What if this isn't real
and we are all just sleeping
with interconnected dreams
and dying is like waking up
one by one
and heaven is like opening your eyes
for the very first time
and everyone is there
and we do it again

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

huh.

i didn't know
it was cool
to joke about
children
accidentally
killing themselves
or others
with guns.

i didn't know
you were supposed
to make fun
of someone
for thinking
it might be
a good idea
to try to protect
children
from getting shot.

stop saying you're miserable
because you don't know misery
it hasn't landed on your doors
nor has it ever been on your feet.

misery is a concept you're trying so hard to get to
and you destroy people to get to it
you cause misery
you are misery to people
but you will never feel misery
nor will you be able to claim
you're in misery
because misery is only for the good

A smoke filled bedroom;
Pills on the side table.
His hands of ice.
Sliding down his pale skin.
Deep breaths.
He shudders.
His eyes once so blue,
They’ve turned to stone.
Deep breaths.
He panics.
The sadness inside him,
Overwhelmingly calm.
It creeps over his shoulder,
Flowing through his veins.
It washes over him now.
Deep breaths.
He exhales.
Silence.
It’s over now.

- kmh

there were butterflies
that once flew around
behind my rib cage
every time i would see you
or when you were mentioned,
but it wasn't long before
the butterflies didn't see
the light of day
and, one by one,
they died.

now,
behind the dusty rib cage
in my body
there's several dead butterflies
that once held so much
meaning in each one,
too much time has passed
and when you finally came around again,
they were all dead.

i had to do damage control
when you left the first time,
i cracked open my
own rib cage and
picked up each butterfly
to give them a proper burial,
one that you never gave me
when you thought you had enough
and decided to just leave.

i got drunk on your words,
drunk on the empty promises,
sipped slowly from the devil’s cup as you
told me you loved me.
i ,
i liked to get drunk on beautiful things,
on sweet nothings whispered into my ear,
on rose petals from wilting flowers that you never
bothered to buy me,
on the lingering scent of your
cologne on the bear you asked me to give
back (you eventually disregarded),
on the thread of white , silk spun lies.
on love,
while you get drunk
off of cheap alcohol,
even though you told me
you hated what alcohol does to people,
the way it manipulates states of mind
for the worst.
but i guess you’ve changed.