How can I explain
That all that came so easy
Everything that should be
Came to be so hard
I know the fault is mine
As if that should make it fine
As if acknowledgement can make a problem disappear
But no, it never does
And no solutions light like doves
On the edges of the windows which I never seem to open
Yet always go to as a token
Of all the things I hope and fear.


Frantically, she tore up the floorboards. “It has to be here!” she half-screeched, as she darted to and fro, searching different places. In the end, she collapsed, crumpling into a heap in the middle of what was left of the floor. Her bleeding fingers pulsed with pain, a reminder, and her glazed eyes wandered to one of the places where she’d torn up the wood. There should have been something underneath of it. A secret passage, a beating heart, a hidden stash with all the answers in it. Dirt, even. She would’ve taken dirt. But instead there was nothing. Just the void, that endless dark. “There should have been SOMETHING,” she whispered, eyes tearing up. “But there wasn’t,” her mind hissed back. Instead of crying, she began to laugh; a mad laugh. The darkness didn’t end at the floorboards.

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.

Mediocre Times

I sometimes long for older times,
Where it’s not the norm to be insane;
Where we still strive for something more
And our problems have not yet been embraced.

I suppose exaggeration in some form
Is mine — in this, and everything
But our years seem so dull and worn
And if our lot is to cast blame,
I name these years the culprit king.

Whether a want of love —
Or a want of pain —
Or just a want of anything,
Somehow these days don’t seem the same
As the tameless time of which we dream.

So still I wish for older times;
For challenges I can face.
Perhaps to fail, at least to try —
But something different than this place.


Can I go along another twenty years,
Having twenty already nigh my own?
Shall I watch dreams surface only to disappear,
And play lord over a Sisyphean throne?

Yes: I will hold up my sky,
Pretending that it’s always blue;
I’ll see my eagle return by and by —
And somehow, ever muddle through.

And in a hundred years perhaps,
Maybe in looking back I’ll find
That there was hope to be found at last,
So long as I wasn’t caged in mind.

An Iron Grip

It reaches in with iron claws —
Can’t you feel the chill?
The constricting of their jaws,
And now my heart has had its fill.

The latter’s thick with certainty,
And shrunk like in the Grinch;
Two sizes too small for me,
Though it’s just fine in a pinch.

But I find that there’s a difference
Between a pinch and a need;
For when I need it now, for this,
I find all it does is bleed.

An Uncertain Definition

Is this what I am,
A child of lowly aspirations?
Never being what I can;
Always changing faces
To hide from all my others,
Never sure just what they are,
And whether they are simply covers
While the real one’s somewhere far.
And if it is, how can I reach it?
How can I define “myself,”
When I don’t know if I can see it,
Or if I’ll ever get it off the shelf?