And she painted
It was ugly
Scenes of  dismemberment
Blood drops raining down on her soul
Heavier when they accumulate
And she painted
Until the weight
Crushed her belief
In goodness
And  she painted
Because men are all the same
And the drugs never helped
And her daddy wanted a boy
And she painted
Because slapping her incredible pain onto a piece of ******* cloth
Was better than actually getting ****** on it
She painted
And it was ugly

I've been waiting for him to come back for an entire year, holding onto the hope that maybe he's looking at the same stars as me and maybe he's listening to that song that reminds him of me but nothing numbs the pain of him leaving. He's falling in love with a new girl every night and even though it will always be him for me he's going to keep moving on until eventually I'll be just another spot in his memory, a blur hidden in his past and I've tried my hardest to move on. I keep wishing someone else would break my heart but I guess I forgot that he took my heart with him when he left. I speak to any man with the same accent as him like maybe it'll keep the memory of him here...I don't want him to disappear. maybe he's forgotten all about me but I'll never forget the first time he said he loved me like it was something he was unsure of like he was scared of it and I was scared too, because there was nothing more beautiful than the way his eyes lit up every time he smiled or the way he walked like he was taking up too much space while at the same time taking up no space. every time I come close to loving anyone else I am reminded of the day he told me to wait for him and the truth is I forgot my own name when I learned his and I think I would wait until the universe collapsed in on itself if it meant I could hear his voice once again.

She asked me:"  Why do we love?"
I thought a million thoughts
Amongst a sea of ravenous slippery thoughts
I grabbed one and replied:" Because we fear being alone. We know it will seem to be more than anything else but in that moment, in that second when your lips touch his you will be willing to go through it all ten times again just so that you could relive that imperfectly perfect moment again. "

they say infatuation makes you lose sense.
*infatuation passes Zoë

I can't help it that sometimes I smile at car crashes.
It reminds me of how he'll leave.
When he looks at me, my hands feel like burning matches.

His smile looks like lightning flashes,
I keep thinking the electric shock might help my heart start to beat.
I can't help it that sometimes I smile at car crashes

Our story will soon be only ashes,
I guess I need to stop wearing my heart on my sleeve.
When he looks at me, my hands feel like burning matches.

Tell me why my hands keep shaking like avalanches,
he can't see that he only makes me bleed.
I can't help it that sometimes I smile at car crashes.

I keep thinking he only took my heart to cache it,
this isn't something that I can grieve.
When he looks at me, my hands feel like burning matches.

His shirt is stiff with blood splashes,
he's looking at his hands like this is something he can't believe.
I can't help it that sometimes I smile at car crashes.
When he looks at me, my hands feel like burning matches.

It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His  emotion....
His failure...

I don't always write masterpieces
But if you sift through all the junk
You'll find a gem or two