Nowadays I know
That I still exist
Even when you don't say goodnight.

I wouldn't call this poetry
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing beautiful about wanting to die. There is nothing lovely about hurting yourself, nothing symbolic about deaths kiss that I wish would kiss my entire soul.
I wouldn't call this poetry because it isn't.
I think really living is a lot like knowing there's demons lurking inside your head but checking anyways.
I think it's like getting home late and pulling back the shower curtain checking murders
even though all you have to so is pull back your own eyelids and see the very thing that's killing you
I did not sleep last night because I was contemplating ways to die while also telling myself not to do it
I think I'm in a paradox.
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing moving about this.I long for safety like a deaf person longs to hear.
But how can you long for something you've never felt?
I've been applying bandaids to my heart except it's words and the adhesive they provided just doesn't stick in my mind anymore
Everyone wants to knock down my walls but I'm missing the safety the cemented in bricks provide and I promise you
Oh god I promise you
You don't want to come through my walls

Age 13 your heart called out for attention
Bed sheets stained with your innocence
Every tear flooding out the cotton fibers of your pillows
New Orleans had it bad with Katrina
Yet your tsunami desires for love
Hit harder than Haiti's tsunami
Quicker than the loss of life in Pompeii
I'm sorry age matters in this world
I'd take you in my arms
Hold you close and hope your wings develop
In the safety of my nesting heart
Age 15 and you're already being considered a *****
Tattooed, branded with the titles of ****, *****
And the constant question of guys 4 years older
"Can you **** my ****?"
I'm sorry I was never given the chance to love you
Tell you how much you mean
To me and my world of death and pain
I understand
17 years old and I'm labeled a psychopath
Only because I love the sight of horror
I'm crazy because I dissected an already dead cat
Insane because I stabbed my brother with his own knife
We're outcast in today's society
Because we don't conform to the fashions
The styles of tomorrow
Instead we bask in the glory of our demise
Praying to every god in every book
To take the blade another 6 cm deeper
To have the alcohol in our liver
Erode the burning emotions
We were blessed to have yet cursed to never be reciprocated
I'm sorry I was never given the chance to love you
I would have loved you the way an angelic demon like yourself
Always dreamed of since the age of 6
Shame you're a thousand miles away
Dancing on the rose pedals that wilted on your grave
I should have sent a bouquet
You would have known you were loved

I've spent day in and day out
Puffing on the blunts of my depression
Sipping on the bottle of my pain
I've cut wrist that bled lakes
Tattooed my pain across my chest
Making it not the first mistake
But the one mistake that could have ended
Years of hatred toward a *****
Resentment towards a *******
Both of whom taken my sanity
Twisting it into the death feigning fantasy
Where blood runs thick and rotting flesh
Smells of sweet rose pedals kissing lavender
I should have cut down
The same way the sun becomes extinguished over ancient blue horizons
I'm tired of the pain
The smell of decadence in the morning
Malice tales sung from harps
As blood sparkles with the sun peeking through the window
Down is so much better than across
Because I know I'll just be another limp lifeless corpse
Hidden from society till the neighbors
Become sick of the wretched smell of my dusty bones

It's like falling into a spider web.
The more you struggle,
the harder it is.

Doctors won't help you.
They'll just give you drugs
that take away the anxiety,
but bring your emotions along with it.

Friends will try and help.
But they can only do so much
before they tell you to get over yourself
and to stop being a baby.

So you'll stay at home,
and smoke your cigarettes
and bite your nails
and take shallow breaths.

All you want
is someone
to put their hand on your shoulder.
To be patient.
To understand,
to kiss you goodnight,
and ruffle your hair in the morning.
All you want is someone to whisper in your ear louder than anxiety already does.

We are not pens, ourselves, red ink is not inside of us.
But we do have sensitive blood that is discolored, same as that utensil.
Difference is: it poisons us, gives us rashes and thoughts that we are not worthy to have. It wrecks our minds with ancient tools that were once unaccepted. Silly poppies can not
Ruin us like that. I know what can.
The things that worry us, teenagers and babies, parents and pedophiles;
Cease your worries. I pity you, teens.
"It is fun, it is fun." I know I know. But is it worth the risk?
Cease your worries parents. You don't need to stalk your own children.
They learn from their mistakes. They cry for a while and then get stronger.
Like I did, why I kept my mouth shut for so long,
I was better. Until you began to read. I couldn't go to you specifically for that reason,
Tightening your hold on me, mother. I am already a prisoner in my own mind.
I don't need another warden.
A century long breakthrough gave me something,an understanding that not all children accept
Their parents. I don't feel at home there.
It is not one. Just a house that I stay in, people I live with. They are family, by blood only.
****** ink: my savior. My hero, love, is you. You inspired me to digitalize, write with graphite.
But I am still contaminated, mind wandering,

History repeating, sounds piercing, a test is too much when I did not study.
Help me. The trials this has put me through are unfair. Give me my pen to sign a contract, but I
Poison myself instead. Only okay after after a needle enters my streams and takes it out.
A mechanical vampire, I prefer you to bit me instead of metal fangs.
And now I dream.
.
.
.
.
.

Or maybe I am not. We have lived as such long enough. But, still,
Write about it. Tell me how you feel. But be careful not to poison yourself.

I have experience with that. The pen has a hidden blade. It cuts you with every word you
Lay in front of you. May I be a word? Scratch my love into your skin?
I will not intoxicate you as it would. I will give you something else entirely.

But my dream ends. Reality steps on me and takes my breath from me, I am suffocating in this Hellhole. Give me a firehouse so I can put it out and drink away my parched lips.
They need to be soft so I can speak, but first... I need to
Sew my lips shut. If they are dry, they will rip and open. We don't want that.
Keep them shut, don't tear open and bleed; you would give ink poison to
Mockingbirds if you do. They mock me, copy me. They tell me they are jealous.

But why? They don't know they've been poisoned.
It is a cycle. Everyone will die of it in the end.