This Dark Room

A setting sun
But I can’t see
A rising moon
But I can’t see
I’m alone
In this dark room
There are
No doors
There are
No windows
And I can’t remember
If my eyes are open
Or if they’re still closed
And I guess one day
It just stopped mattering
The world just fades
When you’re alone
In this dark room

Almost

Of all the things
That break us
I think maybe the worst
Are the almost’s

Those words
You almost spoke
Her heart
That almost fell
Your heart
You almost gave
That love
That almost was
The life
You almost had

How many almost’s
Can we endure
How many almost’s
Before we break
Beyond repair
How many nights
Must we wonder
What almost
Might have been

Limbo

It isn’t that
I want to die
It isn’t that
I want to live
And I guess that
Is the issue
It’s simply that
I exist
It’s simply that
I survive
This day passes
Into the next
I don’t know that
I feel too much
I don’t know that
I feel too little
I float along here
In some kind of limbo

My Angrymemorys Twitter account

I thought taking a break would help. I used to feel the urge to write again when I walked away before. Now I can’t even find a spark.

Who am I again? No one important. No one deserving over 20k followers, that’s for sure. I’ve been asked that before. I was no one then. I’m no one now. I don’t mean that in a “ooh, I’m emo sad” way, rather an existential “the universe is too big, too loud, and it’s emptied me out” kind of way.

I’m just some asshole wearing masks that sometimes needed to spill things out. I’ve spilled what I can I think.

I still have a week (I think) before the deactivation of final.

For tonight at least, I’ll let the empty win.

OK

I’m not ok, but I’m ok. This seems to be at odds, but a bit like superposition, both are true.

The fact is I’ll never be ok. This emptiness inside, these nightmares that follow me into the awake, this rage that I hide, but is always there… I’m not ok, and I hate the question. There is no real answer. Any answer it’s a lie or partial one.

But it’s ok. Really it is. That emptiness; it’s always been there, it always will. Those nightmares; sometimes the monster is after me, sometimes I’m the monster – either way, they’re all I know. And that rage; without it, I would have let go, so very long ago.

Don’t ask me, don’t make me lie. But know, even if I lie, I’m telling the truth. I’m not ok, but that’s the only ok I’ve ever known. So believe me when I say, I’m ok.

What Happens

I used to say
My memories
Were like razor blades
Inside my veins

They hurt
To rip them out
But they hurt more
To leave them in

But what happens
When the words
To pull them out
No longer heal

What happens
When every mask
Becomes too heavy
To even wear

These things inside
They often hurt
The boxes I keep them in
Are too many to count

So tell me
Someone please
What happens
When I’ve nothing left

I Have No Idea How

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Those years ago
I have no idea
How I opened up
And let her in
No idea how
I let her hurt me
  the way she did
But those holes
In my walls
In my armor
I found them
And sealed them closed
I won’t hurt again
Not like that anyway

Epilogue
The trick is on her though
I kept a piece of her
Trapped inside of me
No matter how far she goes
I’ll have a fragment
Of a love that…
  that shouldn’t have been
    but was
  maybe
    only for a moment
  maybe
    lasting a lifetime
      and into the next

Tattered Journal

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I wrote those
     darkest memories
In that tattered old journal
Ink slipped the stories
That only got told
In blood and nightmares
I let slip
The deepest of demons
And when
     the words were done
I took that
     tattered old journal
And set it to flames
Those darkest of memories
     now ash and cinder
Still burning inside
But for a moment at least
     a little cooler
And the nightmares
     a little dimmer