you haven't read her
poetry
until you feel her words
still rattling in your head
for days.

because her poetry
will always kill a little
bit of you as you read.

her words are bullets
to the heart, you can't help but
bleed long after she's gone.

& death is to those who choke up
on them and feel it clawing
up the back of their throats as they try so
hard not to cry.
Inspired by a poetess and a dear friend of mine.
Tonight I lack the strength to even move.
Delusive ropes entwined with my limbs
And I’m bound against my crinkled bedspread;
like a deer on the hood of a truck;
(You’re the hunter and I was the prey).
I’m addicted to you.
I cannot help but let—
My tears slip from my bloodshot eyes and
streams down into my fractured heart
Filling
The
Familiar
Void
Inside me;

The place you once use to be.
  Feb 26 Kayl Eaglechild
Jen Snow
Freud says tattoos
Are
The Manifestation
Of a
Trauma

Every point
A
Separate pain
We
Have
Suffered

It took
Two
And a
Half
Hours

To complete
The
Diary
Of my
Trauma

And half a million perforations

To convert
Those
Memories
Into something

New

And

Beautiful

To finally
Let go
Of the past
I saw something today
That reminded me of you
So I picked up my phone
Put in your number
And excitedly waited to talk to you
But with every ring you didn't pick up
My heart dropped lower out of my chest
.
.
"I'm not near my phone right now.. that or I'm purposely ignoring you Shanon just leave a message at the beep.. or don't whatever"
.
Beep
.
.

And it all hit me all over again
The feeling of choking
On my own tears
Drowning out the rest of the world
Because it had been so long
Since I last heard your voice
Yet it seemed it was only yesterday
We were playing street hockey
And making fun of eachother
And talking on the phone all night long
Just to hang out all day after
...
We would talk about our past
And what our future may hold
We talked about our demons
And secrets we never told
...
I remember being so angry
The day you left
After all we've been through
No sorry
No goodbye
Not even a single note
Explaining why
You decided I wasn't enough reason
For you to not climb into that bathtub
And press that razor blade onto your skin
...
How dare the sky rumble
When they took your lifeless body just to throw it in the ground
How dare the others cry
When you didn't make a single sound
How dare the birds still sing
When the world was falling apart
How dare the moon still come up
When nothing in the universe seemed to make sense
How dare they believe poems had to rhyme
How dare they still talk about the good old days
How dare they believe for one second they knew you at all
And most of all
How dare you--

How dare you leave me so broken
How dare you leave me so alone
How dare you call me your best friend
Just to leave me on my own?

...
The darkness lingering around my past
Found a deeper grip around my soul that day
As I watched pieces of my heart
Leave with you
.
.
.
Now I find myself sitting here awkwardly
Finally being able to string these useless letters
Into coherent words
To ask you if you're still listening up in the clouds
How dare you not pick up anymore
When I call you on the phone?



~Who else am I supposed to talk to when late at night my demons won't be put to sleep?
Who else am I supposed to talk to when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and weep?
(Pieces of a very old, 22-page-long, extremely agonizing memoir that brought me to tears because how dare you, with all this pain you carry in your heart, not realize how much you're hurting me before you're even gone? ~BM)

(Front Page 2/18/2018)
The day I stop wishing for you to back to me,
Is the day you’ll actually return.
but by then I’ll already have moved on.
Are roses red?
Are violets blue?
Is it true the Sun is chasing our Moon?
When he says goodbye,
does that mean see you soon?
When the wind blows, are the daisies still yellow?
And when you're confronted,
are you still mellow?
When you close your eyes at night
are you really sleeping tight?
Are your dreams filled with gold
or are they chasing you with fright?
They say at the end of the tunnel is a light
When you see, is it past your sight?
This is a tester poem written by me briefly today, like if it is worth keeping on my page!
A few months ago,
I met a man, but not just any ordinary man.
A colourfully, depressed man;
Who has beautiful designs on his body.
A main key to unlocking the door that hold his demons.
Now I only have a visual and auditory idea of what's going inside his mind.
From what he told me, but I know he leaves out so much more.

The tattooed man is exhausted,
Depression holds him hostage;
A mistress of misery
He found a comfort in her grasps,
He sleeps in her palms, tossing and turning for hours on end,
Restless coma.
He was always so sleepy.
Her lips whispering venomous yet addictive words into his ear.
Planting seeds of doubt and harmful flowers,
He adores his damaging garden, with objects scattered there and here.

The tattooed man is so very tired of breathing,
I can hear it within his stern voice
I can reminisce his fatigue glance, inside his dark brown orbs;
Suicide tempts him.
Every minute of the day,
every breath he takes
Suicide tempts him like a hunter baiting it's prey

Clawing and searching desperately for an exit.

The tattooed man told me, he why he covers himself in tattoos.
The irritating sting of the needle is way better than satisfying the desire to guide a knife across his skin.
Colors and designs imprinted everywhere on his body,
His face, arms, legs, hands and neck.
And let me tell you, he is beautiful to me.

He told me he’s always scared,
During the twilight of the night, on the drive home from our 2 day road trip.
And I’ve never heard so much serenity inside his voice before.
His eyes lower, but they almost seem to shine
in the moons illuminating glimpse
“I hate making new friends,” he said,
“Because that means I’ll have more ties and bonds to this life.
If the relationship is there, I can’t die.”
And dying is something he really wants to achieve.
Just as much as Olympians want their gold medals.

The tattoo man grew a liking to I, and he is very precious to me.
(Vice versa)
I grew very fond of him, like two gnarled trees entwining together.
And now i’ve become very selfish
And I don’t want let him give in to suicide.
This poem goes out to a close friend of mine.
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