have you ever had those days
when you miss that feeling
of the blade touching your skin
and barely missing a vein?
the excitement you feel
when blood pours out
and the manic grin that
spreads across your face
as the pain subsides?'

i'll be honest,
it is what i have thought about
all day long.
i want the blood
and the pain and the
momental joy.

but, that is all it is.
the feeling flees the second
i am done, the high is gone
and all i am left with is
a ripped up wrist.

hopefully, love isn't the same way.
but, all great addictions usually are.

"The Balkan Peninsula is surrounded by the Adriatic Sea, Aegean Sea, and Black Sea..."
Looking around, I wonder which of you
have problems with your family
and who's kissed a girl
or a boy
and who has nights they barely remember
when they were broken beyond repair,
And who's skipped through a field, and batted their eyelashes
and cried on someone's shoulder
because I know we're all alive and we're together
here, and I'm not alone, I have to believe I'm not alone
you must've done stuff like this too
why hasn't it been communicated?
Why do I, like you, hide behind these uniforms in this class
because the wounds are too raw to display to even
others who have the same wounds?
Why am I scared to tell you and to communicate who I am
and these polite little lies cover up everything I say
we're too scared to offend or hurt those around us
and keep a bottle of feelings in the bed next to us,
not-to-be-shared with any but one who is inside the bottle.
Why do I write all these poems instead of paying attention in class?
Because there's something unhealthy in that
I can't say these things out loud
and everyone is sitting writing their own poems
privately, the cuts on their heart are more painful
than the ones clearly visible.
I can heal you. Show me.

Who is it that does not know of Hercules?
Tragic hero written in the stars
and of the stars to tangle his string
with that of Megara's. He watched the sunset
with twisted arm and muscled thigh
alone, his bride in the Underworld.
he thought he'd be strong enough to rescue her
maybe not- maybe the grasp of the ghosts
was too great- the cycle and spiral down, down,
down into the chasm, leaving Hercules
alone, once more. he couldn't save her,
not for all the trials in the world, even with a divine
parent who guides his hand, He can't weave
the strings in Hercule's favor, he watches the sunset
alone now; the moral of the story:
everything we love will die- we must learn to never
make our home in others, for we will be homesick forever.