If they beat all the flowers,
they **** all the seeds,
they won't be able to stop the spring coming...

Is poetry not enough? Do my songs still not help? The ghosts that I've conjured scream no. Writing always made me miss you more clearly; but it never made me stop missing you.

And I think I’ve managed to **** up every good thing that has happened to me. My vocabulary is becoming strictly “I’m sorry” And I am. But I’m sorry doesn’t fix everything. And sorry didn’t fix us.

I always say that I write to confront my fears, but I’m starting to think that I’m just writing to myself. And poem after poem I only become more aware that the almost inevitable self destruction is my biggest risk.

I’ll pound knuckles into walls, I’ll etch pencil into paper, and I’ll stay in the same spot for what feels like forever. I’ll conjure more ghosts. I’ll scream “I’m sorry” and in the end I will be the only one to blame.

But In the end I’ll still blame you.

...  

daughter
sister
aunt  
niece
granddaughter
nice
sweet
good girl  
baby faced
lost
unemployed
uneducated
questioning
wandering
stuck  
dissapointing
hopeful
sinful
alone
sad
happy
grateful.....

i am so many things  
but..
Who Am I?

I am broken
I've finally snapped
What was holding me together
Is almost gone
Though I thought it may stick forever
I am broken
I feel the pain
My past thoughts have become vain
The way I feel, is considered
Inconsiderate
The way I act, is that of a broken man
This was not my plan
To be in agony
I don't want to deal with it angrily
I feel trapped by the gravity
In this hell ridden galaxy
I start to see the vanity
Of this reality
My anger and insanity
My depression and my humanity
It's all been revealed
I may never be healed
I am broken
My words are now outspoken.

a royal blue ocean
turned black by veil of night
the lighthouse stands alone
on an island made of rock
and moonlight spills
onto everything below
shiny, dark waves
rush onto the shore

saliva
  subtly
    slips through
dirt stained lips

it rots on impact
substance grows with such ferocity
like the rapid popping of water on a hot skillet

it grew uncontrollably
it   slipped and
        she’d
            slurp it              up
                           back
if she could.