I miss you most

In the early morning hours

Because I know

Dawn is on her way, coming to taunt me

That another day is beginning without you

Dawn is reliable, but she hurts me the most

Midday is the friend that brings hope

Along with your notification sound

It never fails to make my heart leap

Midday keeps me going with his joy

Nightfall... she always shrugs,

my brusque, realist friend

Maybe tomorrow?

The longing will end?

Don't count on it-- Nightfall replies

Dawn will be here soon to wake you again

There's a part in my heart,

a little, tiny, minuscule part that knows

people as pathetic as you

should rehabilitate,

contemplate,

abdicate your throne of entitled reputation.

You should.

With any hope in this world, you will.

I don't hope you burn in hell.

I want to watch you fall like a single, silent star

from your respectable constellation.

I want you to live as you are

and slowly, your irrevocable journey of hate,

and take and take and take,

I hope for no reprieve,

that you cling to your flimsy beliefs

and that a hundred teenager girls gather as an army

to the hatred of you.

I want you to live indoors, shackled by guilt.

I want rage to twist your smarmy face,

and for people to say;

"There goes the screw-up."

I hope you become healthy and old

and addled by your putrid goals,

and that the world passes on without a doubt to

How insignificant you are,

How unlovable you are,

And you die like that.

And if not,

I hope your phallus falls off.

It seems like a fitting punishment.

Reality disturbed

Sideshow reflections

Questions arise

Deep, breathing

Rhythmic heartbeat

Temperatures rise

Within the mirror

Did you see

Unwanted compromise

Were you shocked

Perhaps disgusted

Or felt otherwise

Disappointed conclusion

Unclean thoughts

Innocence demise

Dark omens

Growing madness

Evil will proselytize

Nature was showing off that day. The sky was bluer than a Robin's egg with nary a cloud to mar it. The lake was a brilliant mirror of the sky, the sun, the trees whose leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze. Birdsong filled the air. The ground was soft and warm beneath her back.

The hands around her neck were not.

"Please, stop," she wheezed.

"No talking, " he responded.

"Please, I'm sorry..."

"Of course you are. Now. Too late," he said in a singsong-y voice at odds with his size. Well, and with his actions one might say.

He squeezed until she stopped moving.

Then he sat back against a tree and listened to the birdsong and watched the dragonflies flit across the lake.

Suffering whispers

from happiness

that elusive bitch

she teases

while issuing

promises of grandeur

hinting at

peace of mind

what absolute bullshit

happiness cannot

compete with

life itself

as it will

force feed you shit

expecting you

to ask for seconds.

In moments of silence

hope sneaks in

offering

the weak-minded

reconciliation

while silently

pushing towards

the abyss

one step further

from the insanity

of life

pirouetting

into the void

and to the freedom

of death.

I am the moment you decide to crumble, instead of continue to shove it all down

I am the whirlwind that comes in, makes a mess of the whole environment, then disappears before you can admonish it

I am a stubborn crumb, hiding in your keyboard, screwing with the letter p, until you finally wise up and get the can of compressed air

I am the name on the tip of your tongue

I am the cache of socks lost from the dryer

I am the ripple in the potato chip

I am the burst setting on an M16

I am the pole

I am everything you think I am, but not at all the way you think

But mostly, and completely,

I am.

At midnight

when

I cannot sleep

and thoughts run

dark

and wild

and deep

and tears

inside

I cannot keep

and death

to me

seems

oh so sweet

as knife-like

pain

tears through

my heart

and rips

and tears

my soul

apart

and fills

the cracks

with angst

and woe

for actions

taken

long ago

I ask

and pray

and beg

and plead

God hear

these words

of them

take heed:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray thee Lord my soul to take --

which leads

to existential doubt

and many-layered

apprehension

does God exist

or is He just

a figment

of imagination

does it even

really matter

if there is

a something after

if who we are

will never know

what really is

above

below

till we are dust

or ash

or mist

at one

with what

is infinite..

such are

the thoughts

my mind

does weave

at midnight

when

I cannot sleep.

I have to say that.

No one wants to hear

That it's not.

No one wants to hear

That I woke-up at 4:30 a.m.

Got up and ready for work

Then got back in bed

Until 7:30 a.m.

Because I have depression

Lingering from yesterday

And it was too dark

My mind

And the streets

Though they are never

As dark

As country roads

But I made it to my desk

Still before everyone

But not early enough

To get the cobwebs

Out of my brain

Or my work self

Out of my back pocket

So here I am

Smiling and saying good morning

Whilst

Bleeding words

All over the internet

We sat in the doctor's office. The doctor looked at us with a straight face and said,

"You have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis."

"What?!" I said not knowing what the **** he was talking about.

"You have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis." The doctor repeated.

"Is it serious?" I asked.

"It's incurable, you are going to die." the doctor continued obviously not knowing

what the term "Bedside manner" means.

"What!?" I said again.

"There's no cure. We will try to make you comfortable in the time you have remaining?" The doctor went on.

"What!?" I repeated completely in shock.

"You should probably get your affairs in order." the doctor said finally.

"How long do I have?" I begged.

"It's hard to say, maybe a decade or 2, Maybe less" The doctor answered.

"What!?" I responded.