I was out of practice.
I think about what the inside of a heart must look like and, gosh, it's disgusting. I know you know that.
I think of her.. playing with my heart in her hands.
Tossing it back and forth,
rubbing it between her palms while she's having a casual conversation with somebody.
Playing with my heart until it rubs raw.


All my feeling's are just memories now.

I don't know why I've still got her memories.
or have they got me?
I really don't know, but I know that they're not setting me free.


"I know what you're saying and all I can say is that I know that you know that you're wrong."