We learn from those around us We learn from those before us We learn from our ancestors and from history Even when we’re gone our knowledge stays For others to learn from Even the dead tell stories

I see the spirits dancing In the ballroom I see Like they are telling a story But it’s odd How can they tell me something when their dead I don’t know I never seen it It’s like they are going through Their past moments Before they died I watch in awe Uncovering their secrets But as I watch I understand That even the dead can tell stories

Even the dead tell stories. I can hear them in my dreams. As haunting and treacherous are they may be. They give me comfort in some psychotic way. They speak the wonders of the still darkness The wonders I wish I could feel. So yes the dead tells stories.
But they are not meant to disturb or harm you. Just to remind you of the stillness of the loud world.

Even the dead tell stories— Flesh peeled back from the bone, Blood that burns the roof of my mouth And sizzles through all seven circles of Hell.

Oblivion did not release me as I thought it would. My will, being a sharp-edged machete, Gashes vines so I can find my way back to the breadcrumbs But I stopped to rest my aching feet And laid down in green pastures, Extending my neck on the chopping block For an axe-wielding madman to chop me into daisies.

He sprinkled me in the dirt upon your grave And my tears fell like fresh dew On a spring morning

And I’m still mourning—

I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.

The dark has to start somewhere It has to sneak in through crevices Through cracks opened in the earth

The dark has to start somewhere As it winds it way into our hearts Turning everything a bit darker

The dark has to start somewhere Shading even the best moments gray As if all colors fade to nothing

The dark has to start somewhere It is born, created because Even the dead tell stories

I wish I had known you then Before here

I wish I had know the stories you speak The memories you whisper

I wish I had known the woman you weep for The boy who never got to hold your hand

I wish you had known the hand I left go of The life I had to leave behind

I wish we could have seen the sunsets together Watched dawn turn into day

I wish I had known you then Back before we were placed here

Even the dead tell stories

Even the dead tell stories, they’d say. It’d be wise to listen. They tell you of all the things that go bump in the night.

Now the ghosts and ghouls may lie, but their lessons are invaluable . If you pay attention you might just learn something new. At least that’s what I’ve been told.

Not that anyone listens to me. __ I’m just the guy that believes those legends. I mean, why wouldn’t I?

The soft ghostly whispers and the cold air surround me in my sleep. They talk and I listen. They’re the reason I’m alive after all.

I learn from my mistakes and I learn from theirs. They may be liars but I haven’t died. I haven’t lost it.

(Not y_et._)

Not like the people that once surrounded me. How could I not listen when the proof of what happens when you don’t is right in front of me?

Their stories are warnings. I’m not inclined to ignore them.

Xanax owns my soul It’s the only thing I know Makes me whole Taking a tole Holding on to my demons I really should probably let go Death melodies play on my stereo I’m still alive even after my funeral I stay daydreaming A 🥷 stay scheming My own dad probably thinks I’m just dreaming They ain’t wanna believe me Now the world hears me singing Heartbreak ringing

But hey I’m just doing my thing Doing my thing Going through a few things

Anxiety eating me alive Controlling my life But that’s fine Im alright These drugs keeping me alive Using everclear to baptize The devil I entice Created the end of my life Excepting my demise Life after life Time after time Vibe after vibe High after high Use all my supplies Feels like ima die It feels like I can’t speak or cry Can’t think it’s just lie after lie I will fight Live not die

Xanax owns my soul It’s the only thing I know Makes me whole Taking a tole Holding onto my demons I should prolly let go I’m just doing my thing doing my thing Doing my thing Going through a few things I don’t need a pen to express my thoughts Just gimme a couple pills and the mic goes on All this prolly fucking up my chromosomes Searching my symptoms and stressing over Google chrome That’s real Way too real Favorite color lemme guess it’s the blue pill Or the purple in your cup giving you a thrill That’s real Way too real I’ve been doing this sense like middle school

Xanax owns my soul It’s the only thing I know Makes me whole Taking a tole Holding on to my demons I should really let go

I was just a kid then. I saw the forest, with the beautiful trees I could climb and the gorgeous ponds in which I could swim. I played for hours, but I got tired eventually. I was hungry and thirsty, but I didn’t know where I was. I was starving for days, maybe even weeks.

I don’t know exactly how long it took, but I found someone. They had horns, black with red glowing cracks. They were willing to help, but for a price. The price of my soul. I was just a kid, what did I know? I knew I was hungry and that I needed food, and soon. So I did it. I was a dumb kid, and I sold my soul for some berries.

An eternity later, and I’m still paying the price. I am hungry still. I am starving once more. My hair is thinning and my bones are showing, and yet it will not stop. It will never stop. But that’s okay. Because I found someone. Many someone’s. I may not know if they are real or if they are nothing more than a hallucination, and I do not wish to. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. 

And one day, the hunger became too much. I summoned the demon who tricked me, and begged for food. I begged and begged and begged. I offered everything I had, from the little weapons I had to my very bones. They refused, as they could get bones whenever they like and mine are brittle anyway. 

So, I took my dagger made of iron and i clawed and scratched and bit until they were no more. I feasted that day, though it burned like hellfire. I was not weak, not feeble, not meek any longer. I wanted the demon and everything they held dear to suffer. So I planned. I raised an army of billions. Billions and billions of undead soldiers, marching into the depths of hell. Some burned, some cowards, but billions we stayed. 

The weak have become the strong, and they are angry for what has been done to them. They bit, they clawed, they scratched and they won, just as I did. The dead do more than just speak, they scream. They scream about their crimes, about their past victories and losses. About their past lovers and enemies. About their past miracles and wars. Even the dead tell stories, if you just care to listen.

A poem about mental health and depression

Each day under the pouring rain Same and old, feet pressing against the wet concrete Boots filled with liquid and tilting your head down And yet here you are, An imposter to the people around you In the fiery streets, The rain might as well be burning concrete, Piercing your toes and your raging heart That is awaiting autumn to come. Only then, wind will carry away your troubles Like ash and dust of a lost soul in the wind That we breathe in everyday Unaware that the precious air we breathe Is made of lost souls and lost lives Awaiting your presence too Each birthday comes faster as you go through more birthdays And suddenly the song goes dim. The world goes quiet. The vision of the rim of your eyes goes numb. Because you know. Any birthday could be your last. birthday cakes have candles, And so do funerals. But why does that bother you, Why does each step have its own aching scream and under the harsh cold wind your feet stay as warm as ever. Just enough to continue walking. And make your way home?