Sam Miller

Sam Miller May 2014

I tell people I’m broken,
traumatized and terrified
of trysts with troublesome
feelings that fill me, fill me
fill me with butterflies
that paint pretty lies
all over the walls of my
beating broken heart.

The truth is that I am afraid
because every time I gave my heart away
it got thrown back in my face
and now I’m left here clutching
a hunk of ****** throbbing muscle
like, “What the **** do I do with this?”

If this is the thanks I get
for loving people but also
loving myself then you can take your
stupid holiday and shove it.
Because I want no part in
an ideal that says I have to
love people that hurt me.

Just because I’ll cut people out
faster than I cut out this **** heart
doesn’t make me cold or frigid.

All my apprehension,
all the distance I create,
all my reluctance to feel
the things I used to feel so freely,
that’s just walls.

I built walls to watch
as nobody tried to break them down,
as I ran away from letting people
get close enough to want to.

I’m holding out for the best,
the person that doesn’t make me
want to run anymore.
The person that takes TNT
to my walls and says,
"Let me love you,
you stubborn *******.”

I don’t know where they are,
I don’t know who they are,
the only things I can be certain of are
their existence and the fact that
they will find me.

#love #relationships

Sam Miller May 2014

Apocalyptic Skies

The sky is dark,
not pitch black but a deep
and dangerous blue.
Dark enough to hide the stars
but not enough to hide the clouds
looming above me.

My heavy boots thud
against the sidewalk
and they thud harder when
I walk against the howling wind.

I feel it blowing through my sweater
and chilling my bones as
bare-bones tree branches wave
above my head.

The darkness wind and chill
all point to the end times,
where green grass will never return
and the sun will never again
show its bright face.

Nights like this
are a spiritual experience.
The air speaks to me
in ways the sunlight never can.

I feel the apocalypse every time it storms.

#time #night #dystopian #apocalypse

Sam Miller May 2014

To Have

Sitting here,
late at night
with my coffee stained breath
going nowhere but towards
the screen of my computer,
I think how nice it would be
to have a reason to put it away.

To have someone pleading with me to
"Come to bed already".

To have someone see stars in my eyes
the way I see entire galaxies in theirs.

To have someone love me
half as much as I love them.

#love #relationships

Sam Miller May 2014

My ****** Valentine

The candy red heart I wanted
came in a velvet box
wrapped with a satin bow.

I eagerly tore the ribbon away
and ran my fingers over the velvet,
reveling in the touch of something so delicate.

Tucking my mismatched,
***** fingernails under the lid,
I tore it open like a kid with a big Christmas present.

And what I found
could barely resemble the heart I wanted
for it was nothing more than a lump of bleeding muscle.

The blood’s leaking through the bottom of the box
and I’m not quite sure how I ignored it before,
but now it’s all over my hands and I don’t know what to do.

All I wanted was a second chance.
How foolish of me to believe it would be like a fairy tale,
in which my damaged soul can slowly put itself back together.

Instead all I got
is a blood-soaked box, sticky hands
and another kind of broken heart.

I thought it would work,
even though I kept telling myself
that this is was all a dream in my head.

I knew better than that, I know better,
but the hope filled me up anyways
and hell, it was great while it lasted.

But this heart is no good,
and just like the last one,
it has to be thrown away.

I have to dispose of the velvet box
and the grotesque thing that’s inside of it,
but I think I’ll keep the ribbon.

One little reminder,
so that even when the blood is washed from my hands,
I will always remember.

#love #heartbreak #heart #up #break #blood #valentine

Sam Miller Oct 2013

Epitaph of a Sacrifice

When I was young, too young,
I stopped believing in beauty
and all the things that came with it
like hope and trust and
the magic of pixie dust.
I felt the light in my eyes
drain like sand through an hourglass
and no it’s not Days of our Lives
more like Nights Spent Slowly Dying
alone with only our ragged blankets
to keep us warm and breathing.

I got older, and I learned
how to get beauty back.
it wasn’t easy to rewire my brain after so much of it
had corroded and poisoned
but I did it. I learned to
look into a mirror and be okay
with what I saw looking back at me.

Now I’ve tried to share this power
with everyone I meet but it’s
really ******* hard to change
your own mind and trying to
change someone else’s is like
showering at someone’s house and you can’t figure out how the
**** their faucet works.

As I get happier
I run out of ways
to make other people happy
and I find myself choking
on words that mean **** all
to a depressed bulimic or
someone who can’t adjust to college life.
I can’t play therapist anymore.

But I’d cut out my eyes
for a blind man and
I’d give my limbs to amputees.
I’ll donate all my organs,
tear out my heart
and give it to someone
who’s had theirs broken
too many times before.

I would rip my self to pieces
just to save this world,
because how can I love myself
when the world can’t do the same?
What’s the point of being happy
in a world drowning in pain?

Maybe that is the point.
Maybe staying awake
in this sleepy universe
is the shot of espresso
it needs to wake the **** up
and finally smile a little.

Sam Miller Oct 2013

Pray

Every time I turned my eyes up,
staring at the ceiling to force the tear drops back inside of me
with my hands clasped beneath my chin,
people might have thought that I was praying.

I’m not a religious person
but I think that in my moments of desperation
I’d pray to a ******* ceiling tile
if it would make me feel better.
I’m not that desperate yet,
but if the churning in my stomach
and the burning ache in my chest get any worse
I might just ******* do it.

I’d pray to the dead skies if the clouds would absorb my pain
the same way they absorb the moisture in the air.
I’d pray to the holes in the ceiling above my desk
if I could send my tears up there
instead of having to continually force them back
when my shoulders start to shake.

I’d pray to the jar of paper stars
given to me by someone I thought I’d never be without
if I could be with the friends that truly care about me again.
I’d pray to my car
if it could just take me back home for the weekend on autopilot
so I wouldn’t have to think about concentrating on the road
when all I want to do is go to sleep.

I’d pray to my zombie pillow pet
if it would take away my responsibilities
and allow me to rest for just one whole day.
I’d pray to the pictures of random cats on tumblr
if I could hold my own cats and cry freely into their fur.

Thinking about it,
it’s pathetic how willing I am to pray
for just a little relief from this dark wave
that seems to be rising like a tsunami,
ready to drown me in all the negativity
I thought I had been able to lock away.

Sam Miller Oct 2013

Filthy Heart

Beating, pacing
thumping like a drummer with no rhythm
and no purpose other than to hurt.

Once candy box red,
now black like tar
and twisted and scratched
until it is no longer the muscle it used to be.

It pounds and thunders
in ways I wish I couldn’t feel
because these beats don’t give me butterflies
they give me disease,
they give me panic and fear and
a horrific feeling of, “Please Don’t Hurt Me Again”.

I didn’t ask for this,
this broken thing you gave me,
this abomination of an *****
that calls itself a heart
but only wishes it was something so beautiful,
so excuse me for not having the receipt
but please, please, let me exchange it.

Give me something that’s candy box red,
something that isn’t riddled with scars
and beats in a way that hurts but
in the best way possible, the way that
breathes life into everything I do
and not the kind that burns.

I’m not asking for much,
maybe just a second chance
a do-over, to feel again
and be okay if it doesn’t last.

I don’t want to be afraid
to the point where thinking about trying
makes my filthy heart stop.