Easy to dress and hard to address.

You can always tell a self destructive writer
By their poetry

Because sometimes they are redundant
And other times they are expressing pain

But they always tell a story of being hurt
And locked into their own head

But this my dear, is why they write
Because the person in their head is trying to get out

Self destructive writers
Are usually dark

But when they are light
They tell you how perfect you are

So that you don't do the same thing
That they did to themselves

Self destructive writers
Don't want you to make their scars
On your arms

I am torn between
wanted to disappear and
wanting to be seen

10:20 PM
3/1/20

a bitter blade's first cut
will never be its last
a self-fulfilling prophecy
an echo of the past

its song still makes me sing
a whisper hardly missed
remembering the harmonies
retaining my clenched fists

there are too many broken strings
to play another song
still the music swells inside my walls
it's not a question to play along

I'd be more afraid if the music stopped
what if I forget all the words?
memories deafened through roaring silence
unsure of melodies I'd misheard

I still hear its hum inside my head
as hard as I try to forget
a question of whether it's now or forever
undoubted, hard-earned regret

I made them laugh
I made them smile
I found my purpose
For a while

But they kept laughing
When I said nothing to chuckle
Then they stared and they pointed
As my knees began to buckle

"But I was useful"
That's what I thought
But a delusional clown
Fits in with naught.