I am not a poet,
But a poem,
Just trying to complete myself.
Or maybe,
-I am Completing myself..

Words** can **** you,
But thoughts can actually make you suffer until you wish you were dead.
So would you prefer to die by words,
Or thoughts?

Yeah, trust me, I've been wondering that as well.
Not only me, but my family as well.
And my friends.
And everyone else, too.
You're not the only one who doesn't understand why.

You were not "everything to me" after all.

******* in a paper bag
towel doubled as a rag
suitcase holding treasured randoms
and notebooks filled with cryptic tandems
very little ventilation
and an unclaimed mess that's hated
sacred corner on the desk
the rest a "collage:" a mess
mirror mirror on the wall
tells the truth, leaves me appalled
thin covering on the ground
worn where almost all is brown
hand-me-down pillow case smeared with liner
and the tears from last night's crier

a hundred lines written
a thousand words dedicated
all these writes i made
all for other people
makes me wonder
when will someone
write poetry for me