I'm broken;

Flattered,
Great to see it mattered
That a man outside his shell
Would have to witness all your hell
And kneel before the devil
Before the devil ever cared
About him;
Limited at first
Until even that dispersed
And I was alone,
Broken.

I started writing
to get the pain out.
I needed a way
to claim a voice
in a ruthless world.
I couldn't find it
any other way.
I've tried everything,
but nothing
gives me a voice like poetry.
I've found things
that numb my pain,
like whiskey
and cigarettes.
I use them still,
even since
I've found my voice.
I'm addicted
to the way
they pair with my soul.   
It's kind of like
poets and coffee,
poets go well
with whiskey
and cigarettes too.
I think us poets,
we're addicted
to pain and suffering.
I think we like
the sting of heartbreak,
the pain of death,
the clutches of addiction.
In fact,
I know we do
because these
are the sufferings
that make up our work.
I'm a poet,
just like you.
I'm addicted
to coffee,
to whiskey and cigarettes,
to pain and suffering,
to loss and heartbreak.
I think it's why
so many of us
struggle to look
into the mirror.
It's because we know
our hearts are poison.
It's because we know
we can either
be monsters or angels.
It all depends on us,
on how we want
to roll the dice.

And in the cool, drifting abyss of all lost things,
I find you.
You who are affected by the world's discontent,
who watched through penetrating, yet clear eyes--
everything fall apart, underneath the disguise of
impeccable clothes
and red (or black) lipstick--
you who watched the light dance in people's eyes
and tried to determine whether
they were illusions or not,
you who remembered
how it felt to be free for the first time,
standing tall in the clear, cold water and basking in your pain, but daring someone to drown you--
while you learned to breathe.
You who felt love
radiating throughout your body and mind,
how when you looked at her, you saw stars with muffled shines
and the ghosts of a different universe--
you reached out and touched her, gave her your words
drifting across the dark, rigid screen
bursting it like a single drop, forming rapid ripples--
and someday, the truth will come out
how when we're all alone, and the world is drawing to a close
underneath all the pretenses
and the hidden solitary pain,
you will draw out that cigarette full of stars, and let the ashes of a lost world's dreams be carried through the wind,
riding on the smoke of despair--
riding on a soul,
never shattered.

Maybe your answer isn't clear
Cause you're not in the equation
Or the problem at hand
Puts your pencil into frustration
So your brain takes a break
And you go inside your mind
To try to divide the lies
That you think that you can hide
When in reality your time
Is slipping through your midline
It starts a rapid decline
Then tries to make a 'v' line
To bounce back to the high life
That you wish you'd have once met.
So next time don't forget
There's something you need to clear,
The thoughts that try to enter
Your broken heart's interior.

When I started getting sick,
My school attendance dropped week by week.
It was a painfully slow process;
A day here and there turned into a few days,
Turned into a week, until I spent weeks off school.
My friends dropped even slower, even more painfully.
The ones I'd made at that school disappeared
Like the world's greatest magician collective.
And the ones who I'd known for years...
Well, they were too busy living their own lives.
They saw me here and there, and it made me happy when they did,
In the same way that rare glimpses of gold make a poor man smile.
But eventually the darkness of loneliness devoured me entirely,
And I receded away from everyone while blaming them.
In those days, I was a zombie in all aspects of life,
And the Internet was the only time I had a reprieve.
I was a hollow shell, grunting one-word answers to parents,
While discussing my favourite shows with online friends.
And without that online presence, I know I'd have ended it
With the shadowy hand of depression passing me the knife.
I never would've made it this far,
Where eight years have passed and I'm still close to those friends,
Where I've met up with some of them
And overcome my anxiety in ways I never thought possible.
To many, the Internet is for shallow, brainless people,
But for many, it's a lifeline, and every #selfie smile I see
Is a person thriving instead of wilting.

I'm more real here,
No fake smiles to hide tears;
Try to find each grin,
Eventually you'll be happy.
Regrets leave and memories form,
Nothing bothers me here;
Everyone notices me,
True tears are shed.

I run down David Avenue
I try to not stare at the attractions
They catch my eye, thrown off guard

I continue down Alan Street
Others keep posture as a chicken runs rampid
I feel like an intruder in a street of gold
What place is there for me here?

I turn down Jacob Road
Tourists seem to address it normally
But something tells me
There's a reason it's not a street

I waddle down Jayden Lane
The people seem so collected
They're official but comedic
They have a routine

I stride down Gage Drive
I seem to collect some composure
It's a barren place
Its simplicity leads to its charm

I start down Gabe Way
Now I seem to stand out positively
Although others can't remember
They observe every movement

I know that for how far down I may fall,
These paths return me to home
I rely on them
Homeless, they are my home
I need them

Thanks

Hair grown white

brushed straight away

Gnarled spine

Shoulders unsquared

Padded stool

Red leather tome

Pencil scars

Yellowed borders

Crooked finger

Brittle leaves

Blurred mass

Rimless descent

Old friend

Immersion

Comfort alights

I just heard a poem today

About a man who was heart broken
And how he only thought about
The next guy kissing his ex;
Or how he wouldn’t lock the door
In case she came back.

And the people cheered..
He was amazing actually
So much emotion in his voice

And the people cheered..
There’s a fellow who entertains!
I could never do that;
So I envy him.

But;
I hope that person never has to suffer
Through sleepless nights
Hoping she finally calls,
Or seeing that new Facebook picture
Of her with another man,
Cuddled in the same bed I was in a
JUST a week prior
Kissing those lips, that tasted so sweet
When we last said goodbye,
Less than seven **** days ago!

I hope that person never has to heal
And spend his next 3 years, rejected
Rejected and rejected
By every single girl he finally falls for.

I hope that person doesn’t spend his days
Hoping that even once a week he can play
His favorite 2-player video game
With a woman who only wants to
Order some pizza afterwards; while
Cuddling up to a horror movie and a kiss,
Goodnight.

It’s easy to find a drinking partner
Or somebody who will take their clothes off
at midnight and be dressed fast enough
To catch the last train.

But wanting to hear about the person’s day
Or what their favorite novel is;
Their desires,
Their fears
Or why she has those scars
On that beautiful body.

Or why she doesn’t think she’s pretty
When to you she’s the prettiest girl
That you’ve ever cuddled up in bed with
While you watched her play Zelda.

Finding that is tough.

I hope that person is never me
Ruining every conversation going his way.
Trying so hard to keep her smiling,
While forgetting that he’s an *******
Who doesn’t know when to stop talking.

That he doesn’t make enough money
To take her out for a romantic dinner
Or that he can’t drive when she’s stuck
In the middle of nowhere; in minus 20 weather

I hope that person realizes
Writing at 4:30 AM, on a work night
Because another man’s poetry
Made someone else think of a girl
That he doesn’t deserve
And can’t have
Is exactly how some writers live.

And we just wish we were entertaining.