"A Poem For a Friend"

To most readers this will make no sense
And I wish to recompense.
But I trust you all will be dapper gents
And let me add my two cents.
A poem for a friend.
And this is how it goes.
There is this bitch I know.
We call him a dirty hoe.
Because his very essence is the quintessence
Of being this hoe.
Some may call him a whore.
But this whore I so adore.
Because he makes
Custom
SIDE
DOORS.
What is a custom side door, one may ask?
Hell if I know. I'm half drunk from whatever is in this flask.
So if you see this fat, ugly, bitch, elevator mechanic
Please be a dear and pay him in spades
He will likely be on rollerblades.
And if you love him forever more
Please ask about his custom side doors.
They are literally not a thing a merely a joke
But it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy...in my...uh...
Yolk?
Christ. Too much flask.

"Creeping Plague"

It reaches and grasps and never breaks hold
The toxic, ugly, deadly mold
This creeping plague
My tainted soul.
I have tasted death before
And I have seen the door
The door of death and life
The door of endless strife.
I have returned from the breach
The breach that one cannot teach
The void between life and death.
The unknown, the theorized, the bridge.
I have felt my soul be tugged and pulled
From life to death
From death to life
From heaven to hell
From hell to heaven
And to the void
And to the earth.
I know not why I was spared
Or merely saved because other humans were scared
But since that day took place
I cannot identify my face.
I have been dead before.
And I will be dead forever more.
Where I will go is known to me.
And the creeping plague grabs hold of me.
But I feel this disconnect between my body a soul
A disconnect that should be impossible.
No one knows or understands, but how could they?
Only if one has been beyond the breach
And has seen what I cannot teach
Can they understand this poem, this rhyme.
I know where I will go.
Whether it be heaven, the void, or hell.
And where I will go; only time will tell.

"Sickness"

In my life I have been sick.
Sick in the stomach
Sick in the heart
And sick in the mind.
This is not to say that I am crazy
Or perhaps I am
But lately I am sick.
Sick of the work.
Sick of the people.
Sick of the loneliness.
And sick of myself.
Before I get out of bed
Every day there is a battle in my head
"Do I get up, or do I give up?"
Lately the answer has been both.
There are days when I get up.
And I continue to get up.
But then there are other days.
Days where it is not worth limited energy I possess
Even if the day is indeed important
Sometimes I am blind and cannot see
The importance that is in front of me.
And so the days wear on and on
Some I get up and walk
Some I sleep and passively run.
Where this will take me I do not know
But eventually this sickness will go
And for that day I cannot wait
For then I can once again appreciate.

"MURDER McBADASS HERE. STORIES ARE MANLY."

I'M BACK
...
BITCHES!
MURDER MCBADASS HERE and I have a GOD DAMN AWESOME story for you. If SHARKS aren't POURING OUT YOUR BUTTHOLE by the end of this story, I HAVE FAILED AT LITERATURE.
LITERATURE IS MANLY!
Now that you're suitably excited, let's get on to the GOD DAMN BADASS story. Much like my critically appraised poem (It was critically appraised! By at least one critic! ONE!) this story will be the best story ever written in the history of ever! EVER IN HISTORY. 
Let's get started.
...
BITCHES!
Once upon a time, there was a beef-fed grain-fed dragon.
With PECS.
This dragon, much like the author of this story, was a GOD DAMN LEGEND.
Being the stuff of legends (GOD DAMN ONES!) , this dragon was wildly popular and also incredibly pretty.
And also handsome.
And good-looking.
SCREW IT. Get out a GOD DAMN thesaurus and look up synonyms for attractive! This dragon is literally all of these words in addition to a word that I just made up!
EXPLOTRACTIVE.
The dragon of our story was EXPLOSIVELY ATTRACTIVE.
I broke some basic rules of proper story writing and ruined the immersion! I apologize! But while I have your attention, why does it take so long to grill a ham sandwich?? It's RICE-FED BULLSHIT!
But anyway, our dragon was explotractive.
And wildly popular.
One day, a significantly less explotractive man approached the dragon's lair.
"Dragon," the man queefed out his GOD DAMN ugly face "You stole and totally made kissing sounds at my lady friend!"
The dragon, of course, had done nothing of the sort. He had merely saved a pretty lady in danger. 
He remembered it like it was only yesterday...
Which it was.
It was twenty-four hours ago.
...
BITCHES!
A pretty lady dangled over a pit of piranha-infested corn-fed acid. 
And our dragondary (IT MEANS LEGENDARY DRAGON. READ A BOOK!)  hero was having negative ten of that!
NEGATIVE TEN IS LESS THAN NONE.
"Oh my stars and other balls of densely-packed gas and beef-fed grain-fed goodness," the pretty lady ooo'd out her ahhh "is that an explotractive dragon here to save me and also make kissing sounds at me later?"
Luckily for our lady friend, IT PRETTY MUCH GOD DAMN WAS.
But the significantly less explotractive man queefing out his accusations from his GOD DAMN UGLY-ass face didn't know that.
AND OUR HERO DRAGON KNOWS HOW TO EXPLOIT STUPIDITY.
"Nah man," our explotractive dragondary legendragon (READ A BOOK!) exploded out his kissing-sound hole, "that wasn't me."
"Oh," the less explotractive wimpy buttface wiener loser-fart burped out his ass face "My bad, dog."
The less explotractive man left our dragondary beef-fed grain-fed legendragon hero in peace.
To make kissing sounds at that hot chick he rescued earlier.
For at least SIXTY SECONDS.
And so our hero-dragon and lady friend lived happily ever after.
Until they died in a GOD DAMN BADASS knife-gun-boxing-cannon showdown to the DEATH!
In SPACE.
FIGHTS TO THE DEATH IN SPACE ARE MANLY.

So there you have it. The best GOD DAMN BADASS story written in the history of ever. If sharks aren't POURING OUT YOUR BUTTHOLE you need medical attention, stat! Your imagination gland needs a replacement! I'll be back in the future to regale you with more tales of excitement, boobs, wieners, explosions, GOD DAMN MOUNTAIN DEW, and other badass things!
...
BITCHES!

"In the Rain"

In the rain I can't desert you
Nor will I let them hurt you
But once your rain has passed
You no longer seek my grasp
And so your sunshine shines
And in the sun do you play.
Deserted in the rain I hurt, it's true.
But once the hurt has passed like your rain
And I no longer feel the pain
I feel content and happy and fine
To let you play in the sunshine
Then I feel we must go our separate ways
Me with fallen water, you with ultraviolet rays.
But this is not to be the case
As raindrops fall upon your face.
This is not the rain of me, rather, it is the rain of the sea.
Salty and painful, dimming your sunshine with tears.
And you run away from the salt and pain of the sea
You run to the rain, where you can be with me.
In the rain I can't desert you
Nor will I let them hurt you
One day I hope you'll see
That together we can be.
With both rain and UV
We create beauty.
A rainbow can be made
If together we remain.

"I AM MURDER McBADASS."

I AM MURDER McBADASS.
You may assume the bolded caps lock above would be a typo.
YOU WOULD BE INCORRECT.
Bolding in caps lock makes readers GOD DAMN EXCITED. So god damn excited that SHARKS WILL POUR OUT THEIR BUTTHOLES.
So. Many. SHARKS.
But let's get down to the nitty-gritty, for all you edumacated folks out there.
THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST GOD DAMN POEM EVER CREATED. IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.
Ladies and gents, hold on your your testicles and top hats! This is about to GET REAL.
Ahem.
Once upon a time.
There was a boy who could not rhyme.
So he resorted to using comedy at the right time.
Testicles.
Poems were not necessarily his strong suit,
But out his ass shot monster toots. (BREAK TIME. MONSTER TOOTS ARE MANLY.)
The ladies of the land did so appreciate
This man with so many lavish tastes
Many pirates did he pillage
Ladies did he have
Oh my god so many ladies. (AT LEAST ONE.)
But DAMN did the ladies love him.
It was true.
And in the loving did they screw.
In his lightbulbs for him. (GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER.)
But along one day came a man named 'Mick'
And did old Mick by chance did kick
Our noble boy
Who took that kick
But not before the ladies sucked his
Dirt. Off the floor with a vacuum. (SERIOUSLY GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. I APOLOGIZE FOR THE SEXISM.)
Who took that kick
But not before the men sucked his (BOOM. FIXED.)
Dirt. Off the floor with a vacuum. While watching FOOTBALL. WOOO! EXPLOSIONS AND PUSSY!
In the end it was the boy who won.
By kicking Mick not in the chesticles
But nay (HORSES SAY NEIGH!)
Directly in his weasel testicles.

BOOM. THE BEST POEM IN THE HISTORY OF EVER. BITCHES. 

*Note from the author: This blog post was primarily to let out my bizarre sense of humor. This blog features many pieces, as it is 100% unfiltered writings of my soul. That being said, part of my soul, and by extension, me, has a bizarre sense of humor. In the future, there will most likely be more posts like this. If anyone was offended in any way, I truly am sorry. But every once in awhile I will let the humor beast out. And it will probably look something like this uh...poem. The goal of this blog is to keep my writings 100% purely and, unapologetically, "me."

"Utter Gibberish"

In the cranks did the flippity doop.
In the cranks were the flarken and dinks.
Bipplebop went the flippity and flarken and dinks.
In so doing bibblebop, the flarken doinked the dinks
This spippered the flippity.
And the flippity dooped.
Gunkfilky was the ginklegek.
He doinked the dinks.
He zurped the flarken.
And wump did the ginklegek doop.
In the cranks were the spippered flippity
The zurped flarkens
The doinked dinks
And a gunkfilky ginklegek.
And all of them did doop.
But yish did the ginklegek doop?
The flippity flopped and pinked and mooped.
But the ginklegek narfed to doop.
Ippafacko turned the flippity.
Dickyfop were the dinks.
And wippitywappity were the flarken.
The ginklegek yicked fizzycacks as isshywink.
Nippywunks were they all.
And in the end.
All of them did doop.

"Library"

A library.
A place for knowledge
A place for peace
Yet this is where the students meet.
Sometimes it is comical how loud it be
In a place supposed to be a quiet study.
Over there, a man yelling "penis."
Over here, a girl glaring at him like he be from venus.
What is this library where people shout penis?
What is a library where people glare as if from venus?
It is a library.
A library on a college campus.

"Barrier"

To let his arm fall was death.
Not only his death, but the death of all he loved, all he had trained for, all he had lived for. It would all die.
He was not about to let that happen.
His shield arm was long past numb. A bone stuck out of the skin on his forearm. But still he held his shield.
He'd lost count of how many men he had stabbed, how many arrows he had deflected off his shield. He had replaced his original spear for that of a fallen enemy. The balance of this weapon was less suited to the mid-range stabbing he was used to, and more suited to long range engagements. But he made due by gripping the weapon further up the shaft, closer to the head of the weapon. But it was unwieldy at best.
It mattered not. If it could skewer men, it would do.
A scrawny enemy soldier launched himself at his shield, only to be intercepted by the spear in his other hand. The enemy soldier caught it squarely in the face. The weapon punctured entirely through the soldier's helmeted head.
He manfully flicked the soldier off his spear, sending the enemy soldier's corpse flying through the air. He was pretty sure it smacked another enemy in the process. With his helmet limiting his vision, he could not be sure, but it was an amusing thought to nurture.
Even with his limited vision, all he could see were enemies. Light infantry, infantry, cavalry, and archers. Behind the archers was the enemy monarch, perched peacefully on his raised chair, no doubt comfortably eating grapes or some such delicacy with concubines on each of his arms.
Each and every one of them must die. Perhaps an exception could be made for the concubines.
An arrow pinged off the front of his helmet. The vibrations of the impact jarred his head and scrambled his senses. He hated archers.
A sudden, horrible jolt of pain shot up his shield arm. Apparently it had taken too much abuse. The bone was protruding more now, and his shield slanted dangerously low. He shouted a command and took a step back. Sure enough, one of the men behind him took his spot in the line. If his shield fell, all was dead.
He cursed.
He hated being on the back lines line this, resorting to simply stabbing those that clashed on the shields of his fellows in front of him. His shield arm felt useless, that is, it would feel useless if he could feel it.
Another enemy soldier took his too-long spear to the face. He allowed himself a small smirk. Maybe his long weapon would now be of better use.
 Still the sea of enemies advanced, and they were just now getting to the infantry. The light infantry was on its last legs.
The cavalry loomed in the distance on their horses. Archers peppered the sky with arrows.
All of them still had to die.
As for his ragtag group of soldiers, they were faring a little worse. Outnumbered five to one, they should have been slaughtered long ago. But here they stood. Still fighting. Still killing.
Still standing.
The primary problem was bodily endurance. His men could fight as long as their bodies could. He looked his increasingly bloody shield arm. He tried to raise it higher, as if to block an attack.
Perhaps this was a problem.
His arm had totally given out. No matter how hard he tried to raise it, it would not budge.
He looked up to the shield line. It still stood strong, the man in front of him brushing off every attack as if it were merely a mosquito bite. This was good. The enemy infantry was almost half-way depleted now.
His spear took an enemy soldier at an awkward angle and broke. His weapon had limits too, apparently.
He prayed the forward shield line could hold the enemy long enough for him to find another weapon.
His wish for another instrument of death was granted, but not in the way he wished. A comrade next to him took a javelin full in the face and dropped dead instantly. Both cursing his luck and thanking his now deceased comrade, he yanked the weapon free and continued stabbing.
He surveyed his men. Their numbers were slowly decreasing. Like a stubborn old rock being eroded away by the tide, they slowly, surely, were going to fall to this ocean of an enemy.
He surveyed the shield line. Enemy infantrymen were being dispatched almost as quickly as they charged. He allowed himself a small smirk.
If their infantry kept attacking the way they were, perhaps there was a chance at victory. Though slim, he had faith that he and his men could overcome this mass of screaming human weapons.
Then the enemy formation changed.
They were sending in the cavalry.
The mounted soldiers charged and were upon the line in an instant. There was no time to prepare.
He shouted a desperate command. His men obeyed.
The shield line broke just before the mounted enemy arrived.
Many of his men died. Many of the enemy cavalry died.
Somewhere in the midst of things, he had thrown his javelin. He saw it sticking out of the head of an enemy horse, its rider crushed beneath its corpse.
He looked around, his eyesight blurred and bloody. Many of his men were dead, but the enemy cavalry had been destroyed.
He looked at the enemy monarch's raised chair, so far away.
He hatched a desperate plan.
And charged.
He was weaponless. He had a useless arm that would surely be amputated should he survive. But he still had his shield.
He sensed that his remaining men were around him. They had gotten his plan. Good.
He heard the sounds of weapons rebounding off metal shields, men screaming, horses in death throes, arrows being loosed...but still his gaze was forward.
As long as he was alive, he would charge forward.
And he would end this fight.
The monarch was close, now. He could hear the cowardly ruler shouting commands. A kingsguard formed to combat him and his men.
He wondered how many men he had left.
No. He could no allow such thoughts now. He was close enough.
He took his shield in his good arm.
With all the momentum he had built in his charge, he hurled his shield directly at the monarch's perch.
Then he saw a flash, heard a sound, and felt a sting on his neck.
He saw the world spin.
One of the things he saw in that spinning, bloody world...
Was a monarch.
With a crushed head.
He allowed himself a small smirk.
And all was cold.

"A Little Girl and a Dog"

September 12, 2020. Hawaii. Strange happenings have been reported in a small village by the trees. Whenever I try to pronounce the name I fail, so let us refer to the town as "The small village by the trees." 
I  recall reading the report on my ride over to Hawaii. The document seemed so unbelievable and outlandish that even I had a hard time believing it, and I have devoted my entire life to research of the paranormal, a widely discounted field of study.
Apparently a dog had gone missing. Nothing strange here. But...it was what came after that concerned me.
The population of the small village by the trees had dropped by eighty percent in three days. Everyone was missing. 
Something about the letters  of the last sentence of the report made me feel ill and made my hackles rise.
Dog missing. Everyone missing. Little girl and dog. Little girl and dog. LITTLEGIRLANDDOG. 
He did not want to remember his  experience. But he had a report to write to some important people. They must be warned.
The village, as the report implied, was almost entirely deserted. A wild-eyed woman nearly bowled me over when I attempted to talk to her, pen and notepad in hand, about the disappearances. As she ran past me at what seemed to be mach-speed, she shouted various obscenities back at me for mentioning these disappearances. This was obviously peculiar behavior, but no one else was around to interview. I merely jotted down "Little girl and dog" in my notebook. 
Even writing of the events filled the man with a sense of unease. But if this went unspoken as it had so far, the world would never know. And this threat was a real one. This may indeed be paranormal, but the threat to every living thing on the planet was very real. And if the man had to vomit his guts out to write this report, he would. He would do it. He began typing again.
The village had a horrible, sickly aura to the place. It was...well...it is merely indescribable unless one has experienced it. The deeper I got into the village, the more sick to my stomach I felt. It was as if the place was attempting to warn me; it was as if my very soul was retaliating in disgust. I felt more uncertain of myself with every step I took; I was not qualified for this. The man vomited on his keyboard and cursed. He unsuccessfully tried to clean his keyboard with his sleeve. But type he must, and type he did. He only needed to send out this one email.
...The village. My god, that village. It was beyond anything that I could even comprehend. What I am about to tell you now is true. It is true, I have fabricated some material in my career, but everyone must be warned. This must not be ignored--
The man shuddered and began to sweat. His right eye began twitching uncontrollably.
---Blood. Blood everywhere. What was a seemingly calm village from the outside, regardless of the sickly aura, had revealed to be something much, much more horrible. Writing this even now causes me great pain. I wish not to remember what I have seen. But the blood. I...I can't. There was just so much. Every house. Every inch of the ground in my field of view. Blood. Blood. BLOOD. There were body parts strewn around, intestines hanging from the limbs of rapidly rotting trees, and I speak true, the trees were rotting faster than I could and currently can believe--
His hands were shaking, and he realized that he was crying, now. The inside of his throat burned, he assumed from vomiting so much.
--and she charged at me, screaming. The woman I had seen earlier, the one with the wild eyes. She clawed at my face, tried to bite me, tried anything to see me dead. She was crying. Crying tears of blood. And she was smeared in her own, what I assumed, to be vomit. She shouted more gibberish and accused me of mentioning a little girl and a dog. At least that is what I think. Truthfully, I was just astonished that she seemed not to notice the scene of carnage behind me.
He wiped his eyes. It was getting difficult to see.
And then she was gone. More quickly than I can comprehend, I tell you truly, the woman was gone. She was dragged. Dragged by someone, or something, into the shade of a nearby tree. I was sprayed with her blood. Sounds more horrible than any man has a right to imagine accompanied the spray. I tell you truly, if you are trying to imagine these sounds, you are failing. Miserably. These sounds were no mere vibrations of the air, no, they tore the very fabric of my soul. These sounds were painful. So horribly, horribly painful. To tell you truly, I barely felt the spray of blood. And yet it happened. 
He looked down to his shirt and noted droplets of blood. Perhaps he had forgotten to wash himself of it.
And suddenly they were there. A little girl. And a dog. My first instinct was to tell her to run, to grab her mutt and get out of this place, but then she looked at me. If you disregard anything and everything I have told you up until now; remember this. The little girl looked at me....and any feeling of revulsion I had felt up to that point had multiplied beyond my imagining. I began vomiting on the spot. But her eyes. And...oh, god. That girl's eyes. They were merely eye sockets. She was missing eyes entirely, or so I thought. When I looked at those sockets directly, I was greeted with eyes so bloodshot that there was more red than white, with burning pupils darker than a black hole.
Why was he laughing? The twitch had gotten worse. Oh. It was really hard to see. He felt like he needed to vomit.
And she began crying. This cry I had heard before. This cry was present when the wild-eyed woman was being butchered in the shadows. This was one of the terrible sounds. Between the soul-jarring cry and uncontrollable vomiting it is hard to say what I saw for sure. But I knew that sound. It was the same cry. My vision blurred but I was sure of one thing; the mutt had begun howling with the girl.  This sound was present as well when that poor woman was being utterly destroyed. Out of pure, soul turning fear, I sprinted faster than I believed possible. As I looked back, I could see them. The girl was smiling widely with blood covered teeth, the skin on her face seemingly melting, the mutt's skin entirely gone. I was afraid they would give chase, but perhaps I turned and ran at the just the right time. I don't know. I kept running until I collapsed out of exhaustion. I am somewhere on the hawaiin islands and
 A sound behind him.
"Thank you for mentioning me."
There stood a little girl. And a dog.

"Predator in the Dark"

The predator is in the dark.
Sneaking, preying.
The predator is in the dark, choosing its mark.
The predator will find those with large hearts.
And it will strike.
Every night, every day, whenever it catches a whiff of its prey.
The predator's strikes will sometimes miss and seem not a big deal.
But it is persistent.
It will have its meal.
There are those the predator ignores or has no need to consume.
Those already overcome by sin and hatred play to this tune.
I am not myself a saint and have known sin
But a large heart lies within my chest
And the predator of the dark knows this the best
So some need not fear the dark or the beast that lurks inside
But those largehearted like myself have need to hide.
I put up my barrier and resolve
But one day, I fear, I may fall
For the predator is relentless and smart
It will find ways into my heart
And unless I can drive it out
With me, this world will be without
The predator does not take bites or small meals
Whole souls and heart and lives are what it steals.
Not just one, but many
The predator has had food aplenty.
And so the battle rages on
Between the predator and the fawn
The fawn must run forever more
Lest the predator become engorged
Should I fall, I must be ready to fight
For then
I face eternal night.

"Oh the words I could Choose"

Oh the words I could choose
To describe what I feel
What I feel for you
If feel for you is what I do.
There are days I don't know how or why
But over you I have cried
Yet I cannot deny the charm you hold inside.
Even though I cannot deny what is inside
These feelings I will continue to hide.
You say men make you angry
Yet you speak with me, daily.
The frustration of my feelings
Resembles the feeling of being stuck.
Though there are many words I could choose to describe how I feel
The best word, I believe, is
Fuck.

"To Be Human"

To be Human is neither Yin nor Yang
Good nor Bad
Black nor White
Male nor Female
It is not "nor"
It is.
A human is not yin. It is not yang.
It is.
A human is not good. It is not bad.
It is.
Humans are not black. They are not white.
They are.
Humans are not male. They are not female.
They are.
To be human is to be.
Not to be yin or yang
Not to be good or bad
Not to be black or white
Not to be male or female
Simply
To be.

"Inside His Dreams"

Lived the boy inside his dreams
Where not a person perished
Lived the boy inside his dreams
Where he was loved and cherished
Lived the boy inside the world
Where he struggled every day
Lived the boy inside the world
Where demons go to play
Lived the boy inside his dreams
Where she was, by his side
Lived the boy inside his dreams
Where he could confide
Lived the boy inside the world
Where she was gone for good
Lived the boy inside the world
Where good dreams go to die
Lives the boy inside the world.
Where no dreams can survive.

"Shower Tears"

I sit here on this computer
Waiting for a sign
A sign that can keep me safe
A sign that can keep me sane
I wonder what my life will be
And who I will become
I stand in the shower thinking of her
Who she is and where she is
Or if she exists
I use the shower as an excuse
So none can see me cry
My life has had so much pain
I wonder if I am still sane.
But I must be kept alive
For those who love me
For if I were to die
They would surely mourn and cry
Even if I don't want to exist
it matters not
I must be kept alive
That is my only thought.
The pain will flow as a showerhead
wetting my face with tears
Pain flowing from that showerhead
Will last until I am dead
And so I sit here and I hurt
For the ones I love
The ones who love me must not know
The pain that rains from above
I try to love
Accept the world
But the world is cruel
People love and people hate
But the hatred seems to rule
I know not why I sit here, crying
But every day is a struggle
Trying. Trying. Trying.

"Attraction Curse"

All day I live with this curse
A curse that cannot be reversed
A curse that draws me to be
With people different from me
If we get together or have sex
The situation gets complex
If we get together and commit
We will have to deal with shit
Even if I am happy and okay
There is no guarantee she'll stay
In the end, much is lost
Love and friendship being tossed
In the end I end up bleeding
But that does not stop the needing
I just want to halt this curse
The curse that I cannot reverse
The curse that forces me to change my action
The curse that is known as attraction.

"A Monster Inside"

He looked in the mirror and he could not hide
The horrible monster that was inside
He tried to run and he tried to hide
But the monster always matched his stride
It ran with him and kept his pace
And always showed upon his face
The monster inside was always there
Never absent
Always there.
Whether it was in his mind
Or it was really there
The monster inside was there all day
And very soon it would catch its prey.

"The Reality"

There are things I want
And things I need
And everything in between
I want to love
I need to breathe
I get breath.
I want others to love me
I need to eat
I get a sandwich.
I want peace of mind
I need to sleep
I get neither.
There are things I want
And things I need
But whatever I get
I get indeed.

"On the Brink"

And here I am, I must not lie
On the brink of suicide
To this place I've been before
But I'd hoped to, nevermore
This place is dark
and death is near
His voice is all I can really hear
It is a battle of choice and wills
One lives, and one kills
Should I wake tomorrow morn and live another day?
Or fall asleep in endless bliss and cause my family pain?
There are choices I can make
But neither seem to give, only take
One I may see what tomorrow brings
But so far tomorrow has only given stings
On the brink
To fall left
To fall right
One is death
The other, life
Either choice is black as coal, it's plain
On the brink I will remain
Till death can win me with his song
I fear that he might not take long

"Good Enough"

Is there something I can't see?
Something that is wrong with me?
Is that something always there, hovering around my air?
Am I never true enough, kind enough, good enough?
Why must I be second or third or worst, and never the first?
Those questions I pose in prose.
I know the answer to none of those.

"Iron Heart"

Through my shield they'll never break.
To approach me is a mistake.
Deep inside I have a heart.
But it is not a work of art.
It is broken and battered and torn to pieces.
To have loved and to have lost; that is what grief is.
And so I sit here with this battered heart.
Armoring up because we're apart.
Together we will never be, I know.
Because of this, my heart will never show.
And though I may appear to glower,
it is my shield that I will never lower.
And so our length will be kept at arm,
so that I will not cause harm.

Find another if love is what you're needing.
I'll be here with my iron heart.
Bleeding. 

Personal image in college

     One's personal image can be a very important aspect of life. If one has a poor self image, it can lead to problems, a primary problem being low self esteem. I am guilty of this. At some level I am not confident about myself in some aspect. If someone, particularly a woman, does not want to "hang out" with me, I tend to feel personally rejected. But why? Why do I feel this way, and is there any way to change it?
     I am unable to answer. Perhaps it stems from a deeper psychological issue. Perhaps I have a fear of abandonment; at time I feel as if people have simply abandoned me. Even though this logically makes no sense, there is some part of my brain telling me that I am the reason why (insert person here) did not want to hang out with me. My brain cannot seem to fathom that it could be nothing against me at all and is indeed the other person. Perhaps they simply want to relax and not deal with people, no matter who that person is. I don't understand why I must feel slighted. It should not effect me in this manner.
     I believe it is my self image. I am confident with certain things I do, such as singing, reading, and playing video games. But those are the only things. I am almost incapable of considering myself to be handsome. I may literally be incapable of considering myself to be "dating" material. I still consider the previous two girl friends I have had to be a fluke. Perhaps that I, as a person, just think very little of myself.
     It is a constant battle that I will never win. Sure, I communicate with others. Sure, I can have friends. But I don't understand why those friends like me. I mean, what's to see? How am I so likable?  Why am I here? What makes me, personally, a good fit to this world? For most of my life I have felt like a mismatched puzzle piece, constantly searching for the rest of my puzzle. So far, I have not found it.
   I know not whether it be another person, a place, or nothing at all. But I feel something is missing within myself. Maybe it is self-confidence. Maybe it is a job, a person, or some kind of fulfillment that I cannot yet understand.
    All I know is this; relationships continue to perplex and haunt me. They hurt me and at the same time I crave interaction with other human beings. Do I simply need to work on myself? Do I need to work on my reaction to others? I, frankly, don't know.
And so my first weekend on a college campus begins.
Surrounded by people, but all alone.
Sometimes wishing I was in my home.
I have friends, but don't know why.
Those friends will never see me cry.

Early Semesters: Combating Loneliness and Distraction

     College campuses are packed with people. Short people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, almost literally any kind of person can be on a college campus. As such, one would think it would be a great place to meet people. This may prove to be true in a lot of cases, but for others, it simply is not. College campuses can seem TOO jam-packed with too many different kinds of people to talk to, creating a somewhat "Social Paralysis." This is true in my case.
     I am at a loss of what to do. I have met many people and gotten many numbers. I have been to parties. I have gone to fund raising events, done community service, and anything else I can think of to continue to meet new people and create new experiences. However, I cannot shake the feeling that I am as lonely as I have ever been. I might actually be more lonely now that I am surrounded by people every day.
    These new people that I have met share so little in common with me or seemingly care so little about the conversation that the interactions with said people seem hollow or meaningless. Indeed, this may be part of my own social ineptitude. But what, if anything, am I to do if these interactions continue to feel hollow?
     I have been told that I will make lasting friends in college. However, my lasting friends that I grew up with have now almost totally moved on with their lives and no longer keep in contact with me. Am I to meet more people so they can later ditch me because their lives become too busy? Am I to continuously replace friends with new people when they exit my lives? From the council I have been given, this seems to be the most common answer.
     But do relationships mean so little? Should I simply move on with my life and recall the people I have built relationships with, romantic or otherwise, as simple memories?
 "Oh, yeah. I went to college with that guy. I can't remember his name."
     The above sentence is the end result, at least for me. Why should I continue to make relationships when I will just forget people later? I won't actually forget them, as their faces, voices, and mannerisms will be imprinted in my brain, but I might as well forget. What is the point of remembering someone if all I can remember is something they did that was funny at one particular party? Why should I remember that? Should I not simply take the time I was at said remembered party and do something more constructive with myself?
     Maybe the answer lies within self-improvement. If I cannot meet others in a way that I can truly feel companionship, perhaps I should learn to be alone. Perhaps if I improve upon myself, I can feel at peace with strictly myself, and other people will not matter. Other people are indeed a source of intrigue and happiness, it's true but they are also a source of emotional pain and trauma. This is the case for myself, as well.
     If I can control the emotional trauma I cause myself and be at peace within my own person, perhaps I will learn how to do so with others. I am finding my way. But for now...
I am surrounded by people.
I am alone.
I am hurt.
I will bleed.
And I will press forward.