She don't know how much it hurts,
It gets to me more than anyone else,
All the past decisions and hurt come flooding back,
One wrong thing said makes all that happen,
It don't take much to lose trust and faith,
It hurts to carry all the burden and pain,
To not be able to let it go,
To think about it all day every day,
Everything she does is why I am the way I am,
All I've been is hurt and backstabbed,
Don't know what to do with all the pain but take it out on myself.

I don't know what happens,
I start to shake,
My eyes get blood shot,
And everything goes black,
When I wake up all I see is people wit fear in their eyes,
And someone unconscious on the ground and blood on my hands.

Everybody has them,
Their wht makes you you,
Don't hide them show them off,
They are your battle scars,
They are what's left of the war you went through,
And proof that you went head first and beat it,
Whatever their from,
Whatever pain, or hurt, or battle you went through the scars are what's left,
They remind you an everyone else that you are stronger than that battle,
Show them off and don't hide them,
Own you battle scars or they will own you.

I don't know what happened,
Or even how it happened,
But my heart has been stolen,
But yet I don't feel empty nd useless,
It happened after i saw you,
I felt a burning desire in my heart that longed for you,
And now my heart is gone,
I've looked and looked and it's no where to be found,
I've called and called but it has not answered,
I saw you again not long after and I saw it,
You had my heart the whole time,
It's official you have stolen my heart and I've fallen in love wit you.

She’s the shadow to their light.
Darkness colored her fingernails.
The polish glossed over the surface
blacking out any possible entrance.

Tinted glasses closed her off from  
the stares of the self-righteous
who saw only bad habits
a dark appearance
and criminal activity
in the way she stepped.

Tremendous rage swelled in her fists
and quelled any rational thought.
She kicked at asphalt, eager for a fight.  
An entire war of battle cries choked her lungs.
As the compulsion to break and be broken
snaked up the narrow passage of her throat.

She shattered her skull
in the hopes of finding clarity.

They call her Violent Violet
for the purple bruises that bloom
dangerously deep and disturbingly dark
along the tops of her knuckles.
To her it’s decorative floral.
In fights she clutches violets
offering their vicious beauty
to any contending adversary.
She’s a volatile force of nature.