“I have lived my entire life
without breaking a single bone
and yet somehow none
of them could protect me
from splintering my soul–
somewhere along the way,
I became reckless and sharp,
shattered and dark,
somewhere along the way
I gave up on you and baby
I gave up on myself too.”

— The only angel I had fell through the clouds

I deceive myself, this illusion that I love myself at my own free will. My body is my own battlefield. Naked I stand and without you my poetry is lost land. I am forced to see that the responsibility of self worth is none but my own. Now I stand trying to regain myself.

“Today I held a gun to my mouth and it dissolved as quickly as I thought about you.
I laughed and laughed
and felt the moon pulling my skin away from my bones.
the silent forever of a halfway heart.
Sometimes I sew threads of your hair into the sleeves of my jacket
but when I say your name out loud; it burns.
The angels tell me this is poets breath.
And gravity falls past me; I call your ghost and say “this is where my body feels heavy.” And you tell me that it hurts to forget.”
— But the moon doesn’t have its own light and I guess I don’t either.

Weeds grew between the cracks in my heart and the breaks in my bones but for some **** reason i decided the single dandelion that grew was the good in me and I call it Poetry...but sometimes, most times... all I call it is a lost cause and the grim reminder of the person I never became... I'm a writer...a performer, and I thrive for hearts and souls & Ink and Pens.

Man we must all be blind playing a game of optical illusion.

Everybody keeps telling me that
it’ll be okay and I’ll get through this alive
and that I have nothing to be worried about
but ****– I am so tired of hearing about
how I am supposed to make it through the day;
I just want somebody to tell me that yeah,
I might crash and burn, I might crumble like
a decrepit building under a roof too heavy
to hold, I might falter and trip and break
a few bones, I might not make it out of
this mess as neatly or as happily as I came
into it– and I want somebody to tell me that
it’s okay to **** up and it’s okay to fail and
it’s okay to make a mess of my life because
I’m so tired of these standards I’ve set for
myself– I want somebody to tell me I can
let go once in a while, I want to be able
to let go without losing myself I want to
be able to fall without going straight to hell–
I want somebody to tell me that I can be human
and that it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
— I have been hiding the human inside of me in hopes of being perfect

I run out of words to say but any touch, a simple taste, any dose of you really... and the book of poetry starts to turn its own pages.

Sometimes i wake up dead
both of my lungs decaying
i light up another cigarette
exhaling out the thought of you
& watching it billow out into sun-
light from the shadows only for
the knot in my heart to tighten
because i’m reminded of your
beautiful smile that’s why i hide in the shadows and run with the wolves chasing the moon knowing that no matter how far i run she’ll always be 237,000 miles away & when the world became heavy the right thing to do would be to just shrug it off and to remember to breathe and be a woman
and just dealing with it the way i deal with swings at poker with unwavering stillness grounded in the calm knowing that everything is okay and unbroken but i didn’t. when you saw my soul bleed
i wanted to die. you were not supposed to see me hurting. how did you end up in my cave? or did i drag you into the darkness?
i never wanted to give you a sneak peak into the shadows while i was knee deep more than three feet with my insecurities
lying against the sharp edge of your critiques handing you a love note i wrote on a receipt you’re a beautiful and sweet but me? i’m on a spiel street do you feel me?
i feel weak please **** me i wish i could be all that you want me to be but i can’t. i can only be me and hope you see the real me.

I want to be with someone who makes me feel like a poem.

I fashion my poetry after you–
not in a way words are
clothed in starlight
that pops at the first sign
of darkness but rather, elegance
you’d notice in simple things,
of everyday occurrences
that makes mundane instances
more beautiful after
the second look
these verses are a cotton dress
where you’re most stunning
against the summer sun
the glare in which blinds; yet eyes
were caught,refuse to change focus
and notes to remember in memory.
I could not ask for a better
model to reflect
how my words should appear
when it walks a busy street
full of strangers willing to read.

We need to move away from this constant need of coming across as calm, cool and collected. We weren’t built to be calm, cool, and collected. If we were, it wouldn’t feel so exhausting all the time. It would, you know, come naturally to us. You know what comes naturally to human beings though? Being open, being messy, being raw, being unfiltered, having lots of feelings. Why should we have to stifle our true nature? Let’s go after the things we want, let’s love each other brutally and honestly, and not worry about the consequences. Let’s release the feelings inside of us and let them land somewhere special. Otherwise, we might have a lifetime of longing in front of us

"See I'll not have *** even if baby I'm at risk of being your ex for I know that my love I will get from the next by faith he my man will be heaven sent."

When I found myself,
there was no need
in seeking validation
from anyone to inform me
on what I should become.
I did not fall apart many times,
to rise back up for anyone
to dictate where I am heading
in this life.
I am still finding myself
everyday in many ways.
Yesterday doesn’t stop
the learning process of
becoming a better woman.
Today is a new day,
there so much for us to learn
and share with the world.

All I need to do today is get up and survive another day.

Searching for refuge in this world of uncertainty. Now I know what it means to be on the other side.

i wonder
what
waking up to me
feels like -
sunlight
healing your skin,
or
saltwater
burning your wounds?Probably saltwater burning my wounds.

My heart is an open museum where people walk in and out for free. Exploring until they can’t find find what they intended for, so they walk away. And I stay with myself

Peace is the mission. What is peace?I've never experienced such so, sadly, I do not know what you are talking about.

What is happiness?Happiness is a short lived moment in her life. Sadness or darkness will always be there to stay forever. Bad energies, stress, unbalanced emotions are what she knows and will know forever. Her sun is always hidden. Where is she even going in life?She asks, hoping the maker will respond.

“What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them up like circus attractions
on the inside of our own chests.
We carry the weight of them,
and call it surviving.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the ones who grew up
walking tightropes,
is that we only look so graceful
because we never learned
how to climb down
and we call this
remarkable.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the illusion
is that I am as much lion
as I am lion tamer.
And I got good at inflicting pain
the same way I got good
at soothing it.
This, we call unfortunate,
but inevitable
and sure.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones
is how raw we all are,
just below the surface:
how the roar of the crowd
feels like a city burning;
how we love like immolation;
how we leave nothing but dust
in our wake.
.
We call this
poetic justice.
What they didn’t tell you
about us
is that we’ve learned so well
that we only have to be cruel
once.”
— The Gentle Ones

I wouldn’t even call this poetry.
Words just happen to be
One of my only escapes.

You’ve been so brave and
stitched up all your old wounds, be proud.
It’s time to go back to everything you loved, it’s time to pick up all those hobbies you regret stopping.

Have you ever sat down and thought " wow how am I this unhappy? ! "
You sit there not understanding. How am I actually genuinely unhappy like this ? Also , why am I still breathing ?

I have the words
but they are out of tune,
so write me a song.

I don’t play guitar
and I don’t read the notes
so write me a song.

I can give you words, but I won’t
cause I want your own
so write me a song.

And maybe we’ll sing it together,
Or i’ll sing it alone
Doesn’t matter, just write me a song.

Or a stanza,
Or a line,
anything, just make me something.

please,
write me a song…

you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him traveling away from you in his dreams
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
”
— For Women Who Are Difficult to Love