do poems only flourish when they are rooted in the soil of emotions?
shall i water them with my tears?
do they sprout from the anger that weeds itself through my soul?
are they the seeds that i planted in my garden and only grow when the sky flashes and thunder sounds?
will you pluck them and use them as decoration for your dinner table?
do they bloom in the moonlight?
are they the trees that sway in the wind yet stand tall in the face of a hurricane?
are poems only full of emotion when we are?
or can i truly write whatever i want?

i wasn’t born to create
tear stains in my pillow at night.

i was born to draw
blood from bone

A knife to my heart.
I stand as I contemplate, whether I want this
or not.
The sharp blade, lightly caressing my skin,
before puncturing through.
There´s no pain that I haven´t felt.
I´m not giving up,
I´m letting go.
I´m letting go of all the sorrows,
that follows me everywhere I turn.
No substance can distract me,
from falling in love with the blade in my hand.
I used to think it did.
Those days are over.
No love can stop me from bleeding.
No promises can heal my scars.
As I bleed myself dry,
I get this feeling.
I´m finally free.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

I wear my heart on my sleeves.
As in the cuts that bleed.
Where everyone can see that I´m damaged.
How I´m broken,
ruined,
to pieces.
One can never fully recover.
As my cuts turn to scars,
my sleeves will still,
never be the same.
As the same for my heart.