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.
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thati'm falling in lovewith you.no. no, no no, don't you say that, because you've never seen meat 4 amwith my eyes glazedand my mind a battle field (and my arms paying for the weaponry).you haven't heard mechoke back sobs after midnightbecause god dammit i can't sleep,and the screams in my earsaren't helping matters,and i don't thinkyou will ever see me bre a kand shatter andfall into the greedy gripof a panic attack and then try in vainto claw myself back up. but there is that hot hope in methat tells me that youare different. youcan look pastthe scars and the tearsand the screams and the nightmares. andmaybefor once in my damn lifei'm praying that i'm rightabout someone for once.
an ode to winter, to her.i.there's a mixof cheap cigarettes andJanuary coating my lips.ii.all the scar tissuecan't make upfor everything i've lost,and everything i will gain.iii.i have never met someonewho distracts memore than metal and pot, but i guessthat there's a first foreverything.
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.
to love is to bleed.seeing his scars make some part of me ache to digmine even deeper.
.how to comfort someonewith an anxiety disorder: tell them to grow up.god knowsthat they only panic because they're just not old enoughto handle themselves. say that it's notthat bad.because, hey,since it's not bad for you,it can't be for them. that's just how it works,right?"calm down".this oneis my personal favorite.because the one thingthat i want to hearwhen i'm choking on my own sweatand heartis that i need to calm down.
january.smiling, closed eyes,we stumble into summergraves with marble lies.
x.i can't put her into words;maybe it's becausenone of them are good enoughto match her.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
.i am thinking ofyou at two twenty one inthe morning, always.
red.these cigarettes will kill me, but only ifi don't do it first. (inhale, breathe, hold, exhale. then concentrate on the scenery. feel the smoke on your tongue and think about how you're killing yourself, when in reality, you're already dying.)we're all going todie, so what's oneday less? it seems like anhonest bargain to me,but then again, you should neverlisten to a word i say, because i ama class A fuck up (or so they say). see, i'm either too fator too skinny,much too heart wildfor any man too marry. ("who would want to marry a girl like you? you're too stubborn," my father says. i am fifteen with purple hair and fire on my cheeks and my heart coiling away from my sleeve. "fuck anyone who wants to take anything about you away," my mother tells me when i'm nearly 16, with sad eyes and a worn out expectation.)but i think i realize nowthat i don'tcare. for me i am good enough,good in general,an
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her forthe miles between us,and i think i might always do so.she is printed in my mind,upside-downlike some halfbreed stoner dreamand i feel her colors likesun. rain. hurricane. leaves side vertically in my veins, the left side of a bicycle wheeling around my brainand she is a fucking drug, man.i think i'm gay.i'm not saying that just tosay it, either. i justwonder.why else would i write letters to hereven though she'll never read them,and why do i wonder how she looksright on the verge of sleep? i think about kissing hera lot. it's always her. she is my now. my then. my way bak when. but most of all, she is mywhy, and that is fucking fantastic.
the King and his moon.i.this is an odeto the King. Wewatched him blowaway like an oceanof black feathers,and our Father mutteredthat he was forgiven, always, truly forgiven. But we all know that nothing gold can stay-- he had togo. It was written. ii.that was when theQueen cut her hair. Again,we watched it fall toher chamber floorin heaps of strunggold. But we already knew that it would haveto go. We already knew that she would go, for itwas written, and it was already forgiven.iii.the Prince grew upwith the memory ofblack shoes and hairlittering the halls ofan empty palace. TheQueen was busy, alwaysbusy, and then she was sick-- and then the Prince put onhis black robes for her, eventhough he always remembered her in shades of red.iiii.on his father's throne,the boy-king realized thatthis was the place that swallowed up his love,and it gave way to war. You know what theysay-- "A heartbrok
carry on.i count milesby the cracks in the sidewalkthat i try to step on(old habits die hard)andby cigarette buts thrown like Hansel & Gretel's crumbs down main st;count them by how many times i think of youand how many timesi wish i hadn't (those numbers are neck and neck).someday not so far from nowi know that i'll wind up to bethe monster i always said i wouldn't,and i'll sit back, mind a million miles away because i just want to keep going.
saturday.cigarettes will killme; that is, if i do not do it myself, first.
we promised not to cry.you cut yourselfwith the burnt out ends of cigarettes,and drown yourself inside of my eyes,because i cannot helpyou.when did you becomejust another messof strong liquor andnicotine promises?we swore that we'd stay by each othereven with the face of Hellclawing down our throats.sometimesi want to shake you and screamthat it does get better. it does and it will andit always will, you foolishchild. i love you. i say thisbecause you are my heart and how can a woman livewithout blood in her veins?
space between seconds.she never realized she hadn't lived.
t.they say that opposites attract, but that's not really true;we both hate our misery and i'm learning to love you.but you know what they sayabout writers;they'll suck you dryand only use youto write about. carve your nameinto poems (not intoskin-- that's not "in" right now,i guess), butmaybe i'm all out of wordsand youare all i want to read about.
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
Training?Training Is For Dogs,Human Needs Teaching.
twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
threeshe left the sweet-soft scentof her vanilla perfumeon your nightstand;a little bottle of writer's tearsbecause she loved you –but not enoughto stay
.grievingmother,a full moon;fit to burstwith silvermilk,weeping
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
please answer meI'm trying to keep you alive.
NightmareWelcome to my nightmareWelcome to the darknessWithin my mindA place where hope is lostLove is a dreamAnd joy doesn't existA place where pain rules over allSuffering is a mustAnd demons are everywhereA place where life is meaninglessThe living dance with the deadAnd insanity is imminentA place where the voices in your headNever stop haunting youAnd all the memories overflow your mindA place locked within meGrowing in secrecyUntil the day I can take it no moreWelcome...Welcome to my personal Hell...
Somewhere I Belong"You okay?" Well... No, you see. I don't belong anywhere It seems Not in a group Not at a table Not fitting in with what's considered 'normal' Do I belong anywhere? I question aloud And with that his arms wrap around me Whispers in my ear "Yes, yes you do. You belong here, with me." And with that I can hardly breathe.
biting my nails is almost better.i have this habitof missing the peoplethat are still in my lifeand loving the oneswho i will never meet,and the placesi fear i will not go.