americanradballinsohard

[americanradballinsohard]

Prozac

Depression is a lot like a black cloud, no that's far too cliche Depression is a monster truck. Not one roaring its engine and screaming through the dirt. It is a monster truck parked directly on top of you. Not on earth either, maybe in space where the immense weight doesn't crush you immediately. It slowly presses everything in your life paper thin. First goes your emotional death. Don't you love me any more? Of course I do. Well fucking act like it. There goes your relationship with one of the few people that served as a buffer between you and the pressing weight. Dude you never hang out anymore what's up with that? I dunno man I'm just working through some stuff. Oh right your problems are sooooo bad.  Get over yourself. The friends you want to cling so desperately to could never understand that your organs feel as if they're being destroyed. Now they're gone. Along with your art, your college diploma your success, your motherfucking future are all paper thin and you've given up. You've given in to the weight. Why fight when misery is like your new bed. The misery is your bastion. You know all that time you felt hopeless? It was a self fulfilling prophecy, the tires have finally crushef everything that ever meant anything. And you can't feel it at all. Depression is not a black cloud. Depression is 750 horsepower with an American flag painted on the side roaring, screaming for something else to destroy.

[americanradballinsohard]

Cigarette

My dear, you're much like a cigarette 

I want to draw you in and hold you inside

until i breathe you out just to drag you in again

when you're not there, I crave you

I'd do many low things to get you

drive for miles in a truck 

with a broken gas gauge

spend money that isn't mine

all so i can keep you in my lungs 

for as long as i can

and much like the cigarettes

i'm sure

you'll kill me one day

[americanradballinsohard]

Battle of the sexes

for some reason a lot of men think that women are weak. 

i don't see it at all, i know plenty of girls that are stronger then me

but even besides that, women can do so much damage to your mind

i'd much rather take a punch to the face from some power-lifting gym bro

than take a slash to the heart from the switchblade of love

[americanradballinsohard]

Sweaty Palms

Everytime I would see your lips

i'd wonder if they were as soft as they looked

especially if they were pressed against mine

with your hand gripped tightly in my sweaty palms

cute girls make me nervous

and you made me want to vomit

that's how I knew you were perfect

but now i know there's another 

pressing their lips against yours

rubbing their thumb on yours

and still i wonder

do they wonder about your lips as much as i do?

if so, i hope they treat them as well as i wish i could have

[americanradballinsohard]

Tattoo

I told you I wanted someone to stick and poke me

you've done it to all your friends

so we made plans for you to give me some ink

a tiny little mushroom on my shoulder blade

it never happened

but still i feel like you used your sewing needle to leave traces

underneath my skin

[americanradballinsohard]

Pixels

it's amazing how much of our life revolves around pixels

tiny dots on an electronic screen

these pixels can make anything, a poem, an album cover, a photograph of a memory, anything you can think of

and what's even more amazing, is that through the pixels, you can meet somebody

somebody who you'd give anything to see in real life, not trapped in the confines of your rectangular computer monitor

you start sending cute little pixel messages

these pixels get returned

it's a shame no matter how the pixels get arranged, you could never feel the pixel person's heartbeat, or their hand in yours

it's amazingly sad how even without feeling the warmth of their hand, or the steady rhythm of their heart, how one little bunch of pixels can make you feel empty

the set of pixels you feel for is now entangled with another, whose very existence makes your stomach weak

and now the pixels of love poems that once made you yearn for those pixels to materialize in the shape of a hand in yours

now make you sick to the very bottom of yourself

[americanradballinsohard]

The Flames Of The Orchid

And there he stood, standing still as time, clutching the last remnants of the orchid he picked for her on their first date. Brown, withered, dead, just as he felt. He thought he burned everything months earlier, purging her from his memory. He knew that burning everything they ever shared wouldn't kill the memories, but it was the only thing he could muster to do. The books they loved, the pictures she drew him, the notes he left on the kitchen counter for her to find when she came back from the late nights at the hospital, the sheets they bought when they moved in together, even his guitar that he played love songs for her with. He thought all of it was ash now. But the orchid was there, in a jewelry box in the back of his sock drawer. “Probably put it here when I was stoned” he thought to himself, just trying to not accept that he knew she put it there.

He smelled the flower, not quite expecting anything to come of it. He smelled the decaying plant matter, and somehow, it took him back to that day, their first date. He remembered the red ribbon in her hair, the black and white polka dot dress, and the sunglasses he said made her look like a bug. For a moment he swore he could feel her hand grab his again. He started humming the song he wrote that night, the song he worked on for a year before he played it for her. He remembered her drunkenly cooing “sing me a song, sweetheart.” It took 3 more shots before he got comfortable enough to play what he wrote for her. Once the song was finished, he looked down at the floor and chuckled uncomfortably waiting for a response. He wasn't quite expecting her to throw herself at him screaming “you're the best boyfriend ever!” He got the feeling again for just a moment, the feeling he had while rolling around on the couch with her, drunkenly giggling and kissing between laughs.

He missed that feeling. “I miss love” he said to himself somewhere between a whisper and a sob, clutching the box tightly in his hand. He said it again, this time a little louder. And again, and again: “I miss love. I miss love! I Miss love!” each time climbing more and more towards a scream of agony.

Then, he finally snapped. Quite simply, he broke. He sat on the floor, screaming and crying about the love he missed so much. She was the ray of sunshine that kept him going through his dark, cloudy days. Whenever she was around, his demons stopped screeching, his will to live grew, and he actually became hopeful that one day, he'd be happy. Through the tears and shrieks, he could barely feel his face anymore.

He laid there for a good twenty minutes in complete despair. When he could finally think again, he knew what he had to do. But first, he had to get himself back together. He poured himself some cold coffee, and chugged it. He took a shower, put on some nice clothes, called his mom just to check in and say he loves her. After a long day of going to the gas station, and skulking around the house, he sat in a chair he brought into the center of the room, grabbed his zippo with his initials carved into it, pulled his lucky (and last) cig out of his crumpled up Newport pack, put it to his lips, lit it, and took a 10 second long drag off of his last cigarette. He exhaled, and after a few seconds of nicotine buzz, he looked up at the ceiling, and screamed “I miss love” one last time as he threw his lit zippo onto the oceans of gasoline spanning across the house.

“Here we are at the scene of last night's fire. Officials from the fire and police department have confirmed that there was only one person in the fire. Police believe that this may have been a suicide by local man Stanley Oakerson. Strangely, there has only been one item that was spared by the fire, a fireproof lockbox with the combination scribbled on it, holding a jewelry box containing a wilted flower and a note saying 'I miss love; I quit.' This has been Trisha Ross on WKTV News.”

[americanradballinsohard]

4:08 AM

it's four in the morning

four in the fucking morning

and i'm not thinking of sleep

sleep is the last thing on my mind

war, poverty, socio-economic class discrepancies

famine, death, violence, and worst of all

you

if i could scream how i felt for you at the top of my lungs

and i knew you'd return the feelings,

i'd scream now and not stop until i collapse

the first night you spent in my dorm room was the night i realized

how beautiful someone can be while asleep

i can only fall asleep on my right side

you fell asleep on your left side so i was left with a choice

I didn't sleep a minute that night

i couldn't care less, i loved every single sleepless second of it. 

you'll never read this

and that's okay

it's now four sixteen in the morning

i've said some of what i need to say