Flashes of red in my eyes,
Burning away images of the night
I thought I would have, and I feel
Myself suffocating, lying amongst half
A throng of people, victims, as the rest
Run around in panic, of smoke and chaos.

Stood on a scaffold,
Maniac laughter ringing in my ears
A man awaiting his executioner
With a glint of pride in his voice
Death, a trophy for his accomplishments
Something is weighing me down
The thought of seeing the light
Leave from someone's eyes, no,
My hand on the trigger I hold losely,
Thinking to myself, should I pull it?

I tried to forget you.. but everywhere I go,
I see glimpses of you... Drinking coffee in our favourite cafe, Smoking cigarettes out on the streets. Sometimes I hallucinate that you are sitting on the passenger seat right next to me, stealing glances.
I know I sound crazy, but what am I supposed to do?
I often wake up crying after having vivid dreams of how we meet again.. in some other time, some other place, some other life. I cry because I wake up.. I never want to wake up from a dream that you're a part of.
I know you're not here anymore, you are somewhere far out of my reach yet, I always feel that you're around me. I don't feel your absence. It's like, your shadow follows me as if it's my own.

Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.

Pounding, pounding, in my head.

Nothing matters, not anymore.

It never did, never at all.

Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.

I think I'm starting to lose my hold.

My grip on reality is wearing thin.

It's time I let the demons in.

I was standing by the window,
Half-daydreaming, staring blind
Hearing winter's blustery wind blow,
Playing games inside my mind.

It had been a normal evening,
Nothing untoward occurred
Til I saw somebody leaving,
Walking by without a word.

She was dressed in summer clothing,
Nothing more than rags of grey
As the bitter darkness rode in
I could feel her deep dismay.

She looked right into my kitchen
With such deep brown staring eyes
Like she'd stepped out from some fiction
From which mystic creatures rise.

And as I looked even harder
I saw right back through her head
Wondered where this strange departer
Had a home, a life, a bed.

As I watched her disappearing,
Fading right before my gaze
I realised that her appearing
Had been but fantastic haze.

For the little non-existent
Who looked deep, with languid stare
Was in fact my mind's insistence
On creative twilight air.

I wonder
what it is like to think
clearly,
to focus,
to be free of distraction.
My thoughts are constantly,
interrupted
by your voice,
your touch,
and my memories
of a life that once was
and a dream of what could have been.
Often, my mind wants to lock the door
so you can no longer walk in,
but the hallucinations are too addicting.

the occurrences I recall in the next twenty-nine lines
of this very poem could be true.
But then again, they could
also be false.
                                                    ---   ­          
I was enjoying myself
at a friends wedding
sipping shiraz diligently dancing
until a man with long
pale hair and a thin tie
with crooked teeth
Pulls a knife.
I run. Far.
Until he caught up to me
in the freezer section of supermarket.
I freeze, he approaches and
I hit him in the head with a hubcap.
                                                    ---
M­y mother mourns over a half-eaten ham
Easter afternoon.
Why do we even ******* try anymore?
I sit silent as my father
sets off a verbal alarm about the mashed potatoes.
His feet take root in the yard
and hold on stubbornly
like the dying fir.
                                                    ---
The sweltering simmer of
a shower’s steamy embrace seduces me.
I dry off in the confines of
the white sterile tile room
A thousand people bellow around
my naked body,
walls quiver with the pressure
of air,
still as it ever was.

(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)

There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.