It's not poetry.
Everything I write is a maddening
thought spewed, almost saddening
to watch. And I claw
at my brain to get it out, and gnaw
on the nails I bite between shouts.

Poetry is beautiful
yet my words are ugly,
to call it righteous
would be untruthful.

My pain's no good
it's a non-art with no use.
It's not art to me,
but what does it mean to you?

Take a deep breath.
Count to ten.
The only way.
In a second I'll feel
the chill of a blade
creeping down my skin again.

In the darkest nights,
lurking in the alleyways
or under a dim street light.

Monsters lurk everywhere.
Heed caution when you roam,
as the most dangerous ones
are likely in your own home.

So tasteless and unrefined.
I can feel every word,
but not one ounce of love,
can I find.

In a world,
where I could go anywhere I wanted,
how long would it be
until I didn't want to go anywhere at all?

In a world,
where I didn't have to be an outcast,
would I be able to accept
the kindness in the first place?

In a world,
where everyone listened,
would I be able to think
of the right words?

In a world,
where my self-made scars didn't have to be hidden,
I wonder,
would I have any in the first place?

In this world,
the world of reality,
life is harsh
and filled with struggles.

In this world,
I'll leave this message.
If I were to die now,
may my words never fade.

Good things come to people who deserve them,
and good people deserve happiness.
I wonder
if I'll have to wait for long,
or if it was never meant for me
at all.

Seeing your smile is free,
but it's worth a lot.
I can't put a price on your laughter
but it's priceless to me.