There are blotches of red marks on my skin, my face,
bags under my eyes, 
I get around 5 hours of sleep most nights 
but every morning I still feel like I haven't slept in a century. 
This is a different kind of pain.
This isn't a migraine, or a stomachache. 
This is more than a stomachache. 
This is waking up every morning to arms full of scars that are so ******* triggering,
A stomach screaming "feed me" but skipping breakfast and lunch 
because I swear to ******* god, I've gained weight. 
This is a different kind of pain. 
This is my first poem in months which is why 
it doesn't fit together perfectly 
but since I penned all of my thoughts about 
my eating disorder, my self harm, my mental illnesses and my boyfriend,
I didn't have anything to say, 
I'd given my voice away by that point 
and that caused a different kind of pain.

I promise I'm not crazy.
I promise I can make the empty mornings and nights
and tear-soaked sheets
up to you.
I promise I can figure out how to make you happy
when you're down-
I haven't quite figured it out yet,
but I will.
I still cry on the nightly
even when you don't see,
I see
that I bring you down
but you stay, and put up with my **** anyway...
It must be hard,
dating me.
It must be hard
on the days that I forget how to live
and I'm too weary to do anything
but stare at the drawings on my wall,
to do anything but breathe
and sleep and cry,
it must be ******* the days
that I beg you to ask what's wrong
but immediately say,
"I'm okay."
It must be ******* the days
that I can't keep any food down
that I'm clinging to your shirt,
stuttering out broken apologies,
it must be ******* the days
I'm scared to say "I love you,"
for fear that you won't say it back.
It must be hard
but it's hard for me, too,
and worse that I still don't know how to help you
when you feel that way,
when you feel like me,
so all I can say is,
"I'll make myself up to you.
I promise... I'm sorry.
I promise, I'm not crazy."

The world is an addiction
Eyes filled with vanity
Wonder if it's green like envy
Wonder if it all spring from the same seed
See one with it and you have to get it
By any means, necessary
Even running at them at a red light
Close to a district
But how we split a watch three way
Guess two must have to die today
The world is an addiction
Selling ***
We want to see more violence
More brutality even the headlights on our cars getting meaner
Is this what the media is teaching us?
In 30 second intervals feeding us
That poison
The world is an addiction
But where to find rehab
Is it with in a church
For even pastor Mason wants his dough and he doesn't pray for a dollar
So I come to my knees and ask for forgiveness
For the Versace and Dolce and Gabbana
Everything I don't need while there are kids who don't eat
I was like them, hungry  
guess that's why I buy things
The world is an addiction
It flows through my veins like heroine, it goes up my nose like *******, inhaled it through my mouth like drough, smoke it of a pipe like Crack
For I desire everything I don't have
The world is my addiction

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it  hurdles through cyber space

I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,

Sidney   J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer

While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions

Actions canvas the swollen brain,
soul gets lost, ashes remain.
The needles ***** every
inch of the deserted heart,
with them I embroider
my words on a satin cloth
stained in bright red.
The words seem to
disperse away from
your sensation and only
red remains.
Intoxicated in insomnia
I brave another needle *****
as those words may disperse
from the stained satin cloth
but shall be firmly etched
as ideals in this vibrating heart.