I don't have a gag reflex anymore
Because I've shoved my fist down my throat
Far too many times
Just trying to pull out the words I cannot conjure
They all taste acerbic
And sound as bitter and damaging as they taste

I crave words more than a hopeless romantic
Craves the touch of another human being

I can’t hear what you’re saying anymore

Because you all sound the same

What happened to originality?

When poems didn't always reference the sun, tidal waves, and ever abiding seas?

What happened to poems filled with truth, artists that don’t lie

It seems that all art work sounds exactly the same; love, pain, suffering, and then you die

Why can’t you spit the truth across your pages

Why can artists no longer write things about the past ages

How hard is it to let the ink spill-

In such a way that tells what you real feel?

All the ******* lies convincing people your art is... “art”

Well, it’s no longer original, it no longer comes from the heart

Your mind is your own, if you just be yourself you’d see

Not all artist “dot their I's and cross their T’s”

It’s sloppy, its raw and it’s real, breathe truth into your words

Because all we really are is words;

what you speak is everything that’s heard.

I can feel the anger pulsate through my blood stream
It travels full circuit in less than a second
I can feel the pounding of it cause a headache that screams and bellows through my skull
When I look down at my wrist I can see the blackness traveling through my veins
It creates black shadowed trees, wishing that I would set it free from the poison
It taunts me and begs for the kisses of razor sharp blades
My own veins would rather be cut open than feel the poison traveling within it
As for my mind, there is no escaping that.
No razor blades to kiss it better
And no medication strong enough to will the screaming echoes away

I sowed my lips shut for fear of the wrong words escaping
I’m too scared of the pain I’ll feel when I remove the stitches
I’m sorry that my pen has more to say than my mouth
And I’m not strong enough to change that.

My sister asked me why I'm so morbid
I didn't have an answer
Just that my veins bleed black
Not red

You ceased to exist the second your footsteps became inaudible
No matter how many times I read my journal full of our memories
It didn't change the fact that you were gone
Writing didn't make you last forever;
It only showed me how little 'forever' really is