For the promises I broke like trees.

The ink on this page is fading.
Though our souls are still bleeding.
These words won't last.

You don't know if you believe in god.
I don't know if I believe in words.

Montauk

Snow turns to rain, everyone
is laughing and dancing.

There is still dirt under my fingernails
from burying her.

You pulled me out onto the ice
and when I broke through,
you ran away.
did i do the same?

The fog stings my eyes.
The smoke burns in my lungs.
I'm smashing these records,
I am tearing the pages out of my books.
Later,
I'll crash my mothers car.
I will Burn my fathers house.

We are all going to hell,
so whats the bother anyway?

For A

 

You hold on to every guy you touch,
like he is the only thing protecting you from the fires of hell surrounding you;
but the fires are on the inside.
Take a look at your soul.
It’s burning;

almost as fast as mine.

something about loneliness

Stop!
You have the wrong man.
I'm no good,
let's face it.
I'm lousy.
I'm a lousy poet.
I'm a lousy writer.
I'm a lousy reader.
I'm no good at speaking, or talking, or listening.
I'm a lousy musician.
I can't sing, I can't play.
I'm a lousy dancer.
I'm a lousy runner.
I'm a lousy hiker.
I'm a lousy biker.
I'm a lousy aritist.
I'm a lousy teacher.
I'm a lousy person.

I'm a lousy lover.

I have nothing going for me.
I'm no good at anything.
except being alone.
I'm a magnificent artist
when loneliness is my canvas.
Maybe it's my openess for it
or my acceptance towards it,
maybe it's simply because
I can go anywhere, and do anything
alone.
I don't know why i'm so profound.
But I do know
that when i hear my loneliness
when I see my loneliness
when I truly FEEL my lonliness
I almost feel happier.

Sing, read, drink, smoke, dance, fish, hike.
whatever you can think of, I can do,
alone.
I never said i'd be happy
no.
Happiness is not the pack i have learned to carry over the years
I don't want to use words like sad, or depressed, or hateful, or unhappy, or bitter, or blue, or somber, heavy-hearted, grieved remorseful, sorrowful, melancoly, gloomy, diseased, broken, low, down, hurt, feeble, or heartsick
but how can I not?
When it's what i've grown to be.
How can i tell you how I feel?
What am i supposed to say?
"I won't make it till tomorow?"

You say my poetry is depressing.
My poetry is MY SOUL on a page.
It's my SOUL in words, in letters.
I'm a sick, sick man.
My mind has been poisoned with this disease.
It's all i can think of.
It's all i have in my heart.
Suicide is in my head.
Anger is all i feel in my hands.

My heart has grown heavy.
It grows sicker every day
It's shriveled.
It's whitering away.
It's growing weak;
like that of my will to live.

beets

I was like a beet, freshly pulled from the ground.
and She was the one who pulled me,
She cleaned me, She introduced me to life.
to the sun.
and then she cut me,
and boiled me in soup,
without saying a word.

The Death Of a Memory.

I’ll lay around and read these books
cry every time I think of you;

Cut my wrists every time you kiss. . . Him.

I wish I didn’t love you.
I wish you knew me.
I wish you knew my name.
I wish I didn’t write songs. . . about
                                                           

                                                             You.

Why can’t I write about politics?

The president, and the government.
Or how all these parents try to raise their kids good,
but there is so much SHIT in this world.

Or how there is so much blood from all these wars.
How we all hate each other
and how
              Love

                       no longer exists.

See, It’s like the government doesn’t try to solve problems,
they just cover it up with all this war
and all this bloodshed.
The president always wants more,
he always wants war.
Somehow, we’ve got money for war
even though we can’t afford,
to feed the poor.

Well I’m sick of writing about a Girl,
and I’m sick of writing about love;
I’m sick of writing about something that doesn’t exist.

It’s time to write about Hate.
It’s time to write about war,
and bloodshed
and all this un-nessesary bullshit.

It’s time to write about sex,
and drugs.
It’s time to write about suicide,
and depression, it’s time to write about death.

and write, I will.

Mumbled Silence

Where are all the birds?
I need something to show me
that I'm not Alone.
This water is so still, it feels cold
on my toes.

Listening to the sound of my own loneliness,
It's just me, and the silence of this lake
hidden in the mountains.
These movies are getting old,
watching them all alone.
over
and over
and over
and over again.
These books won't keep me awake.

I can't write.
I can't sing.
I can't play guitar.
I can't write a god damn song.
My inspiration IS gone, and my heart is empty.
There isn't any love, and there isn't any hate,
there isn't any pain.
My emotions are gone,
and I'm feeling
numb.

Welcome Happiness

The wind is blowing,
the snow is falling,
and nothing, can drown out my thoughts.
No matter how loud I play, They won't go away.

It's dark outside, and I'm all alone,
here in the freezing cold,
no on can hear me cry.

I should have listened,
when I heard him sing,
   "It's dangerous, to be alone, in the freezing cold."

I haven't had a drink for such a long time.
God how I need a smoke to
calm my nerves.
So I can welcome happiness,
with a needle and a razor and lay in a cold waterey grave.
A smile on my face,
the snow will cover me,
and the note in my pocket will bleed,
but you'll still be able to read
         
               "I'm sorry."

and lord, I will be sorry.

A Whore on 39th

Living.
Breathing.
Stealing.
Killing.
Beating.
Losing.
Drinking.
Fucking.
Hating.

Hating,
            hating,
                        hating.
Hating through smiles,
through tears.
Hating through kisses, and hugs.
Hating through sex, music, and poetry.
Hating through fire,
through water,
through clothing,
through dancing,
through the cars They drive,
and the houses They call home.
Hating through the food They eat,
the women They sleep with,
and even the wine They drink!

Beer,
wine,
whiskey,
voldka,
rum?
Cigarettes, or cigars?
A whore on main street,
or a whore on 39th street?
Hardcover, or paperback?

Seems like lately,
people choose not for their own self satisfaction,
or even the satisfaction of others,
but because They are so full of hate,
They must be the best,
the strongest,
the tallest,
the fastest,
the smartest,
the richest.
They must be better then the man drinking budweiser,
smoking cheap cigarettes,
and sleeping with the 20 dollar whore.

They buy expensive beer and ciggarettes,
but it isn't enough,
neither is voldka,
or even a thousand dollar bottle of wine
 isn't anywhere close, to good enough.
Because They hunt happiness,
with hatered, as their bloodhound.

The real difference
between people,
is this. There are those that go through life
hunting and chasing happiness,
and there are those that just
accept the fact that they will never
                                                      
                                                           find it.

This is the reason why you spend 500 dollars
for a whore on main street.
and I spend 50, for the one on 39th.

The Sound Of Loneliness, and Stolen Poetry

I sat on a rock,
at the edge of a lake,
in the mountains.
Under a tree,
whose roots were exposed.
Water had washed the dirt away.

The water was perfectly still,
you could see the beautiful reflection
of the mountains, perfectly.
The moon gave a soft light,
made it all look... purple,
and the selfless snow,
threw it all back.

The mountains were huge.
The mountains were beautiful.
And as I sat listening
to my own loneliness,
I could feel something more.

And as Great Lake Swimmers played,
I could see myself,
walking out to the middle of the lake,
naked,
exposed,
alone,
and just staring at the field in the sky,
and seeing infinity,
and then.... I     relized,
That      the world     IS    beautiful,
and that I    had forgotten that.

mountain lake

I drove to a lake in the mountains.
The water felt cold on my toes.
But the thought of her,
kept me warm.

The bird that flys under your car, and for one minute you care, and hope you didn't kill it, but soon, you forget you even saw the bird.

He is the flightless bird,
a beautiful thing,
with a broken wing.
He skimpers out,
into the road,
just as a car flys past him,
he flaps his wings,
but he won't move fast enough.

You look to the beautiful girl,
sitting by you.
You pretend to care,
about this little bird,
this little helpless creature,
that has never been loved.

And you respond to her silence,
with silence.
But then the bird is forgotten,
and your meaningless conversation,
about whatever the hell you were talking about,
before you forgot about the little ones
before you paid attention to the birds,
continues.

The little bird, laying in the road.
A broken wing,
and a broken leg
Lonely and afraid,
forgotten,
abandoned.
Lays hoping someone will come along,
and show it a bit of kindness.

As you sit in a movie,
The little bird is crying.
As you drive,
you stare at this beautiful girls chest,
instead of her eyes.
Your Attention is to the body of the girl you want to fuck,

The little bird is screaming.

You just want to take her home.
The little bird just wants a home.

As you come driving past,

And smash, the little thing, that was never loved.

Untitled no. 9

I just want to lay in the grass
on a clear,
warm night,
looking at the clouds
and just hope,
that some birds,
will fly past my eyes.

How many times do I have to try?

Sometimes I wish that,
I could actually follow through,
That I could actually do it,
Actually,
For once,
Do it,
Instead of just,
Trying,
And opening my eyes,
To some sad excuse,

Instead of having water,
Swishing inside my lungs,
Instead of having the blood,
Dried to my clothes,
To the floor,
Instead of having my throat,
Sore,
From all the vomiting,
Open my eyes,
To some being,
Greater then I.

Instead of hiding everything,
Show everyone,
Tell everyone,
And then,
Say goodbye,
For the last time,
For good,

Praying For Death

We all wait anxiously,
We all wait alone,
We get lost in our own darkness,
Watching those happier then us,
we never see the positive,
And we never are ourselves,
And so we go on
We live our lives as someone else,

Then it's over.
We end it.
Hoping it will make us happy.
But in reality...
After we end it,
We know we have to confront Him.

As we sit by him, He'll look at us and say,
"Your life, it wasn't right,
But hell, you tried, with all your might,
...sorry son, I gotta say, you need some time,
to think of your crimes,
and i know...  I should have said yes, when you prayed for your death,
But I hoped you would want your breath,
Now it's over, and after I heard you curse,
I knew I made it worse."

And then we sit,
Contemplating what we've done
And we will see the tears in his eyes
Because we took our own, God damn lives.

A Poem From Prison

This is the poem I wrote to piss hell out of my english teacher, Randall, Fuck you, and Fuck Robert Frost too


You want me to write a poem?
A poem like Robert Frost?
You want me to write a poem?
A poem about nature?
Well go to hell,
Nature is for photographers,
Poems need emotion,
Poems need passion
Not rules,
Not a grade,
Not a God Damn box!
It needs to be free.
So tell me how to write a poem.
Tell me one more God damn time,
To write like Robert-Fucking-Frost.
I'd rather write a poem fom prison,
Then write a poem
like a,
Textbook,
Anal,
Basterd,
Poetry needs to be free.
You feel it, you write it.
So you can fail me.
You can kick me out,
But as long as i write how i want,
As long as my poetry,
Is my poetry,
And not someone elses.
I'll be able to smile
I'll be able to sleep at night.
So fuck Robet Frost.
Fuck every man that writes acording to rules,
Instead of feelings.
Poetry is emotions,
Not rules,
Not Rhymes,
Not words.

Untitled,

A mother crys,
Her baby dies,
She lost her home,
She lost her car,
She broke her heart,
Her dreams are dead,
Her life long since gone.

He comes home, so late at night
Drunk as hell,
He screams and yells at Her,
He hits and kicks Her,
He cuts and rapes He,
He doesn't give a shit for her,
But I do.
He's a goddamn bastard,
It's true.

She stares at the scars on her wrist,
Thinking of the life she once had,
She used to be so beautiful,
She used to be so young,
When did she get so old?
She used to be so free,
Dancing the night away,
Till one day,
He came,
And took it all away.
He charmed Her,
He made Her laugh,
She thought he loved her,
She knew she loved him,
But she was son young,
She had no idea,
Who was waiting around the bend,
Now he's a god damn bastard,
It's true,

He doesn't care about her,
But I do.
He doesn't love her,
But I do.
It's true.


If  I could go back,
I'd tell you,
Don't let him touch you,
Don't let him get near you.

I wish I could go back,
And give you some wings,
So maybe one day,
You could have flown far away.

God, I wish I could have saved you,
But, you're six feet under,
so instead...
I'll join you.

I Remember The Day, I Hate.

I remember the day,
The day I watched the needle punch His vein,
As I had another line of cocaine.
My body numb as He cried out.
My reaction slow as His body smacked the ground.
I was too slow,
To come around.
As his body began to shake,
And as I realized what was happening,
My body began to quake.
I hoped it was all a fake,
But then the blood began to run,
And I knew he was about to die.
I bent down and grabbed him,
I held him,
I shouted and I yelled,
I prayed he would stop,
And then...
My answer came,
His music ceased,
His song, came to an end.
And for what felt like forever,
I sat,
I stared,
I cried,
I clenched my fists,
I clutched the desk,
I smashed my head,
Slamming it over and over again,
The blood gushed out,
My vision blurry,
Wanting to join Him,
Wanting to go back,
And stop it all,
I cried,
And I cried,
As the blood flowed
The carpet stained red,
Our blood began to mix,
His life over,
Taking something from mine,
I will never get back...

Dear Friends,

My name is Holden,
we haven't met,
but i think of you as a friend,
thank you for reading,
please,
don't judge me,
don't think of me,
don't try to feel for me,
or for what is going on in my life,
DON'T tell me sorry,
when you have nothing to do with it.
my name is Holden,
I want to be an author,
I want to be a poet,
I want to go to europe and write
and when that doesn't work out,
maybe
I'll be a high school english teacher.

untitled poem

Just A poem,
From some,
wanna be poet,
who will never amount to anything.

It's not that I wanna die
It's just that I dont wanna live
Cuz I'm so scared of livin
And I'm even more scared of dying
But I will still put a slash on both of these god damn wrists
And I'll cut my thighs just hopin to die
And I'll let the tears pour from my eyes
As I slip under this water
And put this gun in my mouth
And take all these pills, and all this alcohol
Just hopin for the good old sleep.

I'm sick of livin
I'm sick of breathin
I don't wanna be dragged through another day
Don't wanna survive another night
Don't wanna wake up another morning and know, that I feel all alone

See, I hate the night time
Cuz It's just the end of another day I've lived through
And I hate the morning
Cuz it's just another start of another day
And another reminder of another night
And another morning

But I love sleep.
Cuz it's the sister of death

So Lord, take my life
Or I'll take it myself
And you know I will
Cuz I've already tried too many god damn times
And one day it'll work
But.. I'm not sure if I want it to...
So lord, please take it first....

death comes upon us.

Death comes to everyone, but sometimes, not quick enough.
My story. here it is, for everyone.
This blog is public, my letters are not.