Scars
mean
    you're
           no
             longer
           bleeding
             out.

                               Scars
                                   mean
                                        that
                                          you
                                       healed.

                                                        ­So
                                                      never
                                                      be        ­                      .                                          ­   ashamed
                                                             or afraid
                                                          ­      of scars.

If all scars were purple
And all bruises red
And we could pour out
All the pain in our heads

If people were rabbits
And rabbits were dead
And all scars were purple
And all bruises red –

Would people be purple?
Would rabbits be dead?
Is it bruises that **** us,
Or scars to the head?

What is it that tortures us,
Leaves us all writhing?
What makes us stop living
And start just surviving?

What monster pursues us –
What ghastly condition?
The one deep within us;
The sick apparition.

This torturous bubble
From deep in our heart
Wells up, overwhelms us
And tears us apart.

My echo wont reply for me.
My reflection will not look at me.
My shadow does not walk with me.
My footsteps will not follow me.

I lost myself to someone else.

And they never gave me back.

It's as if we
Were
Destined to meet
There's no me
Pleading for a question
You just give me
Satisfaction
Love thats not physical
Yet I can feel it
My heart soften

All too familiar...
I have been here not too long ago.

I had dug my heels deep...
I had tasted the moist that hung stale.
Dreaded every next step,
knowing then as I know now...
That again I would fail.

This road well travelled...
Will draw much more,
if not the same.
But I own this endless stretch,
I'll embrace it with discomfort...
For here is the grave that bears my name.

You readers, who visit these pages
are a fan-base that rarely engages.
So until you hit like,
you can all take a hike;
for I'm paid in poetical wages.

I remember the first time someone explained to me what the word gay meant.
We were in middle school
Playing on the swing set behind Stoy Elementary
"He’s so gay," she said
Bitter disgust poured out of her mouth with every syllable
I could not think as to why being happy could be such a horrible thing
And so I asked
My exact words being
“Whats so wrong with being happy?”
Now both my friends looked at me weird
“Don’t you know what gay means?”
“Doesn’t it mean to be happy?”
“You’re such a little kid, gay does not mean happy. Gay is a boy who likes another boy”
I stood there wondering why it mattered so much that a boy liked another boy;
why it was such a distasteful thing.
And why it meant gay couldn’t still mean happy.