Stranded alone on this island, how did you expect me to feel? I was dealt such an awful hand and was told that I needed to heal. People say it's my own damn fault— I find it hard not to blame you for building up these stubborn walls, but it's what I was taught to do. No matter how many times I tell you "it's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fault", you smile and say, "I am the way, the truth, the life, nothing at all leaves from my sight. If only you'd look into my eyes, you'd know it's for you which I died. For which I died, for which I died, for which I— Small boy, stand to your feet; it was destined for us to meet. I mend the broken and weary, so how dare you fear me without respect, without respect for what I've done? What I've done for you?"

Dear friend, lately I feel so incomplete searching for something that I think I've seen, or wanted to at least. Where did you go, and how far is it? The greatest pain I have ever known was not knowing that I had to let you go; feeling pretty low, gray skies and snow. I didn't think that I had to let you go. Our embrace was tight enough to choke the air from me, but in the most comforting way I thought possible. I find myself missing every aspect of you terribly, and if I had it my way, I'd spare myself from meeting you and the trouble. I'm sure they told you what I thought, and that's perfectly fine, it's just really cold without your ever-warming glow. It's okay, I'll write it all down— I've been told I'm artistic when I whine— and I'll sit in my toxic silence and sorrow. Every inch of my existence can still feel your touch like a star, lost and lonely, trying to make friends with all this dust. dust. dust. It's like my own mind interrupted itself. Not sure what I'll find, but lately life has been hell. I'm just an empty broken shell— just an empty broken shell.

If your love is comfort, then you know nothing of love at all. But, friend, that’s cruel—history proves itself wrong and wrong again. If your desire is comfort and your love holds no risk, pity, I pity you, dear friend. When did looking whole become worth more than wholeness? Really, When did your appearance become your life? I see a drowning child in you, buried under the bad ideas and worse choices, and she screams like he screams, similar voices. The agony in your bones, weighted with strife; forego your hands from over those eyes. Bright light and fresh air, former lives die. The dead will drag their souls into the grave to be told that they can’t take them down, wearing a smile that’s so hard to fake because we both know he’ll never put you in a white gown. Grieve with me. Oh, won’t you grieve with me? Please, God, show sympathy. Grieve with me. Oh, won’t you Grieve with me? And just know I’m all I’ll ever be. I can live with it but I know you won’t. Leave your heart bound up, chase your liver down the streets. Hold your mind hostage, take your time for granted. If your love is comfort, I fear you know nothing of love and appearing whole must be worth more than wholeness itself; I pray for you more than you pray for yourself.. Isn't it ironic, the way that you say "You always leave me, Please, oh please, Don't leave me." I pray for you more than you pray for yourself I pray for you more than I pray for myself

I've never felt this way, was your existence not but gray? I thank God every day, while under my breath, curse his name— what were you thinking? You took her from us. I won't let myself say I hate you, but how can I know that you love me when you sit so far above me? I'll never forget the hurt shared between me and my wife when you gave us this precious life and left us wondering why you'd take it back— was it readiness that I lacked? Little one, I love you so dearly, even though I never got to meet you clearly. Your promises are few— and for what I've been through, I ought not be prideful— seeking out reason for suffering. But when I read what she wrote, I felt my heart fluttering. "but my question is, does it make me a mother when my belly never grew? When I never felt you kick, never heard your heart beat? I'll never know whether you were a boy or a girl. I'll never know if you got my beautiful long eyelashes, or your daddy's sweet smile. I'll never know what your laugh would have sounded like, or the person that you would have been, but I do know one thing: I know that if love could have saved you, you would have lived forever. And I will hold you in my heart until I can hold you in heaven." God. "Take me home. Take me home. I don't want to be here anymore." That's what you said. You sat there and cried the whole way home, and I just watched. I did nothing. So what kind of father am I? So what kind of father am I? So what— so what— This Valentine's Day tears me apart— this Valentine's Day breaks my heart because it's the day we should've heard yours. And if love could've saved you, you never would have died— I swear. "Take me home. Take me home. I don't want to be here anymore." That's what I said. I sat there and cried the whole way home, and you just watched. You did nothing. So what kind of father are you? So what kind of father am I? So what— so what— I can't wait to die so that I can finally look into your eyes. Little one, little one, I love you so dearly.

I'm not addicted if nobody knows about it— nobody gets hurt if I put it in the dirt. I always lie to myself, I can't keep lying to myself— but I swear that this is the last time that I let this make my wife cry. I won't be strangled by these chains. I won't be strangled by these chains. I won't be strangled by these chains.

I know you're scared, I can see it in your eyes, but I swear no one would be happy if you died. I know you're ashamed, I can feel it in the air, but I promise you: you're not broken beyond repair. Shaking and shivering— blue robes and white sheets. You're still alive, stay off your feet— you're far too weak. Stay off your feet. No need for shame, your request for death has been overturned. I promise we'd rather see you in this bed than in a box or an urn. Your request for death has been overturned. We'd rather see you in this bed than in a box or an urn. Stay off your feet. I'm so glad you're still here, even though I'm sure sometimes you're not, but just know your life, your pain, your heart, your strength brings hope, changes minds, holds us when we can't find the strength to move on, just get by— if you can do this, then so can I. You are enough. You are not too much. I'm so glad you're still here— you're still here.

I'm at the end of my rope— I write, but it's no use. I've done all but give up hope, so why do I feel I have nothing to lose? You've given me so much, but this gray cloud is still here. I feel like a dying, empty husk whose choices are made in fear. But, God, I can feel you here. You told me to write for the broken and lost, and in the process, I've become nothing but lost myself. It's interesting, because this strange sense of clarity conflicts agonizingly with the fact that I feel as though I can't see what's right in front of me— and that's you, I suppose, but in the end, who really knows whether I'm screaming at this notebook or the God I was told to believe in? I don't think You are who they say you are, and I'm not sure I have an image of you in my head that isn't a man-made cliché. So, these songs are for people who thought they had it all figured out, and for no clear reason, had absolutely everything break down. I have seen the most beautiful love in beaten-in faces. I have found the greatest hope in the lowest of places. I have seen the most beautiful love in beaten-in faces. I have found the greatest hope in the lowest of places. —in the lowest of places, in the lowest of places. In the lowest of places. The Lowest Of Places, The Lowest Of Places, The Lowest Of Places, The Lowest Of Places.

An open letter to the thing that plagues me: Dear you, you who dwells comfortably in my head, you who jumps up with me out of my bed, the one who stirs up my thoughts like some kind of psychosomatic cake batter. You hold me tight and rip me from my patterns, yet you are the one who craves them. Obsessive-compulsive is what they say I should call you, but I just call you misery. You sit on my chest and make it hard for me to breathe. You refuse to let me be alone, yet helplessly, I feel so alone. I wish we were getting along better, and I could really do without the sporadic suicidal wonderings. I could really do without all the cancerous and dangerous things that you put on my mind. Ripping and tearing at my seams, hoping a little shred of peace to find, but I'm dry—bone dry— I mean, really, I've spent so much time crying that my nose cheeks and eyes sting. Each tear feels like blood as it rolls from my duct to my face. You make me feel so much shame. You hold all these things over me— you tell me I'm never gonna be good enough, I'm a bad father, I'm a terrible husband, I'm a worthless man, and you've conditioned me to trust you. I've lost weeks, months, years trying to figure you out, and you won't let up. No matter how much I push back on you, you're just stronger than my sense of self-worth right now. It feels like you've stolen from me, you've taken all my happiness and stamped your seal of dissatisfaction on me. Thinking in circles a mile a minute— wait up, slow down, please, you're thinking too fast, and I'm just left in the dust wondering how much is too much. I'm not enough, I'm never gonna be free, I'm a weakling, I'm unworthy of love, I'm unable to love, I can't be trusted, I can't be left alone, I can't be forgiven, I can't move on, I can't do this. I'm never going to be anything more than this OCD and what it tells me to be. There is no escape, your bed is made, now go to sleep. I've never felt so unafraid to die, my head a cacophony of convincing lies. I'll bide my time, grit my teeth, hold my tongue, and I'm done praying for God to take you away. Maybe you're here to help me, and I just don't know how to use you. Just because I'm scared doesn't mean I can't be brave. You take the control that I give to you— I am not your slave. I won't let these thoughts have their way. I don't hate you, you are not my enemy. I won't hate you, I will not give you the satisfaction. I won't hate you, I will keep living—if only out of spite— you can't have me, I won't let you, I don't hate you. Dear friends, the weight that you carry each and every single day is crushing— it's a boulder on your back, but I promise, for each person you share it with, the weight is cut in half. The benefit of acknowledging your pain is not weightlessness, it's glory. It's lighter, but it's still a burden. It still takes effort, it may still hurt, and please let me affirm you: You are not your disease. You are not what plagues you. You are not your thoughts and feelings. Keep living, keep fighting even if it's only to prove everybody wrong. I promise: you are not too far gone. This was and is for you. I hope you find your way. As for me, I'm still searching. 11;45