destroying the bridges built from brick and stone i've cast
to carefully construct this character and keep all of this masked
and i will keep it held upright until i eventually fall or slip.
hold tightly onto this until my hands cramp and lose their grip
or i trip along uneven roads these heavy rains have caused to erode
trying not to mind me in the midst of another depressive episode
and unlike before i don't feel i can help myself
doing my best to compartmentalize and put it to the back of the shelf.
it'll take several years to fully accept that your leaving,
of utilizing tips of scissors to ensure that i've ceased dreaming.
fortunate you can't bare witness to my overwhelming regression.
you've spelled out the answer but i still ponder the question
have you added my name to your list of failed ex-lovers?
have your decide where i will rank, above or amongst others?
i never asked for much, wasn't expecting to be your priority
never stick around for long before resorting back to ignoring me.

i hope you find what you're missing, cradled in the arms of another
while i will dwell on all these dark thoughts that force my body to shudder.
all the seeds that you've sown have finally sprouted and flowered,
yet the fruits you had planted have sadly turned acidic and soured.
please don't let my memory weigh on you, i've always ended up just fine.
i've dealt with heart ache before but it's infinity harder this time.
i don't see why i'd considered this time would be any different,
the inertia that plagues me is occurring far too fucking frequent.
i constantly stumble straight into a situations so easily prevented
then waste my days agonizing over the most efficient ways to end it.
they say time heals all wounds but i've only found the reverse
the seasons shift forward and yet all i do is get worse.
forever debating how to bring about finality through harm
and since i've failed twice already, i hope third time's the charm.
no more complaining about no friends and life not being that fair,
the only reason i need anyone is to help me kick the chair.

i'm being slightly over-dramatic to make the poetry intense,
writing more than a single stanza now to not leave you in suspense.
cannot communicate more concisely that i'm just barely scraping by
used up all the pretty ways of phrasing "i want to die".
not inventing any effective mechanism to help abet my bid to cope
rather doing the opposite by measuring differing lengths of rope
and bowing my arms in an attempt to leave notation as scars.
i guess i'd be better at expression if i could figure out a guitar.
probably want a musician to pen songs about how perfect you are
but i simply cannot compose the melodies, it's not in my repertoire.
suffer from stage fright, i cower before the crowds.
i'm stuck rearranging words which are much too painful too say aloud.
always said writing doesn't matter have i finally proved myself right?
i'm sorry most things i've written about you are in a very negative light
but i know nothing else but to engage with the grandest hyperbole
and i'm sure that over time it'll cause you to begin to hate me.

last june my life was alright but now it's all gone to shit.
i have grown far more bitter than i could ever care to admit.
before you came back into my life everything was just fine,
you set me up for failure and shoved me hard down the decline.
i guess i'm well less worth it than drop-outs and drug addicts,
so sorry i didn't give you the required amount of over-dramatics.
i'm expending every effort but i doubt it even fucking matters,
if it is all-or-nothing to you, i'm leaning towards the latter.
i have grown dependent on you, is that what you needed to hear?
that us not speaking often is my one greatest fear.
trying hard not to but i will succumb to the spite,
if you honestly loved me, i'd expect some form of a fight.
i'm getting so very tired of this idiotic "destiny" bullshit,
when you really want something you fucking work towards it.
you said this doesn't reflect on me but i feel you're a liar.
i will gather up my emotional kindling and set it all on fire.

last june my life just fine but now it's all gone to shit,
i have grown far more bitter than i could ever care to admit.
i've wasted too much of my time ceaselessly overthinking.
so desperate to be rid of this, i've debated going back to drinking.
i've taken this so poorly, these days are so fucking rough,
should have never fooled myself into thinking i was ever good enough.
got over-confident believing that i could carry your weight
thought i could keep treading water but i will drown and suffocate.
i will dig myself a deeper grave and bury myself in the dirt
to hide from all my sorrows, thoughts of death and the hurt.
no amount of drugs can numb that which constantly aches,
no conversations with friendly faces can erase my mistakes.
i am seeking something which will help to get me though
the overwhelming amount of days that still start and end with you.

repurpose cigarettes as wicks to help dimly light the way,
pile up more emotional hardship until i can finally outweigh
and become the counterbalance - brought up by the opinions others,
by the thoughts of my fake friends, false families and lovers.
starting from the very back in a race i don't expect to win,
marking the times i've stumbled by placing notches in my skin.
counting the hours for dawn to bring the end of the night,
trying to focus on better days but the sun is always too bright.
how dare i, for a moment, not fear being replaced,
believed i'd be sustained on more than merely an aftertaste.
what a laughable attempt to rid you from my mind
by destroying myself for the hundred-thousandth time.
how much more do things need to go south
before i'm left with the sweet taste of lead in my mouth?
sorry that you broke my heart but i fear it is much, much worse.
i will turn my life from a long one into one that is real terse.

i am failing quite brazenly at this emotional balancing act,
i'm not keeping up my end of bargins or social contracts.
i am a horrid amalgamation of absence and negligence
sustained off the merits of my university  degree and intelligence.
always under the assumption that it would make things alright,
but i can't use that piece of paper to keep me warm every night.
i have no will to continue fighting, i'm penciling my surrender,
i sabotage myself by tying both my feet so tightly together.
my life's a burning building that's speeding fast towards collapse,
a filthy bottom-feeder feasting fiercely on the scraps.
i can never rid myself of insecurity or the doubt
if this is all life is i'm seeking the easiest way out.

this anhedonic apathy won't let me write about pretty things,
my pen races around paper pulling tightly at my heart strings.
i will try for fucking hours to purge you from my breaking head,
try to stem each infection before it gets the chance to spread
but it is aggressive like a cancer and akin to addiction, it reoccurs,
it has dampened each of my writings and has caused all my words to slur.
completely incurable alongside it's ability to accumulate
how turns the pressure on your shoulders into bearing fucking weight.
i personify the barely functioning parts to maintain some momentum,
if this depression is a poison, i'm drinking the antivenom.
moving ever so slightly closer towards my complete and utter stagnation,
i want to completely remove myself from this entire fucking equation.
cut out every piece that makes me human and replace it with newer machines
and stop exhausting you each night from running through every one of my dreams.
i guess we'll know by next year if i've managed to weather this storm
if i've rebuilt the bridges ripped down and burnt to keep myself warm.

i miss the contagious side of your shimmering effervescence,
and how the world never could seem damage your radiant inner essence.
how you managed to grow flowers even through the clay and salt,
there isn't a single thing about you that could be considered as a fault.
i'm trying hard to demonstrate all the emotion i don't often show,
you still elicit the same reactions than those from ten or so years ago.
the ghost of your magnificence still steps uncaringly through my head
haunting me one thousand times worse than any of my dead.
i really wish to hold your hand and fully uproot my whole life
and make all my mistakes and regrets take the form of a knife
that i will use to fight my way out of the hole in which i cower.
using all your sweet words to stop myself from turning sour.
the gems of aquamarine that you've passed off as eyes,
wash over me more effectively than any of your dyes
now I'm left trying to purge these somber thoughts from my head
of the only body i ever want to line the sheets of my bed.
turning away from the closed-minded arrogance i constantly display,
evicting all the demons to make a place for you to lay.
want to watch your hands to your hips while you debate clothes for the weather,
to see you dress for cold again and then realise it's an error.
i miss humid days with train delays and spending time with you.
i miss the feeling of every time i've ever managed to be close to you.
i love how you passed me every crucial thing except for the goddamned lighter
and how you've always rivaled me as a professional nail-biter.
being close to you is something i'd really like to work towards
so i can hear the tiny musician inside your chest bowing your vocal cords
to beckon me out of the deep, deep hole to which i withdrew
and i can find a place to feel at home and hopefully, so can you.

commencing onslaught of shitty love/self-depricating poems.

it's about that time again, believe it's well overdue
to write another hundred shitty poems about how bad it is to be you.
complain loudly about how you wish to stop gnawing at your fingers
or how you break down every time you find a place her scent still lingers
and how all the thoughts of joy which once swam peacefully through your head
were replaced abruptly by dreams of how badly you wish you were dead.
forever seeming to lose grasp on that to which you tightly cling,
always finding the most effective ways to completely ruin everything.
hack haphazardly at the wiring of your brain for it be hastily rearranged
into the form of a cage which may finally keep your melancholy contained.
holding tightly onto the broken heart and wheezing lungs you harbour,
keeping your fragile, brittle bones hidden deep within your armours
and mending the faults along the few that have already cracked.
constantly referring to yourself in the third person to try and lessen the impact
that you'll never be more than a victim of fucking circumstance
because you're far too fucking cowardly to ever take a chance.
this type of sicken behaviour will only ever lead you to being alone.
the mastermind behind the manhattan project of chances fucking blown.