Why I'm going to hug you tomorrow


It's not a burning sensation

More like a puffing

As though you wish to look down

See your eyes fall out of their sockets

And roll in the glass of water that sits in fort of you


I take a drink. The two cups of water drain from the mug and I refill the glass. I sit. I stare. I take another drink as though this were some form of alcohol consumed to make me forget again as I have wished to have done before.


I can't cry anymore.

It's too cold.

The tears feel icey

They don't fall

The light hurts

I feel muddy

Soiled away from whatever I wished to attain

It's not quite good enough to just wish

I'm too delicate

Too fragile

Too weak

I am not dominant

And I do not wish to be

The sword feels heavy in my hands

It falls, cutting a piece of my heart

I knelt before the sword

"Because someone died here today..."

The words fall out of memory

It's not real

It's a false memory again

I'm not well

I can't sleep

I want to cry

By I can't

It's not even that "the world won't let me"

Rather the very being of myself and the body that contains it won't let me.

They block up the ducts

My eyes go dry

I drink

Wishing for someone to hold onto and never let go

Even the kissing doesn't matter; that's just a will of the body


An abuse of the soul


I cannot be who I am anymore sometimes


It hurts to be me


So I loathe it

Loathe me and loathe the world that took part in its creation

Attack, Attack, Attack

Until I feel nothing

Am nothing

A skeleton warrior holding a rusty sword

The sword feels heavy in my hands

It falls, cutting a piece of my heart

I knelt before the sword

"Because someone died here today..."


History repeats itself


They say an artist does not paint because he can but because he must

I say they must do it to become something meaningful again

So that they don't fade into the rest of the world and become violent

So that they can stop the beating, torture, pain, illness and untimely death of            themselves.

The poets are dying

I am dying

Like a spirit that is leaving the world I cling onto life for life

Share in the life

Share in the embrace

Don't let go until your arms give out

Even if we begin to fall

Because I am already falling

Both into love and out of life

And consequentially through love

And into the void of nothing


"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow,

a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more:

it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."




I may be wrong

I could be doing it wrong

These words could be poison

I could be condemning you to death


For nothing...


But this is I, one who longs for and to


Grasping at the cloud because I believe that hidden within is the trueness

A place for souls to touch

A place of peace to find life




Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741