Say the words you're afraid to say
You know I want to hear them
Say the promise that we will be in latter day
Say I am the life force that runs through your stem

Say the words you can never bring yourself to say
You know very well that I've been waiting
Say the words that will cause dismay
Say that I'm fueling a fire that's dying

Say the words you can't really say
Fearing the commitment I'd hold you to
Warn me of the rope that threatens to fray
Say that all my wishes will not come true

Say the words you've always wanted to say
Truthfully that there isn't a future
Please... Say the words you mean to say
Just need this knife to go a tad bit deeper

People may tell you to not cry...
I won't because I know the difference.
They think they know when in fact they lie...
I say bury yourself in the deepest of detriments.

They may say that a new day will come...
They only spout what they can't comprehend.
They forget that you are ailing from a broken heart and that you're not dumb.
There's only you in your space, alone you stand...

Textbook responses are all they can offer...
They know not that it'll only make things worse...
There can be no replies so nice and proper.
To rid you of your life, your plight, your curse.

They may even share personal events that they think familiar.
Thinking what worked for them may work for you.
But no two situations are the same, albeit looking quite similar.
At the end of the day, you only owe it to yourself to pull yourself through.

I say feed your pain, grieve hard if you must
Wallow... Dwell... Drown yourself everyday.
Let your blood sear your insides, beneath your crumbling crust.
Let the world around you descend into destruction and decay.

What made me the expert...
To say these horrid, putrid things.
Because I am you and we both lay in the dirt.
Driven mad by the persistent echoes of our own misgivings.

I'm no expert... I am just a broken man.
Telling you to let yourself be caught in your own sad and angry song.
Be weak... Be as weak as you possibly can...
So you could rise from the ashes and emerge hale and strong.

My body is a canvas;
And whether I decorate it with
Tattoos or cuts
Shouldn't be your problem.

When I was nine
I saw a punk rock band preform for the first time
On American Idol.
I asked my mom,
"Why do they hold the microphones so close to their mouths?"
She smiled simply sighing
"It's their style. They're not trying to sound good."
She kissed the crown of my head goodnight
And that was that.

When I was ten,
I asked my mom how she met my father.
She told me of their late night chats
Tangled up in phone lines
Currents of love flowing through the receiver
Currents of his whimsical charm
And her shy glow.
Something seemed wrong with the fact that they met
Talking through hard plastic
Not matching faces
But I didn't ask
And that was that.

When I was thirteen,
I asked my mom why all the boys picked on me
Why they strung my emotions across they're tongues
Like popcorn on a wilted Christmas tree
Or why they played connect-the-dots with my face
Using it to spell the word
"Ugly"
Why they teased me so much
I came home with acid tears corroding my cheeks
My mother had told me one other time
When I was about five
And a boy hurt me
Pulled my hair like he was gutting intestines from fresh meat
Her answer:
"It's just because he likes you."
And that was that.