It is 3:15 am,
and I just realized I was alone,
this is the first I've cried
in so long,
I can't stop.

I want to be murdered.
I believe that muder
is an intimate,
passionate,
even ****** thing,
and God,
it sounds heavenly.

Your hands are rough
from the years spent
building the walls
that surround you.
You picked each stone,
and placed it with care
to gaurd you from the evils
you grew with.
My hands are soft,
ut not for long.
It is my turn to
scar my fingers
as I rip each brick
from the wall around you.
I will not stop until
you are just as exposed
as I am.
.

I am scared.
For the longest time
I have been utterly sad.
Full of anger, with a need
for solace.
But now,
i am nothing.
I am quiet.
Placid.
And oh god
it is terrifying.

Please know that
I would jump off a bridge
if you told me to.
And I would (and have)
listened to you talk
and talk for hours and hours,
and I would enjoy it.
And you are a very central
part if my life, and
you will be the
death of me.

Please know that
I would jump off a bridge
if you told me to.
And I would (and have)
listened to you talk
and talk for hours and hours,
and I would enjoy it.
And you are a very central
part if my life, and
you will be the
death of me.

It's incredible,
how in a split second
the foundation that is you
can crack in an
irrepairable manner.

I am a natural disaster.
I am unexpected,
and harmless
But as time progresses,
and the land that is you
becomes weaker and weaker,
I become dangerous.
Fatal even.
I leave floods of destruction
In my wake,
then I leave as if
nothing ever happened.
Leaving you to
rebuild yourself.

you aren't a hero
stop trying to save me,
i don't need your help,
or your pleas for
the old me.
i never chose
the life i am living,
nor did i choose
to be the person i am today.
you cannot do anything,
to guide be back
to the me you used to know,
so please stop trying.

i need you.
not in an emotional way,
or a ****** way,
but a survival way.
i need you to come to me,
and rip the bottle of
liquid peace from my hands,
and hold my shaking body,
and look into my sad eyes
and tell me everything
will be okay.

there is alcohol
running down
my throat,
tears running
down my face,
and blood
pouring from my heart,
and i am not okay.

grab me hard
by the rib cage
and yank me from
this hell i'm in
and plant flowers where
my wounds are.

I am only human.
I am very human.
I am barely human.
I am rarely human.
I am never human.

I am only human.
I am very human.
I am barely human.
I am rarely human.
I am never human.

Let me worship you.
Let me trail my lips in lines
to guard your heart.
Let me kneel before,
and influence you.
Let my arms build
a fortress to keep you soul
safe from the influences
of the setting sun.
Let my whispers guide you home.
Let my footsteps ease your journey.
Let me worship you.

Someone please tell me,
when will I stop falling asleep
in a puddle of tears,
and waking up
in a puddle if blood.

My grandmother always said,
"Stand up straight, if you stay hunched over,
you will stay that way."
And I think she was right,
because my thoughts stooped low for so long,
and now I think I'm stuck.

Whisper to me
When I need called,
and shake me
when my bones need rattled.
For the time is now,
and the world is
only getting older,
and I want to love you.

As I sit here,
on the cold bed,
with paper crinkling underneath,
I realize that I do not care if I die.
As I think through,
the possible diseases,
on the long list of ones I may have,
I realize that I do not care,
but am mostly just *******,
because they are inconvenient.
And that is why I am scared to hear
my doctors response.

I
am
the
eighth
deadly
sin.

I am a shadow.
Just a projection,
with no true being.
We are the dark side,
out of the public eye,
but always there.

And oh
I would give anything
to just once,
and just for a moment,
be real again.

I can't decide
if I want to
die at an early age,
with the wind in my hair,
and pride on my chest,
as I breathe my last,
or die while rocking
on my favorite chair,
where I sang songs
with my grandchildren,
and fell in love every day.

"Please",
I whisper
"Teach me how to die"*.
I pleaded with the grass,
the moon,
and the stars.
They have all seen,
the tragic beauty in death
countless times,
and I want nothing more
than for them to show me.

I am an angel
of evil.
Who delivers
disappointment,
and lies.
Along with broken hearts,
with a side of pain.
I can't help it,
and I am very sorry
for the unavoidable pain
that will ensue
when you become attached.

I have a vision,
for how everything works.
That at a young age,
I stole.
From books,
and shows,
but now
I am beginning
to realize
that none of this is true,
and this world is warped,
and shameful,
and true love is a lie.

I will name
my first born child
Roman.
For the Romans
were the *******,
the murderers,
the economic giants,
the success story,
the strong,
the bold,
the brave.
But they were also the
deliverers of grace,
the remorseful,
the shamed,
the quiet,
and the noble.
And I can only pray
that my child
will be all of these.

I will name
my first born child
Roman.
For the Romans
were the *******,
the murderers,
the economic giants,
the success story,
the strong,
the bold,
the brave.
But they were also the
deliverers of grace,
the remorseful,
the shamed,
the quiet,
and the noble.
And I can only pray
that my child
will be all of these.

I want to build an army,
and I want to march.
March around the world,
across the seas,
through the cities,
and deserts.
I want to chant.
Chant words of a revolution,
a whisper words of wisdom.
All while surrounding the walls,
and marching so hard,
chanting so loud,
that they will break,
and tumble to the ground.
And after the dust clears,
there will be love,
and peace,
and grace.
All because of our army of justice.
I want to be Joshua.

My worst nightmare
is at a carnival.
In the room filled with mirrors,
that cannot lie to me,
that display the horrors
that are myself
over and over
and over again.
Relentless,
persuasive,
accurate.

Grace is the girl down the street,
who sings,
and smiles,
and laughs.
Grace is also the dancer
who lives in ballet shoes,
and spends hours on end
hurtling through the air
in practice.
But above all,
Grace is like rain
that falls froms the heavens
and splashes us with bits of the
Saviour.
It stirs our souls with powers,
and paints them with forgiveness.
Grace is the life saving
antidote from our sin tainted lives.
Grace calls us from the dark, and leads us to the light.
Grace feeds us, clothes us, and makes us whole.
Grace.

It's funny how
once you enter
a certain state of mind,
that attitude consumes you,
those thought dictate who you are,
and the actions become a necessity.
And it becomes harder,
and harder,
and harder,
to be you again.

I remember the day
when you whispered
"I promise"
as tears stung my cheeks,
and bled onto your hands.
I believed you.
But I didn't
believe myself.

The Great American melting ***
has boiled over
and simmered down.

It's either a fine soufflé,

Or a bowl of Raman noodles.

My restless soul wanders
through the deep fog,
and the night storm,
and the white beaches,
and black cities.
It sprints through
the terror
and blindness
and pain,
in an uneven,
never ceasing,
path of curiosity.

From my toes to my head:
I paint,
I stubb,
I shave,
I scrape,
I procreate,
I digest,
I flow,
I breathe,
I break,
I beat,
I crane,
I kiss,
I sniff,
I see,
I think.

Vines creep up the old church downtown.
No one goes there, and no one cares.
The city mows the very edge of the property,
and posts a sign saying,
“KEEP OUT, DANGEROUS!”
but only because they have to.
The kids mock the crumbling building,
as the foundation cracks,
the ceiling sags,
and water trickles in through the broken windows.

Everyone ignored the tragically beautiful building
until the day it collapsed.
With a groan,
the building hurtled thousands of miles an hour
in the opposite direction of the other buildings around town.
It’s neighbors cried,
as they mourned the building they did so little to help.
The town buzzed with the news for a few days,
and crews hauled away the wreckage.
And not too long after,
everyone forgot about the beautiful church downtown.

Now think of this, listener.
This building wasn’t a building at all,
but a young girl.
Who took her life,
because no one cared until it was
too late.

I remember the days when silence was perfect.
Silence was soft,
and it said
“Shhh, go to sleep. You’re safe with me.”

Now I listen to loud music,
and talk about nothing for hours
just to fill in the spaces that lack sound.

Today, silence attacks me.
Silence is sharp,
and scary,
and loud,
as it says,
“Don’t sleep. You’re not good. No one cares. Just be done.”

Silence is now a greater threat than the darkness it has always been by its side.

"Will you **** me?",
I asked as he ran his hands
Down my legs.
He leaned over,
Kissed me,
And left.
I suppose his answer,
Was yes.

I am the finest of jewels
Plucked from the earth,
shaped by the master,
and polished by the lovers.
Who kissed my cold edges,
whispered, goodbye,
and threw me into the cold,
deep,
and dark.
And that is where
I remain.

I am tired.
But I do not need rest.
I am weary,
But I do not need guided.
I am dying,
But I do not need saving.
I am lonely,
But I do not need you.
I am lost,
But I need not be found.
I am trying
And crying,
And running about rampant.
But I am at peace.

*******.
You gave the world
to my shriveled soul,
and ripped it away.
Now I am left
with the ruins
of a city,
criss crossing
my skin.
*******.

**** me.
I stumbled into
your life,
your world.
I waltzed in,
and took it all
for granted.
I fell too hard,
too fast.
I put my guard down.
**** me.

I think that there is nothing
as beautiful
as a freshly polished casket,
and delicately placed hands,
on utterly still hearts.
Accompanied by
shaky breaths,
and shuffling feet,
and wet air.
All in the name
of fabricated
pain.