I can’t see.. I can’t hear.. I can’t feel anything.
I think I’m under water. My heart is slowing, but my lungs do not ache for air. Why?
I want to … I don’t know. Do I want to breath?
Do I want to fight for air?
Do I want to find why this is happening?
There is no light.
There is no darkness.
There is only the water flowing through my veins.
What is this water?
Is this water my life?
Is it my death?
I don’t understand.
What are these images flowing through my mind?
I cannot describe them.
I am floating in water.
I see nothing. I hear nothing. I feel nothing. Only this water.
What is to happen now?
Will I finally know what this life is for?
Will I finally know what I’m fighting for?
My heart.. It does not beat now.
Am I dead?
My lungs.. they still do not ache for air.
Am I alive?
I do not understand.
What is happening to me?
I am calm. Is that from the water?
I am nothing more than thoughts.
What is this?

The Pace of Storms

Tear out her heart and rip it to shreds!
Watch her scream ‘cause here, no light treads!
At the mercy of me, she starts to cry.
I rip out her soul and she looks to the sky.
I back hand her so hard, she falls to the floor.
She thinks she can escape me! She’s reaching for the door.
Hell no, bitch, you’re going to die!
She looks so scared but she never asks why.
She knows why, which pisses me off more!
I kick her hard and she slides across the floor.
She tries so hard to hide her eyes.
She knew what would happen for believing in lies.
I grab her face and force her to look at me.
The same time I scream it, she whispers, “You’ll never be free.”
I release her and quickly back away.
The knowledge in her eyes is as clear as day.
She knew all along but never used her voice.
All of this pain was her own choice.
I punch her face as hard as I can.
But the skin on my knuckles split and my blood ran.
I look at the glass, falling like my tears.
Everything has gone wrong all these past years.
I pick up my knife and hold it to my wrist.
I look at my shattered reflection, my hand makes a fist.
The several reflections stare at me, their lives at stake.
I look in their eyes and see their hearts break.
I can’t do it. I can’t slide the blade.
I look inside, but the anger already started to fade.
I have been denied, by myself, my final moment once more.
But this time, from my eyes, regret doesn’t pour.

The House of Blues

Angry lips and pain shot eyes.
Throbbing hearts laced with agony.
Souls that weep and cry in fear.
These are things found in the House of Blues.

People yelling hurtful words,
While angels cry of woes untold.
Demons scream and call us fools.
Things all heard in the House of Blues.

Arrows of Love and Stabs of Hate;
Confusion comes like a spray of mist.
Fear and sorrow climb up your spine.
Emotions that are felt in the House of Blues.

The House of Blues is a place of misery;
Sorrow and Anger the only occupants.
Chaos fills the rooms like air
And darkness consumes all.

Life’s Significance
I’m sitting here with that sweet, familiar, yet indescribable smell blowing gently to my face.
Two humans sit a few yards away from me, talking and eating the school’s food.
I’m writing this because I have a question.
I’m watching ants dutifully tear apart a dead, green beetle on it’s back.
The ants are many in number.
The ants don’t stop to think, “This was once a life, as I am a life.”
They never think, “This poor creature.”
They don’t even think that they are mutilating a body.
They only fulfill their duty.
Never questioning.
Never hesitating.
An odd-looking fly just landed on my jeans.
I tried swooshing it away.
But it came back.
I realized that it was feeding.
It dropped a gnat’s carcass and stayed for a while.
But now it’s gone.
Did it ever stop to think, “This could be me?”
The ants have made it inside of the beetle’s body.
I’m watching as they pile in until the beetle is full.
They are moving the body.
A tiny messenger ant just came to inspect and inform, I guess.
There’s one soldier ant making sure nothing hurts the others while also helping.
I can’t help but wonder: What would the world be like if we all helped one another like that?
Odd shaped and colored bugs are everywhere.
I never realized how many lives are out there.
No matter how insignificant.
The ants have stopped moving the body.
They are still going in and out of it, though.
I see a small yellow butterfly, and I wonder: Will the ants someday mutilate it, too?
Will they use the wings for something?
Or will it be just another supply source?
Will the butterfly even wonder what’s after its life?
Will it have any way of fighting back?
My question is: Does anyone have any way of fighting back Death?

The voices in my head
Say all that shouldn’t be said.
It hurts so much to listen to them all.
They make me feel so very small.
I don’t understand what they all want from me.
I know they’re here because they know I see.
I’m so afraid because they know me so well.
They scream secrets at me that I can never tell.
I want to get away
But I’m always forced to stay.
They all watch my crystal tears.
I can’t even number all of my fears.
Time and time again, I’ll have to avoid being shown.
Time and time again, I’ll have to hide all alone

The choking dust refuses to settle,
And the bass drum of the world keeps playing.
Killer red flows over the scape,
As the grey plumes from the looming cone stretch for miles.
Opaque black smoke searches out new victims,
Death like charcoal on the tongue.
White-hot air crisps your skin,
You can never run fast enough.
Destruction comes for the green,
Leaving only a memory.
The Earth’s very core releases its anger.
But the main attack eventually subsides,
Leaving as it came.
The destruction rages on, however,
For an orange virus escaped the clutches of the mountain,
And nothing can contain it.
Reality killed the daydream of quarantine,
Of safety,
Of security.
We will just have to sit-
And wait-
This one-
Out.

What makes a poem
a poem?
Is it the ungraspable meaning
that flows throughout the piece?
Or the rhymes that dance around?
What makes the poem
a being of emotion,
of feeling,
of spirit?
Is the way that it’s written
the key to success,
or is it the author’s imagination
that breathes life into the words?
Can the detail
in the stanzas
make the images
come alive?
Or are the pictures locked,
forever dead in the coffin
of writing?
Does poetry kill the words
that it so faithfully uses?
Does it lock up a thought-
or express it to the world?