A Boy And His Box

Hello

Hey.
Sup.
Hola.
Yo.

I think its time to tell you a bit about me. Well a little more than you may already know.

I sit here. In my room. Claiming to know how this heart beat works. How it keeps going even when its owner doesn't want it to. How its driven purely on ambitions. Trying to see the sun set and raise all the time. How it knows everything will be OK.

Well the truth is, its doesn't. Shocking I know, your heart doesn't have sapience. That I'm just some dude with a couple screws loose enough to say everything is ok, but to have them tight enough to form coherent sentences. Barely.

I'm an optimistic artist. I like painting pretty pictures. Even if my canvas is full of ugly colors. I wish everything was alright all the time, but I also wish magic really exsisted so I could chuck fireballs at people who annoy me. Basically, I'm not a very reliable source.

In truth I write for two reasons. To someday help someone, anyone. Distract them from their lives. Distract them from their messy razors, their prescriptions, their itchy trigger fingers. And to help myself. To remind myself I'm not a ghost, or a least the same ghost I once was. That I'm still here. To remind myself of the blood split without spilling more.
That the way I got here was no miracle, but a series of fortunate and unfortunate events that made me into the mess that I'm so oddly proud of.
But that doesn't excuse my lies.

I write like I got this shit figured out when I'm just as clueless as the next guy who doesn't know why some days are harder to get out of bed than others. He just knows he has to get up anyway. I write as if I've organized all the skeletons in my closet alphabetically by last name. When most of them aren't even skeletons yet. They're still too alive. I can hear them now. Banging on the closet door.  Wanting to tear me to pieces, limb by limb. They're a pleasant bunch.
I've gotten use to it.

The truth still remains. And the truth is I have no fucking clue about what I'm doing. I don't know if its worth it. If what I write even gets through too you. If you're the right person who needed this and if the person who did needed this read it and cared. All I do is try and write a couple clever lines and hope you remember one or two of them next time you feel like you're alone in this mess. Cause trust me when I say we're all are. You're not the only one who's alone here.
We're alone together.

That's just it. I can continue to try to unwrap myself out of this balled up enigma, but I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure about what could fall out. I continue to peel back at the layers of my life like a really shitty onion. Trying to understand what they mean and trying to not cry when I find it. And in all my vain attempts to find someone to help me with this it seems you still have to hold the burden of this little journey of self discovery.
Sorry about that. Love poems don't cut it these days saddly. So if we're gonna be stuck with each other for a bit I guess I should properly introduce myself about 30 parts in. My name means nothing. Just know I'm some kid with a heart of coal ready to set on fire just to make their world seem brighter. Just please promise to get high off my ashes and remember every single mistake you've made.
And smile when you do so.