'It's going to be okay'

You'll sit there and think.

Think that maybe, just maybe it'll all work out.

There are nights, where this mindset just doesn't happen.

Those are the saddest of nights.

The nights where you're taken to the deepest part of your very being.

Where all of your self hatred manifestos, and you begin to loathe it with every fibre of your being.

Those are the nights where you fall into the void.

Deeper

Deeper

and deeper until you cant find your way out. 

Then, you sit there. 

You sit there and think of everything wrong with you.

You think of your voice, your hair, your face, you looks, your personality. Everything. Then, you begin to think more. You think of every imperfection. Every small detail shows itself before you cant even pick out anything thats good about you. 

Not like there was anything in that category to begin with.

Now, this is the point where you stand up. You stand up and brush off your clothes and begin to look around.

You walk in circles.

Over and over and over you walk the same path. And every single time you begin to hate a little more about humanity. 

Cynical, isn't it?

But thats just how the game is played. Your not the puppet master, you're a pawn. Fated to play the same old game until your string is cut. 

But thats alright.

After all, everyone thinks you're fine. 

And, 

As long as others are fine, who cares about you? As if anyone would ever notice you, you're not even a needle in a haystack

No.

Compared to everyone else? You're insignificant. Over seven billion people in this world, so who would care about one single morsel? Besides, it was all your fault.

Your parent's divorce

Your family crumbling

Your friends' depression

Even their suicide attempts.

The world is better off without you!

So come on,

Do it.

Don't be a coward, just think about everything you've done. This will be good for the world! After this, you'll thank me.

As they always say,

You're never going anywhere with your life kid!

Who cares if you cut it short?

Thirteen years you've ruined things.

Thirteen years you've been a bother.  

You can still fix it! Tie the rope, slit your wrists and swallow the pills.

There you go.

Can you feel the blackness enveloping you?

Thats good.

You'll finally be out of the way!

You'll finally stop ruining things for once.

Your friends are cheering you on!

Close your eyes now, you should rest.

I hope you never wake up,

Because I would be just fine if you didn't. 

"The prince has fallen!" 

The heftiness of those words were enough to drag people to their knees, causing them to let out loud and wretched sobs. Jasper Argyle, the prince had been shot in battle. He wasn't supposed to be on the battlefield. It could have been avoided if he would have just stayed put like Basil had told him to. But the prince had wanted to help, even after knowing he was untrained. The opposing army had caught him off guard, and he was shot in the head. The bullet had been lodged into his hippocampus, and he had been killed. Many soldiers knew it was inevitable, and continued to fight. However, there were two who rushed over to the prince. Two who had loved the boy, two who had never left his side. First, it was his sister who fell to her knees. She just witnessed her closest companion die, and she could have done something. If she was just paying attention this wouldn't have happened.

She blamed herself.

The second, was Basil. Sweet, little Basil. He didn't fall to his knees, and he didn't cry. He just simply picked up his weapon, and turned. Turned to the solider who shot. Turned to the killer.

He took a few steps foreword, narrowly avoiding death. He took a deep breath, loading his gun and aiming.

The bullet went whizzing through the air, going straight into the other person's heart. The soldier fell, dead within seconds. Basil paused, finally falling to his knees. He also let out a small, defeated cry as he mourned his closest companion. He could have done something, he thought to himself. He should have.

Basil blamed himself.

The syrupy scent of Cottonwood leaves permeates the heavy night air, lacing through the raindrops to waft up my nose.

I allow my eyes to drift closed so I am able to see the elicited memory of my great grandmother stirring Balm of Gilead salve on her rusted wood stove.

Snapshots of cousins giggling and adults conversing jovially fill my mind and wrap me in the warm embrace of familial love.

It is often said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but a scent can unfurl a bundle of memories like the swift blossoming of a wild rose.

I wonder, briefly, if my grandmother knows the treasured gift she blessed us all with by placing family first-and dizzied by this moment, I believe she does.

Reality resides inside the folds of Jacob's ladder, while the fingers of my poetic mind trace its future in the passing clouds. And your face waxes and wanes in the stretched asymmetrical bark of an old oak tree: together we reach towards light, and we bow with honor under Earth's warm breath. 

Sunlight tiptoes across the room

Rests at the foot of their bed

"Let them sleep, a while,"

whispers the air,

"For when they wake,

you will be outshined."

You ask me if I feel numb

I can only answer with a stare

You ask me what I think of things

Yet you know I'm unaware

This life has worn me down you see

Until there's nothing left of me

I only wait and sit and cry

Just for the time when I will die

To leave this place you call the earth

How can I live, I have no worth

Won't someone hear my plea for help

And free me from this prison snare

So I may live in peace just once

Before my death will bring me there

You turn around, and look into Their eyes.

You feel Their hatred, boiling, bubbling.

You turn away quickly, ashamed.

They are too beautiful to be seen by You.

They look down, noticing Your presence.

They walk towards You, glaring, grimacing.

They turn away slowly, disgusted.

You are far too ugly for those perfect eyes.

You back away from Their beautiful eyes,

You turn around, hurting, hating.

You want to leave, desperately.

They are too beautiful to be seen with You.

They face You and take a step forward.

They walk closer, seething, simmering.

They want You to hurt, again.

You are a flea next to a deity.

You start to run.

They easily catch up, and call Your name

You stop, stumbling over Your feet.

They know your name?

They reach for You, showing You Their perfect hand.

You crawl backwards, keeping them away from someone as insignificant as You.

They stop, freed from the insanity that led Them to being willing to touch You.

You take a step towards Them.

You watch for Their reaction...

They don't react.

You start to take another

They shouldn't be touched by You. You turn again, and begin to run.

They run too.

You are not as fast as Them.

They catch up, keeping perfect pace.

You are running out of breath.

You stop, gasping for air.

They stop, and take You into Their arms.

You panic first, but then melt into Their embrace.

They whisper

"I Will Always Love You".

To write a poem,

find the words that stop you,

words that sock you end over end

leave you song-bloody

leave your blood singing:

find the words that feathered Icarus,

wings made of wax words that drip

and drop away and burn wherever

they crash. Dig, rip the earth apart

until the fertile dark offers up a tithe:

your poem, made of you.

To find the poem,

write it back into the sky. You

were never built for walking

any scape but clouds.