to all those who ask why i write poetry-
you're always asking.
why can't you just accept it?

it just so happens that the looping letters
and delicate metaphors
are my way of speaking the words hidden inside
that my lips are too afraid to form.
stop saying poetry is hard,
that just because of that,
you must be forced.
i've learned that anyone can become a poet,
if they're not afraid to let their true feelings inside
spill out from their fingertips
and flow through the ink on the page.
we may all be poets,
allowing our twisted metaphors
or straight up confessions
to talk for us.

so why write poetry?
to all those who ask-
write poetry
because you no longer will allow the words that build up inside
to become the fear that controls you.

she feels the absence of anyone touching her,
imagines what it would be like to have
that pretty boy
touch his velvet lips to hers,
imagine what it would be like to feel
his magic rub off on her
to have his words
circulate in her head until she's drunk off his poetry.
she knows
this will never happen,
knows he will soon see into her abyssal soul
realize the cuts run deeper than the ones on her wrist,
realize her storm is
a bit too wild for him.

He branded her skin with his words
and claimed her body with his hands.

He tied a knot around her heart
and tugged in times of despair.

He was a chef in the art of lies
and he knew just how much sugar she liked.

He knew her,
the shape of her curves,
the waves in her hair,
the desire in her lips..
the cracks in her mask.

He knew how she valued words,
how they were as valuable to her as music to him.

He knew how she longed for knowledge,
how it brightened her eyes and enlightened her heart.

He knew her,
everything about her,
because she could go on for hours
and never run out of words she wanted to share with him.

He had told her he loved her.

And then he just could never seem to remember to tell her again.

no amount of drugs
could have ****** me up as bad
as you did.

The flowers that blossom,
The flowers that die
That wake me up at night to remind me of my lies.

The people i killed
inside of my dreams
I stabbed through their backs
Regardless of the screams.

I thought it'd make me feel better,
The feeling didn’t last
I am now an uncertain part of my past.

The skeletons in my closet
Are long since dead,
But the days when they breathed are still alive in my head.

So this is my confession,
This is my plea.
But the voices within are consuming me.

The rain is relief
It washes away the tears,
But it threatens to drown me while confirming my fears-

That i am the monster my father assured me wasn’t under my bed,
I realize now i’m better off dead.

I've paid my dues and left my deposit,
I’m better off living with the skeletons in my closet.

A pretty girl got seven stitches and watched while the
Needle wove through her arm
A pretty boy broke her heart and she forgot to be angry
A pretty father and a pretty mother in a big, beautiful house
Sobbed in the night and clung to each other like soggy paper mache
The girl wore hospital socks and turned over the underwire in her bra
Staring at the green curtain clanking against the metal track above her
Praying for an ambulance man that would never come
And a god that would never save her
She stopped praying
And got the stitches removed seven days later.