I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

So many things
I want to tell you
But they were never
Able to come out
And now they haunt me
Torment me
In the darkest recesses of my mind.

Sometimes being away
Makes me realize
Just the right amount
Of emotion I have bottled
Inside and away from you.

If you only knew.
How sometimes at night
Id pray to disappear
To die
But
I find the answer
Death would only end the suffering
And start another.
Would you care?
Would you stop me?
No, you would let me go
Down that forsakened path alone.

Torn my heart
Stained my soul
Tears of blood
Flow from unseen wounds
And pool on the floor
As I stand before you

Pure tears
Fall down my face
And mix with the blood
That seems to flow
More from my chest cavity

In my hands
I held the still beating heart
As I hold it out to you
Looking in your hands
Where the silver metal
Flashed in the moonlight.

Wake up
Its just a dream
Or is it.

Images seem to haunt
My mind

So was it really a dream
Or am I eternally alone
And haunted
By a memory.

I think of going away (sometimes)

Can I think we all been there?

Deep in our thoughts & feels,
Lost down a lonely road,
Confused of direction,
Sentimental with nature,
Filled with want & need
Pained with, well everything.


I go but will always come back

From ___  to reality.

I am experienced in empathy.
Not comfort,
For I can easily feel when hugs and tender words will do no good.
They hurt the broken people, don't they?
Make them only more aware of how they should be.
Not sympathy, or pity,
Those burn their victims like acid
Spoon-fed in the guise of tonic
In the semblance of medication.
No, what I am good at is empathy.
I feel
What they feel.
Touch it with my fingertips and learn it like braille.
Like I am blind, reaching out to them.
No matter how close I get, it never impales me like it does them.
I am the watcher without eyes.
But I feel it, understand it, read it,
And so I know
Not what to do or say, really.
Just what not to.
It is a skill that people seem to fly towards and huddle around.
I think not a lot of people must take the time to understand
Pain
When they see it's there.
They barge in with their little toy tools
Plastic hammers and screws,
Elmers glue,
And fix it all with sloppy gobs of paste.
And at the end, looking at their handiwork,
Sagging to one side,
Simply propped up like it will stay stable,
Smile,
Sigh with the satisfaction
Of a job done,
If not well,
And brush their palms together
As if to say,
"Well, that takes care of that."
And whistle merrily on their way,
Even as the poor person they fixed
Must now wash the gaudy decor
From their jagged edges
And start again from the bottom up.
The real truth is that you can't glue a person back together.
You can only tell them that
They are still art
Even though they are no longer
As they once were.
Empathy takes restraint.
Takes patience.
Takes practice.
It is the art of feeling what another feels,
And still acknowledging that you do not fully understand.
It is the subtlety of looking at another person
And never telling but always showing
That they are themselves strong enough
To heal.