The stars dimmed when I fell,

their silver tongues whispering my name

in constellations that no longer shone.

The wind howled through hollow bones,

carrying echoes of a voice

I could no longer call my own.

And the universe cried for me.

It mourned my loss-

wept in meteor showers,

draped the sky in black.

The earth trembled beneath my feet,

as if it, too, knew

something had been undone,

something had been forgotten.

I reached for the void,

but even the darkness turned away.

So I walked on, alone-

a ghost in a world that no longer

remembered my name.

The kitchen is small,

Cold,

Evil.

The back door lets the kitchen freeze.

Tile floors hold the anger of the past,

Old arguments long forgotten,

Spills from overfilled cups,

Tiny glass shards left from a broken face.

Cabinets join in with their hidden secrets,

An overfill of medicine,

Too many blue boxes of pasta,

Spices overflow onto the counter and on top of the fridge.

The sink fills with undone dishes left from the week’s meals.

And what looks like a mess soon transforms into a studio.

Where artists can paint, write, sing, or dance.

Where the chef can cook,

As they try not to burn the food.

Soon the once cold floor lights up to the sound of music.

The smell of brownies baking fills the air,

As the kitchen becomes vibrant.

And as quickly as the kitchen comes alive it can become,

Overshadowed.

Blurred eyes,

Muffled yelling,

The smell of anger and rage lingers in the air.

The kitchen becomes a court room,

With only one person on trial.

Beat by the words of one voice.

The kitchen becomes the electric chair.

Once a homey room that brought joy,

Now ruined by dim lights,

And loud brothers.

Oh, how boring can a class get?

I hate being bored.

I watch as the clock ticks by,

The seconds getting slower,

And slower,

And slower.

My eyes flutter open and shut,

The blanket of tiredness wrapping around me.

I hate being tired.

The teacher told us we’d be working on an essay today.

Oh, how joyous I thought it would be.

Until my mind went blank,

The wall of ideas shutting down.

I hate having writer's block,

The infinite blank page staring back at me,

Waiting for the right words to appear.

I hate not knowing what to write.

I hate staring at this blank page.

I hate a lot of things,

And right know I hate this,

The class,

The boredom,

The endless suffering of not being able to think straight.

I hate the sound of the kids around me,

Laughing,

Talking,

Working.

I hate just sitting here,

Though I also hate standing.

I hate the electric hum coming from my computer charger,

And the noise of the fan.

I hate the smell of sweaty teenagers,

The sight of people walking by.

But most of all,

I hate that the blank page stares back at me,

A silent judge of my failure.

I am but a bird,

trapped, forgotten,

left to rot in this endless cage.

I am the tallest building,

the king upon his throne,

I am nothing and everthing,

a paradox carved in bone.

I am the echo of a tune long forgotten,

a melody worn thin by time's cruel hand.

I am the whisper of the wind beyond,

calling,

calling,

yet never mine to touch.

I am but a bird,

beauty bound to replay the same tune-

an unwritten song,

one without words, only a scream,

a cry left for the sun to hear.

I am but a man.

Someone said I walk like a puppet,

feet stumbling on unseen threads,

jerked forward by silent whispers,

turning where the echos threads.

An endless search for hands to guide,

for someone to pull my strings,

to tell me where to step, to go,

to shape the songs I sing.

Like a lost puppy in the dark,

waiting for a voice, a call,

wandering through hollow streets,

half-alive, yet bound to fall.

No weight to bear, no will of mine,

just empty limbs that twist and sway,

a hollow thing with borrowed breath,

a marionette in disarray.

They tug, they twist, they turn my head,

I dance to orders, not my own,

a fragile doll with glassy eyes,

forever aching to be known.

Tell me where to go, what to be,

give me a script, a role, a name,

for without a master's guiding hand,

am I even here, or just a game?

But strings can fray, and wood can break,

and even puppets come undone.

What am I if I cut the ties?

A ghost, a shadow- or someone?

I am but an echo, a breath undone,

a body that moves beneath no sun.

No warmth, no pulse, no tethered light,

just hollow steps in endless night.

My hands are cold, my veins run dry,

no fire flickers behind my eye.

I wear a face, I wear a name,

but neither feel like mine to claim.

The world hums on, a distant tune,

while I drift beneath a paper moon.

A shadow cast with nothing near,

a silent scream no one will hear.

I trace the edges of my skin,

searching for something deep within,

but all I find is empty space,

a void where once there was grace.

I speak, but words just slip away,

a voice that fades into decay.

I reach for something I can't see,

for a soul that was never meant to be.

And so I walk, a hollow thing,

no root to plant, no wings to bring.

A ghost, a shell, a dying spark,

lost forever in the dark.

My mind, once loyal, sharp and clear,

now whispers lies that draw me near.

It pulls at threads that should remain,

a constant ache, a silent strain.

It works against me, twist by twist,

a maze I cannot exit from,

it wraps its fingers round my wrist,

and tells me things I cannot shun.

It holds the keys to every door,

then locks them tight with quiet sneers,

it shapes my thoughts to something more,

and molds my fears into my tears.

Once my servant to my will,

it now commands with bitter grace.

A voice that speaks against me still,

a traitor's smile on its face.

I beg for quiet, a breath of peace,

but my own mind will never cease.

It builds its walls, it digs its holes,

a war inside my very soul.

And though I fight with all I've got,

my brain holds sway, it knows my flaws.

A prison built with fragile thought,

and I am bound by unseen jaws.

For all my strength, for all my might,

I am it's prisoner in the night,

my mind, a beast with claws that tear-

it is the war cannot share.

A spark ignites, I feel it rise,

a heat that floods, a quick disguise.

My cheeks betray me, burning bright,

as though the sun has kissed the night.

A crimson tide, it sweeps my face,

no hiding from this swift embrace.

My heart beats loud, my thoughts take flight,

lost in a sea of red and white.

I try to speak, but words get lost,

caught in the tide, I count the cost.

A stumble here, a glance too long,

and suddenly, I don't belong.

Each glance feels like a pointed blade,

as if the world can see my shade.

A blush so deep, it feels too much,

a silent scream, a heavy touch.

The burning lingers, sharp and raw,

as though the world will never thaw.

I wish to hide, to disappear,

but still, the heat draws near, too near.

And though it fades with time's sweet grace,

the warmth, the shame, still leaves its trace-

a memory, a mark too bold,

the story of a soul too cold.

Pushed and pulled, no room to breathe,

pressed so close, we twist, we heave.

A sea of bodies, shoulder to spine,

trapped in motion, no space, no line.

Packed together, skin to skin,

a world too small to fit us in.

Why do we cram, why do we shove,

why does the air feel void of love?

Like sardines sealed in metal tight,

stacked and smothered, lost in light.

No space to stretch, no breath to take,

just bodies bent until we break.

We twist, we turn, we shift, we fold,

crumpled stories never told.

Elbows sharp, and voices drowned,

too much noise, yet no one's found.

Still we press, still we fill,

spilling over, bending will.

A world too small, a space too thin,

and yet we push to squeeze within.

I am too much-

too loud, too soft, too wild, too still.

A storm that rages, a whisper lost,

a fire untamed, a frostbitten chill.

I fill the space, yet disappear,

a presence vast, yet insincere.

I laugh too hard, or not at all,

stand too tall, then shrink too small.

I give too much, then pull away,

speak in waves, then have nothing to say.

I reach, I grasp, I beg to be-

but where's the space that fits me?

Am I drowning in my own embrace,

or fading without a single trace?

Too bright, too dim, too sharp, too weak-

too much to love, too lost to seek.

Where is the line, where do I stand?

A ghost, a flood, a grain of sand?

I stretch, I fold, I break, I bend,

but never whole- not in the end.