ReuniteRed rosesIn a black vaseIn the seat which she normally sitsAnd for half a second she allows a smile.
The CliffWith the raging waters underneath meI slip off my shoes and press my forehead against the moist stoneInhaling deeply before I look up with determination in my eyes-I start to climb.
but things aren't okayBack when things were okayWe used to readIn between the individual lettersOf hundreds of wordsAnd thousands of sentencesAnd understand immediately.
there are bones in my lungsThere are bones existing beneath my bare feetI can feel them reaching up- desperateThe tip of a bone traces the arch of my footAnd I laugh- filling the air with carbon dioxide.
When I Met Her-“Am I dead?” Her voice is rough compared to the soft pitter-patter of the rain on the concrete.“No” I reply as I fiddle with my shoe string.“Why?” Her emotions hit me strong as I inhale the air filled with her angry and bitter word.“It isn’t your time” I get up from the ground and brush the dirt off of my pants.I extend my hand to her and I expect her to refuse but she takes it and I pull her up off the cold concrete.I don’t let go and she doesn’t either.
Shooting StarsI like to imagine thatShooting starsAre actuallyDragonflies with little lit lanterns strapped to their backs.
when i found him-Scars [old and new] littered what I could see of his armsAnd blood consistently dripped off his fingertipsShallow breathes cursed his lungsAnd his eyes asked me “why won’t I die?”And I stayed with him- trying to stop the bleeding.
The Beautiful Things In My DestructionMy lungs no longer scream for airAnd the pain in them has eased to nothing but a dull throbAnd the coral reefs are so beautiful when you’re down below them looking up.
Connectionyour voice is in my headand that is the way i want it to stay.
obsessionyour shadow and I have begunto argue about sharing space
Two Past MidnightInsecurities come to playWhen I let my hope get away from me.
MirrorThe Queen is hiding-Not imprisonedShe chooses to be on the other sideThe Queen holds the only key-And it is tangled upIn her intestinesAnd she’s not giving it back.
this isn't suicideit's not existing where i exist right now.
to myself.i'm happy,i tell myself when i get in my freezing car,almost running late forclass. i'll be okay,is what i whisper to myselfduring the middle of a test. nobodyknows all the answers, right?it gets better.that's what i'm going to saythe next timei see someone withscars.
Hello, I'm Me- Nice To Meet YouI stand in the rain- until I’m soaked to the bone with the scent of itUntil my clothes stick to my skin and it’s uncomfortable to peel them offI crawl out of bed at 2:33 am just to go look at the stars- even if I’m too tired to name themEven if my hair is still wet from my shower and the tips start to freeze because it’s under 20 degrees FI walk with my hands grazing the branches of trees- lips turned up the cornersLips turned up at the corners because I get along with nature better than I do with humans- -I give way too much ‘change’ to veterans asking for money- even though I know they may be lyingEven though they may be, but what if they’re not?I listen to cashiers as they spill their tales of bad days across the scanner- as they scan 10 cans of cat foodAs they scan 10 cans of cat food, I smile brightly- one that somehow reaches my eyes- and wish them a better tomorrowI visit my town’s Radio Shack way too often- the two freq
you taught me how to be more than okayOne day I will be gone(no longer as you once knew me)One day I will no longer exist(no longer as you once knew me)One day I will be alive and I shall live(I shall bloom and I will dare you to know me then).
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.write about itlike you don't care. try to mean it.go through monthsof shitty pity-leaking almost-poemsbefore you get onethat actually makes someone feeland thensay that it was all a mistake. mean it.only feel like a writerwhen you're insecure. fall in lovewith someone. anyone. tell yourself that's it's just for fun. just for being young.actually love the hell out of them.mess it up.write about it. smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,something destructivebut with the hopesof saving your lungs for running(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)and drink and drink and drinkuntil you have the courage to call up ex boyfriendsor lovers or dead friendsto say that you miss them.write about that-act like you don't care.actually care.everyone knows that you care.write about that.
little white lies when dreams dieYou could never quite comprehend the difference between“I’m fine”&&“I’m okay”Where one was a lie and one meant merely alive.
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing aboutblood. you can find mein the "new beginnings" isle, splashed with scar tissue and pale skin--i amwhole. dear child, open youreyes: there are stars, a galaxy, andthere is breath in your lungs. the past is neverforgotten, but you have lived through it,swam through it andmaybe died a little through it, but youcame out on top. when this winter ends, itwill end harshly;but spring comes every year,and i hope that youremember that;i hope you open your eyesto rain and i hopethat you fall in love with it, and i hopethat you let life movelike i had to.
.last night i dreamt thatyou took me to my bed andspread me out-you planted roses in the creviceof my ribcage and wipedaway the tears and the bruises, and youtold me that scars were nothing more thananother story that i will someday write,and that was the best thingyou could havesaid.
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
march.no matter how longthe winter howls, the cold will sigh into spring.
the days when you were a stage.i gulp down steamy trains of airand they tumble down my tunneled throatbefore i spit them up.you are my heroin for escapesinto a maze of fevered blursand overflows. in my heart i made you outto be some sort ofmonster, but you weren't.if anything, you saved mebefore i went and destroyedthe world. i think you would do goodto let me drown in a reservoirpickled with tears. i wouldn'tthink twice of it, but keep your fingerscrossed whenever you visitmy frostbitten waters. you once told methat it is impossibleto love someone who writes.but there is something differentabout "someone who writes"and a writer. because writersdrown much slower, andtend to drag others downwith us.i'll plunder and plunge the world,or maybe i could settle for you.i have reached my critical point.scar my words and keylog into mymind before i combust. i cannot speakwithout a pilgrimage of words on receipts.this is it: thisis the
Bite Your Tongue Till It BleedsBite Your Tongue Till It Bleeds Speak now or forever hold your peace,Or is it piece?‘Cause if I hold this piece of my mind,To myself, there will be no peace,Only an explosion of the mental mineThat riddles mine.I’m no man, I’m a mime,Holding his hands over his mouth,Biting my tongue so these words have no way out,With my eyes half-lidded, the other half brimmin’,With tears near the bottom half of the rim,Ready to fall like rainwater races down a windowsill. Angry to the point where I wish I could control the skies,Rain down Hell and fury that has built up inside,And watch my furious vision destroy the night. But this is not me,This not how I am,Nor how I will ever be.It’s just that I’ve been holding my peaceFor such a long damn time.Now it just seems the only “peace” I’m holding,Are pieces of my mind.
WhisperThe wind whispersyour secrets-But I've heardthis all before.
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
The scarsLife hurts usIt causes us to bleedTime can heal the woundsAnd stop the painBut the scars remainFor the rest of our lives....
Happy To Be AliveI breathe in deeplyInhaling the fresh scent of moss after rain-I open my eyesTurning my face skyward to soak in the light of the sun-&& I smile.