A resting bee on a flower dies
After it stings someone.
I've been stung before;
Then why did I die?

Look at the marks on her skin.
The way they tell her pain.
Slit and slash and blood on the brim.
The girl with no name,
Only a snark and a grin.

Lets find out more about her though,
before she becomes a shadow adrift a
raggedy ship.
Twenty-two, a reader, and a Jew,
A master of none, but yes,
a seeker of truth.
She did love this life, a great pretender she was.
Suicide never reveals itself, well, in itself.
It's always because of others.

The man of her nightmares found her.
The rest does not matter.

Tick and Tock, they both go hand in hand.
Her time had come, her time had come.
With a broken heart, but a precious smirk,
She took that blade and danced on her wrist.

Love, you sly,
slithering snake.
How you persuade all to fall
on your blade.
Cut the artery; replace the heart
with a shade.
That's love;
shadows shifting until it concaves.
Suffocating its victims, leaving no prints for its
crime.
Its idea becomes lucid, prose preaching its
message on ice.
The body is left shattered, thinking it was once
wise.
It smirks at your faith in it.
The crossroads between the pines.

The invisible sounds behind the door are reminders.
It is an unattainable respite from a future that is tied to past scars.
Listen to the waves crash behind those sedimentary bolder;
the black algae rest on damaged secrets.

Inconclusive results of a test failed many times before.
You could rest once; lay dead from this sharp,
crimson chance.
Let there be sand on my tongue, trinkets of a banned romance.
Your naked body is all that I remember, a crime committed.

Look at the moonlight, with its selfish, confusing rays.
One could see much, or nothing at all, from the miracle in the sky.
Do not ****** me with reminders of what I already know.
I labored in my fruits and rotted away with the maggots.

Pity, shifting, hateful rage!
Let go of something I cannot physically kiss.
Those suns you call eyes have left me,
Foaming behind enemy lines.

The worst type of poetry is the kind
That was never written down.
It's stuck in peoples hearts, but not
On paper.
It would **** to be whispered in your
Lovers heart,
Instead of dying in your throat.
You never did pick up that pen.
In your own way, you left some words
Dead,
Unsaid.  

The worst type of poetry is the kind that is left in peoples heads.

A tiny universe rest on my skin,
A reflection of Amber and gold.
Belly flopped jives and reaping
Good times exists in the howling
Wind.

Totem poles can kiss the sky,
In the same way I kiss you.
Unstable is my spine when I am
Near you.
I forget the color black exists.
My cheeks fill with butterflies.
I swear I can fly to all the deadly
Planets.
Exaggerations in poetry,
Along with love, make sense.
God how I question everything about my black heart when you float to me.
I swear that my heart must not be red,
But rather,
A sultry blue.
Those three words are just words,
If that, at my best,
It's all I can give.

You are suicides other half.
I'll call you hope.