Maybe I was born
broken
and I was never meant
to be fixed
because the pieces I lost
was never there
in the first place.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC
I miss the sound,
of being alone.
The crisp
rustling of leaves
as they fall from grace.
The rush of water
flowing in the river
down to the falls.
The choir of birds
sitting in a tree
humming melodies
echoing in the air.
The thoughts inside my head
whirling freely alone,
rapid and wild
without the voices
telling it where to go.
I miss the sound
of being
alone.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
i wanted to cry
but my tears won't come out
so i stabbed myself
right
in
the
chest
and everything
I ever hid
came
pouring out
in front of me
and oh what wonder
because all i can see
is pitch black darkness.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
We are broken, but our remaining pieces mend perfectly together.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 7:21 AM UTC
The snowman
stood there
silently
in the corner of the park.
I think
it was crying
as he melts away
in the same place
he was born.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
If given the
chance
will you live this
life
again?
The exact same
raindrops
on your head,
the exact same
heartbreaks
everyday
the exact same
smiles
fake and real
the exact same
books
you've read
the exact same
disease and sickness
again.
the exact same
life
you have
right now.
I know
i wouldn't.
This one way trip
didn't amuse me
at all.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
It's unfortunate
how the sky
is getting uglier
by the day --
I look up
and only see
the roof of a
cage
I cannot be
free
from.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
I wrote letters
for myself
five years from now
telling him
that it's okay
to cry
once in a while
that tears
are not a sign
of weakness
but an emotion
taking shape
freeing itself
from the binds of body.
I comfort him
with lies
telling him
that if he waits
eventually
everything will
turn out
fine,
that the fire
won't burn as much
if left untouched
I tell him
that broken guitars
can sing too.
Out of tune
maybe
but the melody
is there
howling
on the moon
and the shadows
are its audience.
I convince him
to tuck himself on bed
every night
and sleep
to count the sheep
and drift away
without the help
of tears.
I tell him
that I hope
five years from now
that he reads
these letters,
that i pray
it won't be left
unread
collecting dust
in the corner
of an empty room
deprived of joy
and life.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
I cannot wait,
to taste the forbidden fruit.
Hanging,
innocently,
unripe,
from the ceiling of the world.
It's calling me,
to touch her skin.
Feel it all the way up,
then rip it open
and eat the inside
slowly,
memorizing
every detail
while I indulge
in its young flesh
staining it with
my sins
and marking it
as my own.
The bad aftertaste
won't matter
as long as I satisfy
this eternal hunger
and then
I'll wait for another fruit
to bloom once again
ripe or not
I will feast on its body.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC