I cut my own tongue
on it's razor sharp edges.
Lacerated words arise
from hidden places.
The sweet salt drips
down my cracked lips
and onto my
What have I done?
I need to stop telling myself I'm terrible.
Eighteen RingsI've got more rings
under my skin
than the big oak
in my backyard.
And I feel so paper thin
that I swear
the lines on my palms
are wear and tear marks.
A sign that any second now
I'll crumble up
and sweep under
the feet of the people
cutting me down.
(To build something
But after eighteen years
of the same old
and the same old
with exhausted people
snapping at my heels
for petty mistakes,
I'm used to feeling restless.
Though to get some sleep
a little of the spring
back in my branches.
('Cause my fingers don't
write as much
and my hands don't
draw as much).
I think the lack of
has been getting
to my head.
The fumes leaking
from their noses
when they yell
has filled my lungs so much
I'm not sure
oxygen is an option
I've had so much experience
you'd expect me
to be numb to it
will charge head first
so fast you must react
no matter how much
Aren't A Lot of the Stars Dead Anyway?I feel an affinity towards
a certain kind of sadness
and a certain type of hope.
The stars are so bright
but they are so bright
and my eyes won't adjust
like I was promised.
I Don't Want To Feel NowI.
There must be something
sitting on my chest
that my eyes are blind to.
It isn't hurting me
as much as it is seeping
into my lungs.
(I feel heavy now.)
And my head hits the pillow
like it is north
and the other is south.
But the fields
are keeping me awake
with exchanging currents.
(I feel stuck now.)
I've noticed the wall
beside my bed has bumps.
I've had enough time
to stare at something insignificant,
and now I realize just how much
I've never really cared.
(I feel small now.)
The lights are all blaring
and the clock is behind my head.
But the sunlight through my shutters
is reminding me of my existence
and how much I don't deserve it.
It's 5PM and I'm lying down again.
(I feel worthless now.)
There is too much silence here
and the room is buzzing
like the dead flies
in my windowsill used to do.
Next time I get up I'll make a note
to clean those out later.
(I feel numb now.)
Summer HomeI think you've ruined me
in a way that doesn't quite hurt
as much as it suffocates sweetly.
There's something about
looking back on everything you've said
and finally seeing each lie
as they scraped your bottom lip
on the way out.
I think I was addicted
to the taste of your blood
when I kissed you.
It seemed to mingle well
with my tears
and stained my lips just enough
to mark your territory
as the summer home
that seemed more fun
when you were younger.
Mr. MelancholyI fell deeply inlove with him.
in his gray suit
and his black tie.
He always had an eye for fashion,
and he'd dress me down well.
He'd call me beautiful,
and reassure me that the funeral
they eluded to in their jeers
was a wedding for our souls.
And our honeymoon
would be spent side by side,
as it always should be,
laying down under the stars.
A stone on my finger,
and a stone on top of me,
carefully adorned with flowers,
As my dress turns to lace
and then to dust that slips through my fingers
in rhythm to the ticking of the clock,
he sews my next corset
between my ribs.
It's steel-boned spine crushes me
ever so lightly over time.
The difference so subtle
I wouldn't have known it was real
if it hadn't been for the stares.
I suppose I have gotten thinner,
but he assured me again
I was beautiful.
His design was built to fit a skeleton,
and I wanted to please him.
In sickness and in health,
'til death do us part,
and my parts have
This Place Is GarbageThis place is goddamn filthy
and we are all trash.
No matter how you look at us
or what someone says about us
at the end of the day we all
deserve to be taken out.
I won't deny we are flawed
or even at times disgusting
But at one time we were desired.
Someone wanted us,
maybe even needed us.
But we were broken and used
and then tossed away.
That's how everything fucking works
and you either get used to it
and accept that you are rotting away,
or you realize that you change over time.
We are still rotting.
We are still dying.
But found things can be used again.
An artist's warehouse is a dumpster.
Scraps of cardboard are walls.
Egg cartons are hills.
Broken glass are mosaics
and someone fucking needs you again!
I can not change your mind
on how you view yourself.
Just as you can't change mine
on how I view you.
Call yourself what you may,
my beautiful shard of sharp metal,
you may use yourself to harm yourself,
you may rust and dirty up,
but you are the centerpiece--
The Comfort of Pale-Smile SadnessMy pockets know the back of my hands
like I know the world through
my teary eyes
and just-as-blurry mind.
I'm sure if I ever left the comfort
of closed-lip, pale-smile sadness,
I'd fall right off the orange horizon;
drowning in the migraine-inducing sun.
Because a cold night kisses hard
and love is dropping your legs over the roof
with the gently-used notion to ground yourself,
but instead you just breathe knowing you've already fell.
It's All For YouI know you will never see
what I see in you
because we have different sets of eyes
and different minds.
As much a part of me
as I wish you were,
you're still just you
and I'm just me.
So the person in the mirror you see
is a demon
and I see an angel
and they're constantly fighting.
But evil always wins because it doesn't
like I do.
So you took a liking
to broken glass
at such a young age,
that when you started to grow up,
the skin of your tightly-clenched fist
grew around the shard.
Now it's just as much a part of you
as the knuckles you damage
and the toes you use
to keep your balance
once you finally get up;
maybe to fetch a glass of water.
You've spent every second
trying to cut your own blade
out of your hand,
hoping you'll bleed out
all the mistakes you think
belong to you.
And I know you've heard
a million times
that everyone makes mistakes
but there's truth behind cliches
and those things weren't your fault.
I know you know
exactly what I'm
A world of porcelain peopleWe live in
a world full
is a living
day and age:
pick up your
at daybreak and
drape it over the
we are all
eyes open but
we are all pretty porcelain people
living in a pretty porcelain world
but our masks
(and reveal the ugly truth)
LightLight pooled in the floes of her flesh
the warm tone of polluted amber
it ran down the window,
the stream broken in places by silhouettes
and other such distractions
it spilled, soundless
and flooded silken sheets
setting adrift the skin and breath and whispers of her
to steal away into the polluted dark
her sighs overflowed, sonorous
pouring into the amber and black
the constellations dotted along her
disrupted in places by the shadows of trees
and other such poetry
stardust. (you're beautiful)he's
out of orbit -
dust in his
veins rise and
each word that
drips and pools
defined like the
ribcage of a
baby bird, his
were not made for
this earth but
for the stars.
some days he
fades in and
out of reality like
he never really
wanted to be there
on those days
i just think
my god, you really don't
realise how amazing you are.
DisappearSometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
All I had to worry about was
If the bubbles I had blown, were about to
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
I began to worry about the day that
My childhood would simply
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that some day,
When I'm sitting with my husband
In the old old house... my days will simply
And that day,
The day when my heartbeat is
The day when my breath
Truly gets taken away.
That's the day
When my worries, my concerns, my fears...
Little GirlThere sits the girl with the things in her eyes
Monsters, destruction, and sweet butterflies
Hopscotch and daisies, surrounded by screams
Beautiful dresses now torn at the seams
Crayons and paintbrushes, villains and grins
Young, gladsome innocence, hatred and sins
Little red houses on roads left to fade
Gorgeous moonlight shining off of the blade
Blood pouring out as she cries her own name
Knowing she's forced to take each bit of blame
She could have stopped it and left it behind
All of these things in her troubled young mind
She could have saved them if she dared to try
Rather, though, she left herself there to die.
Now, others watch as she sits on the ground
Keeping their distance and letting her drown
In her own worries and things she won't tell
Waiting for her mind to kill her as well.
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t find
the god inside of yourself anymore, that
you think that you are finally
too much honeycomb and not enough human
because lately everything has been slipping
through your fingers, and you don’t know how you can
keep holding yourself together anymore.
if today is the day that you look
at the stars and you no longer
feel their burn beneath your bones,
i will show you the blanket i tried to make
when i was eight, and i will tell you all i know
about the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,
but i do know the basics,
and that’s that everything in the universe
is composed of strings that somehow
loop onto each other infinitely.
so whenever you feel like you’re
walking a tightrope without a safety
net below you, know that you are
thousands of tightropes strung together,
and one fall will not kill you.
i have never told you about the way
i can feel my pulse skitter to a stop
in my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dear
Depression isn’t real.
It’s just a silly tragedy
You’ve forced yourself to feel.
Anxiety is fake, my friend
You wonder why it’s there.
But others have it worse than you!
Stop forming false despair.
Cutting is dramatic, love,
It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.
Why not just get over it?
Is the attention fun?
Suicide is stupid, dear,
And selfish, if I may.
Get over yourself, darling,
Can you hear these things I say?
Why aren’t you replying, love?
Oh, where could you have gone?
I never meant to hurt you, love,
Did I say something wrong?
Why aren’t you replying, dear?
Depression isn’t true!
Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...
Just maybe not for you.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.