The Only Immortal Thing

There is no translation
For the things inside my head
And no will ever know what’s missing
When I wind up dead
And all my books are empty
Because I never knew the words
And all I try is sickening
Because it’s never more than thirds
Of what might be enough
When we’re all resigned to drowning
‘Cause the ocean’s just too rough
It’s a fact of life
The only immortal thing is doubt
And if I can’t ever win
All I can do is shout
But what use is voices in a chorus
Of silent, desperate screams
And if they’re all that I can hear now
How can I not know that I can’t change things?


Like so many rusted parts,
Our life just never starts;
And like so much ocean rain,
We stand nothing to gain.
But still we’re pressing on,
And still we’re not quite gone;
Yet like so many quiet embers,
We are dying to our tempers.


He will be here on the morrow,
Just as he has been today;
His middle name is Sorrow,
And he hangs on every word I say.
A better suitor I can’t ask for;
He’s a wonder to behold!
He sees me to my core
And still, will be here when I’m frail and old.
My every flaw and trouble
At his feet they lay the blame;
Which only makes me like him double,
For it’s such a favor I cannot repay.
He calls me on my bluffs, you see;
Yet he’s the liar, they will say.
While whatever else I might be,
They define me by his stay.

Apathy is a Survival Trait

I say that I am tired,
But I’m meaning something else;
I’m meaning that I’m tired
Of this life, of this house.

I’m tired of the moment
That I am living in;
I’m tired of the words
That never come when I beckon.

I’m tired of the people
Trying to tell me what I am,
When I already know,
And I’m just trying not to give a damn.


Apologies; this one’s darker than perhaps it ought be. I’ve been having issues with a member of my family lately; he doesn’t seem to realize that no one is more critical of me than me, and it feels like he’s made it his mission to remind me constantly that I’m useless, that I’m “mean,” that I don’t care enough, etc. To be fair, I’m not the only one he does this to, and I have some understanding of the reasons behind it. But I am also really, really sick of it. Because I actually care what he thinks. And nothing I ever do is good enough, so… What’s the point?

Of course, I’ve never really talked to him about it. The last time I tried expressing my frustrations to him, I called him an attention whore. That was months ago. He still brings it up. That’s a common problem with me. With most of my family, actually. It’s either 0 or 100. Nothing in between. So when someone asks me what’s wrong, I just tell them I’m tired.

It’s not entirely untrue.

The Fall

I’ve tasted the fruit of the garden;
I’ve opened Pandora’s box.
The one was like letting the dark in;
The other one tasted like socks.

I’ve opened my eyes to the sorrow;
I’ve closed off my mind to the good.
Today is repeated tomorrow;
Only yesterday teases of “could.”

I’ve fallen down into the ocean;
I’ve dropped the ball into the lake.
I’ve flown too close to the sun;
If only I’d been less awake.

I’ve left the mirror all shattered;
My image seems to’ve gotten stuck.
The truth is much kinder when flattered…
Here’s to seven years of bad luck!


I wrote a dozen poems
Off the top of my head;
Wrote them, wondering
If I was better off dead.
Because I fight with my brother;
I fight with my mom.
Sometimes I fight with my sister
When she goes on and on.
So I wrote a dozen poems
Just to clear out my mind:
They were pretty good,
And of the earnesty kind.
I would have shared them with you,
But I was out walking,
And by the time I came in,
Every one I’d forgotten!


I rarely call people by name
Unless they’re bound to me by blood
As if I’ll scare them all away
As if I’ll get too close for my own good

If they turn to me and say
That they’re my friend, then I will balk
And if someone tells me that they like me
I’ll stand trembling in shock

I don’t like to say the first words
And I’ll oft not even say the last
I just turn aside and look away
As if my approach would be a trespass

I like to hope that I’ll be different
I can believe that it might change
But still I bow my head some days
And wish the world would go into its grave.

What is one to do?

What is one to do
When every word is a knife,
Every masquerade of normalcy
A bag over the head?
What is one to do
When what should be a life
Is just a pretence born of uncertainty,
And every day is just another day of the dead?

What is one to do
When just the word of “trying”
Reminds me of every infant rebellion,
Every longing quick put down?
What is one to do
When all unbegins with crying,
And the little steps that would have been
Sink into the sand and drown?