A bullet in the morning.

So no one sees the effort to get out of bed.

A bullet during lunch.

So he doesn’t say the wrong thing,

Opening up undesirably.

A bullet In the afternoon.

So he can reassure his friends about their troubles.

A bullet in the evening.

So he can smile happily to his parents.

And a bullet at the night.

So the golden boy doesn’t grab his phone.

And burden everyone.

With him.

The second poem about the golden boy.

The golden boy is it, it is my prison. my puzzle perhaps.

I’m told how colorful everything is.

The yellow smiles on peoples faces.

The green laughter engulfing the air.

The pink, warm embrace.

The red words spoken softly “I love you”

The blue in caring wishes.

Yellow, green, pink, red and blue melt into grey mush.

Into grey I don’t understand.

To understand color is futile I’ve learned.

No matter how much color I’m drowned in.

I wish I could see color.

Your colors.

My colors.

But I’m drowning in grey.

Dying in grey.

the golden boy is happy.

he makes things for his classmate.

he Goes to every activity.

he laughs, and waves, he smiles big. he cleans cooks und works without complaint.

every day.

he was the most positive boy around.

he works out, got high grades and not a single bully.

but he still put a bullet in his brain.

;

My thoughts fill with disgust at the thought of you.

Your face makes me twitch, cringe at its sight.

The way your smile curls at the edge, I want to wipe the whole grin away.

The way you stand, back arched, disheveled as hell. I want to cut you.

The way your skin runs hot and cold, I want to choke you. your pathetic.

You’re a selfish, weak bastard, you deserve your pain.

The way you think so pessimistically, you are truly a waste of human space.

the way you think everyone hates you for the dumbest reason. They do, trust me they all do.

The way you slip and slope so damn easily, you truly deserve every moment of your pain, from the bottom of my heart.

Your weak, your dumb, your ugly, your truly the worst human here, a true waste.

And with that I wonder.

What’s it like to love yourself? What do people see in me?

I was told a saying.

It brought joy to one’s soul.

But I fear I grow forgetful.

Each thought wavering, gone quickly.

The rain soaks me up in its droplets.

Emotions wash me up like tidal waves.

Memory gone, control lost.

And so I can’t help it at all.

I’ve forgotten everything.

I’m sorry, I can’t follow through.

My mind is sponge releasing water.

For I’ve forgotten, and ended my promise of your saying.

When you feel like giving up, just remember the reason why you held on for so long.

My mind is empty.

The cold starts, it’s uncomfortable. I want to get rid of it fast as possible; because honestly I hate the cold.

Sitting outside on the cold wet grass it crunches covered in frozen dew. I learn quickly you can’t stop the cold, no amount of wishing will make you warm like before; because the cold hates me.

I feel cut, pierced by the cold laying down feeling my movements slow and my warm breath shoot out my mouth forming a cloud, my memory fades of the warmth to begin with but I still get more cold. It hurts more; because I don’t remember the warm.

Time flies under the vast sky of time laying on the crisp grass, warmth is long gone. I dream of what it might be like; because without the warmth the cold feels worse, like I’m missing something I felt I never had.

Finally the cold makes me want to give up, close my eyes and slip into sleep until the sun rises and the warmth is found wherever I wake up; because I dream big of the warmth I never feel anymore. I don’t feel it, not in the shower, not with a hoodie, not in the summer grass.

I lay lips cracked and fingers stiff on the summer grass at the sun, it brings no warmth; because I’ve been used to the cold for so long.

It’s a tight place here, fast breathes coming in whenever they can, pushing my chest against the walls.

My throat is compact barely swallowing inside my dry mouth just to try and breath, that itself is hard.

My heart is beating out of my chest slamming against the wall unable to calm because it feels as if it’s not mine.

My mind races to calm down as fast as possible, it doesn’t know what it or I wants because it feels as if it’s not mine.

The tight place is suffocating.

Cold.

Defying.

Dark.

I want it to end, I want to do anything to leave the tight place.

But why am I here? I know not. I never know.

My mind is chicken wire, chicken scratch.

My body is pure fire but they still get close.

I’m weak, I might break if you touch me.

My eyes dart but it’s too late.

It’s too many.

The crowds are loud, the clouds are shroud.

It’s to much! So many going on in every place at every time I can’t hear mine and the panic begins while my mind is in a spiral!

Flip flopping all around but it won’t stop and my mind is chicken wire! Chicken scratch! My body is ablaze and they rub shoulders!

I’m weak and bound to break because it won’t damn stop!

I wish it would.

If I could ask you one thing, I’d ask why.

i’d ask when.

i‘d ask how.

it gets cold out here at night.

my mind goes cold out here at night.

I stare at the stars brightly with each other.

the stars look back mourning.

it gets cold anywhere now.

it gets wet, it gets red, it gets blurry.

I wish I could collapse into your arms again.

but you haven’t been here for years, and it gets cold every day.

I hate you.

i’d ask you one thing, why? But nothing can’t answer, my voided screams prove it.

it gets cold alone.