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some poems feel like water. this one is more like sand, and I'm suffocating in the maw of a desert that was better left rusting its clairvoyance. it started one night when I remembered that I've kept everything you've ever given me: roses, faces, promises. I never really understood how to let things go, and when the thought of turning the things you'd touched away from my doorstep choked the poetry from my throat, I realized why. I keep reminding myself that I should probably be nicer to you, but I think you already know that I'm only capable of being nice when I'm cornered and out of ideas. and despite what you claim, you've never been

I used to love I used to dream I used to hope But I forgot I need something (Someone) To remind me of these beautiful things For a shard of happiness So I can love again Dream again Hope again... Live again

i. your words drip with crimson as you bite your lip; you always liked to pretend you held the strength of metal, and now all that’s left is the aftertaste of copper trickling down your throat- what happened to the child throwing pennies in the fountain? ii. hidden under the threaded sleeves of your sweater, I can picture your hands shaking like earthquakes and your fists held clenched; I worry your fingernails cut dashed lines into the palms of your hands, like the ones painted on back roads and highways- I’m worried where you plan on going iii. viewing your puffy eyes and hearing woebegone-winded words tangle on your tra

You were Novocain injected straight to my veins, but what was left when you wore off? only pain.

Thanks for being the poetry I didn’t have to write thanks for signing, in beautiful ink, on pages that were once white.

You shove your fingers down my throat, and insert words I never spoke, in desperate hopes to make me choke but beware: my pearly gates won't hesitate to bite the hand that feeds me

these days your name has been slipping in and out of my rib cage and sometimes, my heart forgets to beat. it's funny, i suppose— how even after all these months i still don't want to believe that you're dead. how during the first couple of weeks i prayed to a god i didn't believe in and begged to know if death tasted sweet to you. how once, when the monsters in my head didn't let me sleep, i wrote you three poems and then destroyed four. you were a supernova that lit up my life for a few radiant moments before, like all good things in this filthy world, you came to an end. the sinner in me hopes that you have wings now. but i th

Her small, anxious hands grabbed the cup, a bit too large as it slipped down and tumbled to the ground, the milky mess covering the carpet: her mother let out a disapproving sigh and rolled her eyes, “Will you ever do anything right?” and that’s when she began to limit her aspirations, so that her dreams would never be too large, so she’d never make any mistakes she’d never again drop the cup, but she’d never have enough to drink.

I'll be the first to tell you scissors don't need to be brought to a wrist to cut deep because cutting off your heart from you head, or yourself from your dreams, is also enough to make you bleed and there's ink spilled all over these pages, and at times it seems tears are cheaper than water from a spout: these lines need diluted, these blots are a dark, dark sea and maybe I'm not too good at swimming, even if it's just through a pool of ink but I've learned if you just keep paddling, you're much stronger than you think.

She was the type to cut her wrists, and then swallow the razor blade, because looking at what she'd done was even harder to digest but I want to tell her to let the emotions s      l    p  i    l out of her mouth, instead of her skin, and that I'll gladly let the words slice me, if it means it'll save her wrists.

tonight I'm gonna pull down the sky, throw it into my bed, and strip it naked. but I'll make it slow and quiet. I'll add just enough warm touch to make it seem sincere, breathe in just enough life to make it feel secure. I'll whisper that I love it and hold it tight, tight, tight before I turn away from it, let it memorize my back as I fall into dreamless sleep.

You just can't go back, even to the times you once thought were the greatest. It's like the playground you played on as a child. You have endearing memories of the unique mixture of warm mulch and cool metal, but when you return to it years later, it's not quite how you remember. The once large play area now seems small compared to the large cities you've explored. The slide that once seemed to go on for miles is nothing compared to the walks and runs and car rides you've been on: the thousands of miles you've conquered. The swing that once made you feel like a bird high in the sky hardly gets you off the ground- feet dragging. (mayb

I'm kind of going crazy, I'm caught inside my mad mind. Ten different things weigh me down, but I'm still fine! The words are coming slowly, my mind is on a slur. I can't string this poem, because the brain is on a blur! And I get so frustrated, I tear away at skin; The hair is falling down and the voices make a din! I wanna shut them out, but I can't find a key, So all that I can do is simply shut away the ME.

i. Summer rain has nothing on the sound of your laugh, little pinpricks of sunshine gradient lounging across the cobbled streets of midnight, cooled grey eyes, shining tears of nightlights glowing like stars in your cheeks; kissing strangers in darkened archways, hollow stone walls reverberating through my skull -- ii. back to earth, loving coffee-stained hair taking root under the city floor, stomach-churning light-paths breathing across cool hands in warmer songs, notes of harmony bundled under my sheets parceled, scattered thoughts that last all night and drift between the rafters of my chest iii. wanting at last; pure, starry sky and d

It really wasn't... And I know that I can twist this truth as much as I want... Whenever I'm sober, when I know I can put up that fake plastic smile; Just a few formal words that burn like acid from a liar's lips! "Differences in personality, a divergence in ideals..." Please, fucking, SPARE ME! Because when I look in this mirror, I know. When I see myself looking back at me, I know. Right here, right in front of my own blackened self; Those eyes that both reflect and stare into my dingy soul. I was the problem. I was the instigator. I was the perpetrator. And when I had broken every last bit of her, I was the one, who let it al

I want to write you A nice little poem, Something to tell you How I've felt about you, How much you Clutter my mind With your laugh And your smile And everything you do. I want to write you Something romantic, Something sweet, Something to make you Fall in love with me, Something to make you See your real worth, Something to show you How much you mean to me. Somehow, the words Get lost in my heart, Taking up space, While I'm too afraid To empty them before you; Let you see me bare And broken, with nothing To hold onto but a hope That you'll fix me.

Take me to an art museum, and tell me I am the most beautiful thing in the room grab my shoulders, and shout to the gallery-goers, "do not touch this girl, this work of art."

3am. it seems nighttime has never looked this dark (or maybe my emotions are just blurring my perception) squinty eyes turn to my alarm clock: a lighthouse in the roaring black sea delirium fades, as the dream s l o w l y comes back How can I miss someone who wasn't even mine?

I will be the rolling waves, and you can be the sandy shore I'll kiss with salty lips, and then keep coming back for more

I broke my bones into sticks and stones- let them pile for a fire in the end as I burned, the only answer I yearned: was it you who lit the match?

I once read that a teaspoon of matter from a black hole can weigh thousands of tons upon Earth so think about that when someone tells you your problem is no big deal for it may not look like you have the weight of the world upon your shoulders but it sure can feel like it.

A poet is a liar with a silver tongue pen, and a bleeding heart on the other end. We are anagrams and metaphors and sphinxes in sheep skin. Every letter is an actor that we send into the wind, And we're only as good as the words you believe in.