Fairytales and picture books
Don't tell the whole truth.
Sometimes,
Toads are just toads.
They don't always become your prince
After you kiss them.

It's a funny idea, really -
The notion of finding love
In a murky pond.
Lonely bogs have lonely frogs,
I suppose.
Did you have any doubts
As you traced the surface of the water
With a fingertip?
When you took him in your palms,
Did you not have second thoughts?

It takes a mental blindfold,
Opaque enough to block out reason,
To hold a toad so dear.
He might be charming at first,
If for nothing else than for the idea
Of what the two of you could be.
But soon enough,
The emptiness will settle in.
He won't call you pretty,
Or hold you close.
He'll leave a little trail of slime
Wherever he goes.


And at the end of the day,
I'm left wondering...
Why the **** did I kiss a toad?

Blank walls, spackled
And clean, yet empty.
Stretch out your weary arms;
Feel the numbness in your fingers.
A can of paint, a brush, and a pan -
Colors bleeding from the shape of your mind.

Take a deep breath,
Feet flat on the ground,
And open your eyes.
You can remake yourself.
Paint the walls.


Blank walls, spackled.

85 degrees farenheit and counting -
A sweltering wave of heat.
It filled and fogged my mind,
As I laid supine on the bathroom floor.
I stared at the ceiling and wondered if
god still loved ***** sinners.
I then questioned if whether he did or not
Even mattered at all.

I had tied myself up in straps,
Just to forget my body for a little while.
I had spat in the face of celibacy,
Only to find that the face was my own.
Looking back at that face, I contemplated on
Just how dastardly my actions supposedly were.
Reaching in my chest, I shifted and searched,
Trying to find the sin...
But nothing surfaced.

So the play is over
After running for a year.
We had our ups and downs,
Our ins and outs,
Our highs and lows...
But that wasn't enough to keep on
Any longer.
You put on a smile and
Played your part convincingly.
I guess you really are a theater kid,
Because you made it feel so real.

I can't trace back the jagged timeline,
No matter how hard I try.
The acts all blur together -
There is no true beginning or end.
The only thing tangible and real
Is the pain,
And the scar you left behind.
To me, it's a severed ventricle
That will never heal.
To you, it's a stained napkin
To toss in the trash as you walk by.

Maybe method acting my role
Was the wrong approach.
My script told me to be
Your *****,
Your angel,
Your therapist,
But I just wanted to be your love.
I was never able to be
The perfect ***** that you wanted.
The kind of girl who
Actually stayed a girl.
I tricked myself into thinking
That I was finally good enough for someone.
I stared into the mirror
Until I convinced myself that
I was a beautiful monster.

"And I will always love you."
You listen to Dolly's when your heart is breaking,
And to Whitney's when you're ready to move on.
Some of us, however,
Stay stuck in limbo.
I can't push against the dusk
And get to the morning
If I can never trust again.
You built a city of lies
At my feet,
And the walls have yet to crumble.

And so, we take a bow
To our friends and family.
We exit, gripping a bouquet
Of dry and tattered roses.
You've taken the liberty
To give up and leave.
You're shedding the burden,
Peeling off the old, crusty skin.
I wasn't worth the trouble and effort,
I suppose.

I want to leave too,
But all the world will be the same stage.
I can't give up and leave
Unless I give up on the world itself.

I wanna look as different as I can
Than the girl you fell in love with.
The "girl next door,"
With the frizzy brown curls
And wide eyes -
I don't want to be her anymore.

I want to dye my hair dark green,
And get the kind of nose piercing
You said you didn't like.
I want to get a beautiful tattoo sleeve,
Or
An old bald guy smoking a cigar,
Tattooed somewhere on my stomach.
I want to get some boots and overalls,
And maybe start smoking.
Hell, I wanna get my **** pierced,
As scary as that sounds.

I want to have scars
That are visible.
I want to wear mascara that runs.
On the weekends, I wanna get hammered
And bring someone home...
Even though it'll make me feel empty.
I'd like to quit my fitness center job,
And make 20 bucks or so a night
Doing drag king gigs.
I want to ruin my family's opinion of me
By coming out.

I don't care if
I'm seen as wild.
All I want is distance,
Pushing the life I used to love
To the other side of the globe.
I want to get lost if I go looking for it,
Unsure of which wind will take me there.
I need to launch it so far into the void
That it stops existing.

I've got to get away from
The life I used to love with you.
Otherwise,
I'll be drowning in my sorrow forever.

My darling,
How I adore you with all my heart.
You are my sun,
Moon,
And stars,
Or something,
All in one.
Yes, I love you more than life itself.

I love you so much that
My passion will quickly burn out.
Three months in,
I'll stop loving you,
Yet I'll continue the act.
You're so precious to me
That I'll treat interacting with you like a chore.
You're so lovely -
You make me want to treat you like a burden.

Sweetheart,
I long to withdraw from you forever more.
I anticipate refusing to hold you at night.
I cup my ear in hopes of hearing your sobs.
I'm giddy at the thought of withdrawing intimacy.
I await the sweet taste
Of crushing your heart in my fist.

My heart, my soul, all of me -
It was never yours.
How long should I lie to you?
A year? Two years? A decade?
I suppose it depends,
I might be able to get use out of you
For a good long while.
When I finally break it off,
I won't have rhyme or reason.
Dearest, you won't get an ounce of closure,
Or walk away knowing what was and wasn't real.

Don't cry, my angel.
This is just my self-discovery.
I'm doing field work
To become a master heart-breaker.
You might've been been first,
But you won't be the last.
Such is a straight man's love.

Oh, to revisit that familiar, suffocating feeling
Of burrowing under the covers.
A night of one's own company,
Left to make small talk with your mind.
What do you call an introvert who
Hates being alone?

Solitude is a solemn lover,
Creating a mix of solace and uncertainty.
Every dance is a slow dance in Solitude's arms,
Circling round and round the same, stale despair.
Somehow, it feels both right and wrong
Simultaneously.
Your head buzzes violently
When lost in a sea of people,
But does it buzz less in your empty home?
Surely you're happier this way,
With you, yourself, and Solitude.

here we go again
the feeling of not feeling
the music without melody
the poem without metre

it all swims in my head devoid of emotion
these stanzas, those paragraphs, those conversations, that knowledge
they swirl and they shimmer but where has the tone gone
those non-verbal shades just evaporate like water

dickens, tolkien, tolstoy, plath
mozart, sheeran, queen, presley
van gogh, hirst, dalí, ito
nothing but noise when your heart isn't in it

now down some pills
write it down
go to sleep
and repeat this tomorrow.

---TW: themes of self harm---


I'm hungry,
******* hungry.
I'm not really in the mood
For the moldy apples in my fridge.
My brain is hungry though,
******' hungry.

A nagging, a pulling, and a tapping.
The urges crawl to and fro in the back of my skull,
Like drunken, confused spiders.
I roll my eyes back
To take a peep at the spiders,
And I stare at them for a while.
Their clumsy crawling is mesmerizing;
I can't look away, even though I want to.

The stomach growls,
The skin quivers,
And the aroma rises.
The blood running in my veins,
Along with the goosebumps on my skin
Are tantalizing.
Why does it smell better than any actual meal?
My thoughts begin to narrow in on my hunger,
On my skin,
And on my hunger,
And on my skin,
And on the box cutter,
And on my hunger,
And on my skin.
Eventually it's all I can think about,
God ******.

I bite and groan;
I bite and wail.
The guilt consumes me,
But the hunger consumes me
With an even sharper bite.

Passion flows from the pen.
Lines race through the mind
In a feverish fervor.
Such a noble piece deserves a remarkable title -
Something unique,
Innovative,
Never been done before...

"Untitled."
Showing 1 to 20 of a 1,000 search results.

Oh to be the young, Untitled poet.
They live in a world of dreamy wonder.
It takes an earnest naivete to believe
That the three stanzas, freshly written
Are beyond the need for a name.
How can words so profound be labeled?
To name the art would do it a disservice,
Surely.

However, do not frown on the Untitled poet.
No one is born with
A sophisticated understanding of the thesaurus.
Indeed, you were once a starry-eyed artist,
As was I.
We all need our time to bake,
Letting our edges singe and crisp.
In due time, they'll look back on their journey
And take note of how they've grown.
After all,
How can you call yourself a writer
If you don't hate your old work?