⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
~

"These violent delights have violent ends."
~William Shakespeare

~

When the crevices
on my wrists
solder themselves together
and the rich, crimson stanzas
become illegible,
I unsheathe my quill--

melancholy's scribe.

The ink clots,
driblets of red
bleeding through these pages

but I keep writing

until
this parchment lies
sweetly torn

and

I smile.

Now,
that's what I call

poetry.

**
How violently delightful.

All the distance I've travelled,
Between then and now;
All the ageing years passed,
Between then and now;
All the dreams now expired,
Between then and now...

All the love's I've banished,
All the tears I couldn't shed;
All the wisdom unproclaimed,
All the words left unread;
Between then and now...

All the bridges I've burned,
All the opportunity unproclaimed;
All the crossroads, in which the wrong direction I've turned;
Between then and now...

No more time, now remains,
No more crossroads, are there to reach;
No more love, to be bestowed me;
The last wrong direction,
The last dead end in which I'll reach;
Between then and now...

If I had know that I was going to write a poem about you I wouldn't have
If I known I would fall in love with you
I would have never met you
And if I had known how much I would hurt
I would have already been dead

But that's not the way that it works, is it?
We are to find love
Find pain
And everything that goes with
But I never wanted this I never wanted to feel
I hated it so much
You hated me so much
But I can't do much about it now,
Can I?

If I had know
I would never had felt this way
I would have never had my heart leap
And jump out of my chest
If I had known
So much would be different
And you would be long gone

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

.
Mighty palette
in the sky.
Feast of pastel colours
of sundown.

Nestbound birds
sang up a cry.
Alone I sat,
grass-crested mound.

Inhale a breath,
exhale a sigh...
Pocket of bliss,
peace on earthly ground.


.

The words weren’t daggers.
Weren’t meant to ****.

They were spindly,
like needles.
But barbed.
So they latch.



I’m not grievously wounded.
Yet I’m still bleeding out...

.