The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?

When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.

All we will have is a wasteland.

I wonder if god is watching me.
I wonder what he thinks of my choices.
At least I’m plastering ink over my scars, at least this pain is creative.
At least I stay away from the bottles and the pills lately, at least my monsters and me share a clear head now.
I could have been dead by now, wouldn’t have changed much to you.
You only answer my screams with silence, bouncing wall to wall. Deafening.
You, this mythical engineer.
You bringer of life, orchestrator of pain.
You left me, clawing, moaning, bleeding.
You could have saved me.

I wonder if god ever watches me, I wonder if he’s proud of me.

Holding my hands out as you split my wrists again
Bending my fingers back, I’ll breathe again when I hear them pop

Holding handfuls of glass as it shatters, smaller and smaller.
Sinking into my skid.

How comforting your lies feel.
How cold your love feels.

Dancing around the noose, walking our little circles.
Just kick the stool out, I deserve that.

Maybe the audience will find some solace in the way my eyes fade, maybe they’ll have some pity as my body flails.

Maybe the circles will get tight enough to suffocate me.
Maybe I’ll find the thing that you couldn’t give me,
Floating mere feet from the ground

I want to drink a little too much with you.
Wander the streets laughing about nothing, staring in the store windows.
Looking for a glow of an open sign to find a new pack of cigarettes.
Staying up too late, telling too many truths.
Acting on all of our bad ideas,
With em the excuse in our heads that tomorrow it won’t matter.

I know of pains, burnings and aching so hidden and unknown.

These scars within scars, that drive the skin on your bones to peel and bring even the strongest to their knees.

These invisible blades can not be traced to any source. The razors sit in heels of shoes and backs of throats waiting for the fleeting moments of fear to drive deep in hopes of drawing small volumes of blood.

The average eyes can’t see the scars, only those who have been punctured by these ever so slight slashes can understand the pain beyond pain, the infections held under those healed wounds.

the sourceless pains.

You want to get married in a swamp.
As the mosquitoes drained the poor excuse for blood I watched your eyes wander.
I wish I could marry you right now.

Can people be made for eachother?
Not much of a man of fate or love,
But the way you look into my eyes my stubbornness subsides.

It’s not hard to fall for you,

You

Spent hundreds of hours writing thousands of words to describe you.

None of these words could do you justice.

None of these poems can show you the feeling I get when you kiss me.

You said you’re sorry that you live a double life,
I’m just happy I’m in one of them.

Every night I up the dosage. Dull the nerves in hopes I won’t feel you.
But like clockwork, as I sink into my bed I can feel you.
Your scent is so familiar, like the mist of the sea to a grizzled fisher.
Just like a siren to a sailor, I can hear your chanting, your breathing.
No matter how many poems, nor countless dreams, you always find a way in.
Splitting the edges of my skull so you can seep through my bloodstream.
You never let my wounds heal.

You are my favourite scars.