starlightt1234

if you asked me why my poetry is ugly first i'll tell you it isn't poetry; it is a self-portrait of words. next i'll tell you i don't use paint for my portraits; i use the blood that escapes my wounds as they come. and sometimes there isn't enough blood, and sometimes there's just too much, so instead of painting i lay there, my mouth filling with iron and salt.

    It's getting harder and harder to push this boulder around.    It's not depression it's a perpetual lethargy. So I'm not bleeding grey I'm just tired all the time. I don't know why I'm so worn out all of a sudden. Maybe it's because I'm so fucking ungrateful sometimes, wishing for that, thinking she should've said this or he should've done that. It gets me so fucking pissed at myself because I got things people could only wish they have, but I've taken for granted. Anger's a waste of time. It just takes up all the thoughts in your head, all the energy in your soul, and turns them black. Anger's a hurtful thing, and throwing rage upon yo

I. I'm so tired of all the sweethearts and young beaus comparing their loves to the stars, the infinitesimal specks of luminiferous ether up yonder, yet I'll chop off all the stars in the cosmos as if they were hanging from a thread in a little boy's room, so you can be the only guiding light in the night sky. II. I'm so tired of all the heartthrobs and exalting admirers comparing their loves to the angels of above, the cold and placid sentinels of immateriality, incorporeality, yet I'll turn all the diaphanous clouds of the heavens into concrete, where it shall plummet from the firmament like its own fallen seraphs and you can rise from the

If I'm a mouse then you must be the mousetrap, except you don't need the cheese; your eyes are pits you fall into. They're dark like the night sky, yet they shine like the stars above. I wonder if you notice the umbrella I hold above your head when it rains, but then again probably not; watching you go reminds me of watching balloons slipping from my grasp, and they're drifting up, until pop, and you're gone. Maybe you're just a graveyard, harboring dead souls within your body, and your voice is a death sentence. Maybe your mouth is my coffin, and your love is a blue rose, so wonderfully impossible, reaching for it will have me falling l

Parents fighting again. Earplugs on. Again.