I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

You are in each tear that traces the familiar path down my face to the ground beneath me

Slowly the water rises
drowning me and leaving me completely emersed in your being.

i bet even after all this time
that if my chest were to
ache with emptiness enough
like it used to i could go to your house
and find the outline of our bodies
on your dark blue bed sheets
i have spent the last year
both trying to run from you
and find you at the same time
but i left everything i knew
about falling in love
on that mattress and
it's still settling there
like dust and
all i can do is write about you
until it comes back to me,
or by some kind of miracle,
you decide to.

Let me see you frown
Let me see you smile
A light has drawn across
Beating down on your restless head
There is nothing left
Of that dream we had.

I count how many times
I have nearly died
Keeping you tight to my chest
Fighting with bloodied fists
And drenched in regret
I'm not your saviour
I'm just your clown.

I see a twinkle in your eye
Glistening like frosty stars
That gives me chills
And some will to survive
The onslaught of demons
That cry in my head of lies.

I seek response
From the busker on the street
He sings a sweet sweet song
But doesn't acknowledge me
He's my son.

My heart is a natural disaster
Waiting to explode and to make
The wall blacker
I keep it in just to keep myself alive.

I'm a joker
But tonight I feel afraid
That I might disown her
This poetic verse full of bleakness.

That sweet sweet song!

I am not what I am,
Nor am I what people say I am.

I am a locked box,
Full of things I cannot share.
I am sly as a fox,
Often portraying that I do not care.

But this of course is untrue.
What do I desire?
You and your unyielding fire.
And yet I can never seem to tell you.

Who am I?
I am the unknown.