There are blotches of red marks on my skin, my face,
bags under my eyes, 
I get around 5 hours of sleep most nights 
but every morning I still feel like I haven't slept in a century. 
This is a different kind of pain.
This isn't a migraine, or a stomachache. 
This is more than a stomachache. 
This is waking up every morning to arms full of scars that are so ******* triggering,
A stomach screaming "feed me" but skipping breakfast and lunch 
because I swear to ******* god, I've gained weight. 
This is a different kind of pain. 
This is my first poem in months which is why 
it doesn't fit together perfectly 
but since I penned all of my thoughts about 
my eating disorder, my self harm, my mental illnesses and my boyfriend,
I didn't have anything to say, 
I'd given my voice away by that point 
and that caused a different kind of pain.

.. My poetry is ******
My head is spinning
And I'm all alone

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference

I can't write...
     I have a stash of twenty drafts, bearing a couple of lines each
I can't crack...
     Every draft seem to have developed a shell I can't breach
I can't gather...
     My thoughts so I could nurture these drafts to fruition
I can't think...
     The clatter in my head meant only to deafen
I can't fathom...
     What went right from what had gone completely awry
I can't find...
     Much needed sanity to let soar and fly
I can't cry...
     The tears I've beckoned for so very badly
I can't scream...
     Only muffled gurgles of notions drowned at sea
I can't see...
     The bigger picture...that consumed us both
I can't hear...
     Except for the dreaded voice of reason that I loathe
I can't piece...
     Together one decent little write

I can't breathe...
     I can't breathe...*I'm losing this fight

March smart to the beat of the drums boys
March toward the sound of the guns
There's a battle yet to be fought boys
Before we can return to our homes
The dead now lie in rows boys
Cut down by the shot and the shell
But the enemy will turn and run boys
When they hear the rebel yell
Find the courage in your hearts boys
Although this day is lost
You fought and died so bravely boys
Was it really worth the cost?
So few of us are left boys
Sorely hurt, ravaged by pain
So many of us died boys
For what? For us there was no gain
Mothers, wives and sweethearts boys
In so many homes do grieve
They said we would be in for three months boys
Now so many will from here never leave

Rest In Peace boys

Are we unjust in our biased views of this man?
Yes
Because we do not understand, do not comprehend
Just what Thee Artiste has to offer
A man of modesty, humility
A man fit to take up quill and ink
This sad and lonely unloved man
Reaches far the beseeching hand
Of friendship
We,we privileged few, we who swore to help
Those so deprived
Of litery and poetic skill
That we should now turn the scornful back
Upon one who does so sadly lack
The art with brush and pen
And so I call upon you my poetic friends
To turn the cheek and make amends
For the insults that we threw
So spread wide your arms
Make free the welcome in your halls
Invite the master through the door
Then kick a Carvo in the *****