I used to call myself a poet

When I would sit down and type away
Following a meter and setting the rhyme
Throwing up my emotions onto a screen

I also used to call myself a writer

Back when I used to write and edit and publish for hours
Putting plots together and creating characters
Sharing my skills for others to enjoy

I once called myself an artist

I would sketch in notebooks and paint in pages
Mixing colors and blending into sunsets
Putting my thoughts into pictures

I used to call myself a musician

In a time I would create melodies and bend the air
Plucking stings along with the beat and bowing to the harmony
Singing with my heart in mind

I used to call myself many things

But these days I don't find myself calling me anything
Unlike before sonnets no longer bloom in my head
Stories don't flow from my fingertips
My emotions don't ball up and fall onto paper like they used to
I no longer bend the air to create sound

Now I call myself nothing

Creating nothing, saying nothing, doing nothing
I am nothing

how sweet it sounds
to find our own little paradise
with just us
living in ecstasy

cloud nine

I wish I could find
my way to you
I can't give up
no matter the cost

cloud nine

can we find our district
with only us
or will you
leave me again

cloud nine

I've said it once
I'll say it again
I'm doing good
but I could be better

cloud nine

how sweet it would be
if we could be together
our own placebo
our own side effects

cloud nine

you were my oasis in a desert
you were the light that cast shadows
you were the small thing that mattered

I always knew I would lose you
I knew the day would come
but I never knew that it would be so soon

I know you'll be back
you said it yourself
but still I miss you

and still I mourn
for who I haven't yet lost

little paper cranes
hang in my mind
if you look close enough
you might even find

a new one appears
every single day
and for some reason
I don't know what to say

maybe just maybe
those little paper cranes
will fold into
little paper planes

to fly over the sea
and across country farms
to find their way
into your arms

because little paper cranes
hang in my mind
for you to one day search for
and for you to one day find

walking upon a star
I feel it's warmth
I see it's light
but then I realize
I'm stuck
and when my legs finally work
the star has burnt out

Everyone feels it

The constant itch in your arms and legs that screams for just one more cut to be made

The distant buzzing that's always there but never clear enough for you to pinpoint where it comes from

The whispers that speak to you in the most normal of situations about how you're wrong and bad and only hurt those around you

The gaping emptiness that engulfs your heart and soul leaving you with nothing but a shattering corpse

The clawing in your throat that begs to feel just some kind emotion for once in your life

The way your stomach grumbles miserably for you to feed it but it can never keep anything down anyways

The dread that sits in the back of your mind when you realize you'll have to wear short sleeves

The sinking of your heart when someone jokes about harming or purging, about mentality or sexuality, or about taking ones own life

But everyone feels it

right?

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Time goes by
And I miss you

Just like me
The flowers grew
But soon they wilted
Just like you

You were sweet
This I knew
Like an addiction
I loved you

Now the roses are dead
The violets are too
The garden's all gone
And so are you

Your flowers died
I did too
Because all along
I was you